The Blue-Eyed Shan by Stephen; Becker Page A

will lead you to it.” The boy was already squirming through the mass. He scuttled out the doorway and turned a corner of the house. There he opened his trousers. Without result. He could no longer make water. Fear grew in him.
    â€œYou there!” He jumped. “Hurry, now.” This seemed to be a green man, with glittering eyes. The man came to him and said, “You are a new boy?”
    The boy nodded. He was still clutching his member. The man patted his head. “Take your time.” At the kindly tone, the boy gushed tears and piss at once. The man chuckled. “Both ends, hey? How old are you?”
    The boy was weak with relief; his water drained from him and left him content. He remembered: Fifteen.”
    Again the bright-eyed man chuckled. This was indeed a green man, with a large belly and fat shiny lips. The belly quivered as he laughed. “And your name?”
    â€œMing-tzu,” the boy said.
    â€œWell, Ming-tzu, my name is Shang, and I will help you when I can. Here in Kochiu we must help one another in all things. Do you understand?”
    The boy nodded many times, full of love.
    â€œYou may loiter outside,” Shang said, “but no more than a step or two from the house.” And then he rubbed the boy’s head and walked off.
    If there was food here the boy saw none that night. At dawn he was awakened by coughing. Many of the men and boys were coughing. One man retched endlessly. The stench of manure and human waste was fierce. Outside someone was beating on a pan. Men and boys rose groaning and filed through the doorway. Ming-tzu hurried to join them. “New boys here!” They were marched to another building. In this building was a table, and behind the table on chairs sat three men who were neither green nor red but the color of men. Each was speaking to a boy. When Ming-tzu’s turn came he quaked. “Your name?”
    â€œMing-tzu.”
    â€œMing-tzu.” The man held a small stick and pressed it against the table. “Your age?”
    â€œNine years.”
    â€œ What ?”
    Ming-tzu covered his mouth; terror drove sleep from his head and hunger from his belly. “Fifteen!” he cried.
    â€œYes, better.” The man pressed the stick again. He handed the boy a small rectangle of paper. “Listen to me, Ming-tzu. You are now a member of the Miners’ Guild and this is your card. You will keep it with you at all times. Your number is two seven two seven nine, and you are registered in this book.”
    The boy did not know what a miner was, or a guild, or a card, though he had more than once seen a book. Now he knew what a book was for. He could count to ten, but a series of numbers was meaningless.
    His lips trembled in a servile smile. He wondered where he should keep this new thing, this card. He clutched it and fell into line. Soon the line moved. Outside the low house that was his home, another green man, potbellied and bright-eyed, stood behind a steaming vat and bellowed, “Shrimp! Fried pork! Egg soup! Mandarin fish!” The boy was overcome and stumbled dizzily forward, snatching up, as the others did, a wooden bowl from a jumbled heap. The fat green man filled it, and the boy, glancing furtively about for enemies, hugged it to himself and scurried for the shelter of the wall, where others were squatting.
    The shrimp, pork, egg and fish proved to be soggy millet in hot water. It was delectable. The rich savory taste of it brought tears of gratitude to the boy’s eyes. He belched. Warmth invaded his chest and belly.
    When the millet was gone and the bowls were collected, when men and boys had shat, when the sun broke above the rolling horizon, a stern wiry green man strutted down the path and addressed them. “New boys! You are now miners! Yours is a proud trade. Your contracts bind you for ten months, and your wages are three dollars each day, and if you work well you will be given a bonus.”
    What