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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon: An Historical Novel
Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions
Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror
Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror
The Devil’s Dance: A Novel of Terror
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds: An Historical Novel
Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Horror
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House: A Novel of Terror
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Kenny’s Back
Life and Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate: A Novel of Terror
Moon Garden: A Novel of Terror
Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #1)
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone: An Historical Novel
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer
Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense
Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance
The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel
This Splendid Earth: An Historical Novel
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1981 by Ben All, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 by V. J. Banis
Previously published under the title, The Moonsong Chronicles, under the pseudonym Jessica Stuart
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m telling you, you’ll be murdered in your beds,” Mrs. Blaise said, thumping her purple parasol on the hard-packed dirt of the floor for emphasis. “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll come along with us right now, and not risk another night in this godforsaken place.”
“If God had really forsaken this place, Cynthia,” Sarah Holt replied, managing a sweet smile despite the tautness of her own nerves, “I doubt he’d have sent us here to preach to the natives.”
“Well, he’s managing to drive us right back out of here, isn’t he? At least, we’re going, as soon as Mr. Blaise finds a cart for our things, and you’re blamed fools if you don’t do the same.”
“Lydia, dear,” Sarah turned to her daughter, who was following the conversation with scarcely concealed interest. “Your father should be coming soon. Why don’t you and Reginald walk out to meet him? He just might have something for you.”
“Yes, Mama,” Lydia said obediently, though she would far rather have stayed where she was. Mrs. Blaise’s son, Reginald, was thin and pimply, and had a way of looking at her that she found disconcerting, though she could not say just why; anyway, Mrs. Blaise’s conversation was far more fascinating, if frightening. The native Chinese were rioting against what they called “foreign devils,” mostly missionaries like her parents and the Blaises, who were scattered throughout the country. The rumors had begun a fortnight ago.
“Scapegoats,” her father, the Reverend Joshua Holt, had said. “The cholera’s gotten bad. You’ll see, as soon as that dies down, so will this other.”
But the cholera—and the rumors—had worsened. A trader had been shot in Shanghai; the culprit had been arrested, but mobs of Chinese had demanded, and obtained, his release. Then a missionary and his wife had been killed at Hangchow.
Outside, “...don’t want the girl frightened,” she heard her mother saying through the window’s shutters.
“...not safe anymore...,” was all she caught of Mrs. Blaise’s reply.
She turned toward the center of town, and the market, which was where her father had gone earlier.
“This way,” Reginald said, turning in the opposite direction.
“Mama said....”
“I saw your father on our way over here,” Reginald interrupted her. “And he won’t be back for ages. Come on.”
Somewhat reluctantly she went with him. The street was crowded and, remembering Mrs. Blaise’s dire warnings, she fancied that the Chinese were looking sideways at them as they went along, though her common sense told her there was nothing singular in that. White people, after all, were still rare this far inland, even if it was 1870. Except for themselves and the Blaises, and a Scotch-American trader living a few streets away, the only other whites for a hundred miles were a couple in Mei Fu, the next town.
“You ought to come with us, you know,” Reginald said, taking her arm to steer her around a pile of offal on the rough pavement. “We could have some fun in the back of the cart, couldn’t we?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, freeing her arm. “Anyway, Papa says God’s love brought us here, and God’s love will protect us.”
“My pa says, the Lord helps them
