When the preliminary arrangements were concluded and they sat on the boat’s deck looking out across the Chinese landscape that the season of high water made visible on either bank, Kou Ying showed even less interest in their movements.
He sat, or stood, a little distance from them, his gaze resting stolidly on the level fields and low-lying crops, as they moved past. At a sign from Richard he would approach and explain some point of interest, or give information as to the average yield of the fertile soil or the price of crops.
Then, after a courteous moment of silence, he would return to his solitary watching, and the look of withdrawal would come over his face.
Mile after mile they saw the unvarying fields go by, and the multitudinous boats pass and repass on the great river.
For years, it seemed to them, they had been making their way through this fertile land, plying a steady course up the winding stream that led to the unknown country they sought.
Then one morning Kou Ying came to them.
“In a few hours we disembark,” he said courteously. “There is a shop in Ichang you may wish to visit.”
But the shop in Ichang proved only a duplicate of the shops of old Shanghai, and they returned to the river and moved on—this time in their own boat, a clumsy, roomy junk that went more slowly and was propelled by the wind or by stalwart rowers—up through great gorges, where the river made its tortuous way—up, steadily up, over rapids or along the smooth-flowing water between gigantic walls.
And as Eleanor More watched the muscles in the half-naked backs, bending to the oars or tugging and straining at the rope that hauled the boat through swift foaming rapids, she felt as if she ascended some great river of a dream world.... So Dante may have watched the shades appear and vanish, or a turn of the journey reveal new and mysterious regions of the unknown world.
Already they had fallen into the habit of saying little. They sat in the sedan chairs that had been provided for the upper reaches, motionless and silent.