The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  We stopped to camp on the riverbanks each night, where we were met by new soldiers. Here, there was a very real threat of bandits and tigers. The tigers could be warned away by flinging green bamboo into the flames. The burning bamboo made a sound like a rifle shot. The bandits were another story. These were hopeless deserters from the Imperial Army with no chance of making a living. They were desperate for food and money, and the soldiers’ presence was the only thing keeping them from coming closer. We saw them lurking at the edges of our camp every night, their faces wan, their eyes hungry as they surveyed our goods.

  The hilly landscape gave way to rice paddies filled with green plants and flanked by mountains terraced with more paddies. Ancient temples with ornate roofs that curled up at each corner dotted the hills and mountains, and knots of small huts, most likely the homes of the rice farmers, lined the riverside.

  At first, Papa didn’t seem to care about the scenery. But as the days drew on, I saw him repeatedly crane his neck to stare intently onto the riverbanks or off into the forest, as though his vision alone could draw the plants closer to him. When we stopped for the night, the first thing he did was take out his sketchbook to draw the plants he had sighted, his hands moving quickly, his pencil flying over the page, as though desperate to get the vision of the flowers out of his head and down onto paper. I was learning that Papa was a gifted artist; his simple sketches were so exact one could almost smell the perfume of the plant.

  The summer heat in Fukien Province was nightmarish. The sun blazed down as we floated on the river, and the humid air lay on a body, never ceasing. What was more, the mosquitos feasted on everyone’s blood as though it were champagne. The insects had a way of buzzing in one’s ears at nighttime, and I woke myself up more than once from slapping myself in the ear.

  I was ashamed to admit that I kept a running list of all my miseries in my head: fear of tigers and the orchid thief, worry over my mother and little sisters, unbearable itching from mosquitos, perishing heat, a chronic thirst that could not be slaked no matter how much boiled water I drank, and worst of all, a dread that Papa would realize how weak I truly was.

  It was because of this that I didn’t tell anyone I was feeling unwell from the heat. My little straw bonnet was meant for a gentle English summer and could not cope with the fierce rays of a roaring Chinese sun. At dinner one night, Papa remarked upon my red cheeks, and I pretended not to hear him. But after dinner, as I carried our plates to the river to scour them clean, little black spots flitted over my vision. The world tilted as though I were back on the ship. I dropped the plates, heard them rattle against the shingle on the riverside, and felt the ground screaming up to meet me. The next moment I woke with my head in Alex’s lap. He was leaning over me, dribbling cold water on my forehead with his neck handkerchief, his face white with fear.

  “Don’t tell my father,” I whispered.

  “Elodie, you’re not a mule. You can’t flog yourself along. The sun can be very draining, and you must say if you need a rest or shade or water. You could die if you don’t look after yourself.”

  I tried to get up, but Alex held my shoulders. “I don’t think you’re ready to sit up yet.”

  He was right. That little struggle was enough to make my head spin round. I lay in his lap, letting him bathe my face with cold water from the river, embarrassed that he had seen me faint. But after a few moments that feeling wore away and I felt, for the first time in a long time, grateful that someone was caring for me.

  A WEEK LATER WE REACHED YEN-PING AND LEFT BEHIND THE BOATS at last. It was a beautiful city, very old, with high stone walls, and nestled on the top of a hill at the fork of the river. It was a thriving market town, as well, so we went to purchase food and other sundries there. Unlike in Foochow, there were few Westerners about. This was truly a Chinese city. There were fewer beggars and less squalor in the streets. I supposed that the war and Western influences had not come up this far.

  The sun’s fire was keener than yesterday, and there were so many people about, buffeting against me, that it made the heat worse. My petticoats clung to my legs, and my corset felt three times too small. All the trees had long been chopped down for firewood, so there was little to no shade to be had.

  We had tea at a ramshackle shop whose proprietor bustled about pouring boiling water from a large brass kettle, its spout ornamented with a brass butterfly. Next to the shop were stalls offering stews made from chopped pork, seaweed, onions, and eggs, and meat pies kept warm on small charcoal braziers. Another stall sold boiled sliced turnips, onions, yams, and pumpkins served in their own juices. There were pastries and grapes, peaches, watermelons, apples, and pears. There were open cook shops that prepared meals to order. Fish swam in shallow water in round wooden bowls awaiting their demise. I watched as the stall’s cook scooped a fish out of the bowl, bashed it on the head with a stick, divested it of its entrails and deep-fried it, laying it before the hungry diner within minutes.

  I loved fish, but the smell of the creature’s entrails and the cooking oil made my stomach cramp in so much pain I nearly doubled over.

  Next to all this industry was the pawnbroker’s shop, where Papa said that items could be pawned for as long as thirty moons—Chinese for two and a half years—before they were sold on. I saw thin, sallow-faced men going in holding all manner of goods—china pottery, a painting, and sadly, a child’s top, and coming out with their purses bulging.

  “Off to buy opium,” Papa said. “The poor sots.” He stood looking at them quietly for a moment, his face guarded. I wondered if he looked that way because he felt genuinely sad, or guilty. Anger toward my father rose in me and I turned away. I couldn’t help it. I saw him in a different light now, and this made me disgusted with myself. Mr. Howell had gotten inside my mind and painted a picture that would not leave. I saw an image of my father, Wardian cases at his side, overflowing with orchids and opium, surrounded by emaciated Chinese men and women.

  “I’m going off to report to the mandarin,” Papa said. “I suppose we’ll have to have new soldiers. Perhaps he’ll have news of Luther Duffey. He’ll had to have checked in with him as well. Damnable man will most likely want something for the information.”

  “Hurry, Papa. We’ve no time to waste.”

  He pointed to the tea shop. “I will meet you there in an hour.” He went off up the hill.

  From the moment we’d set foot in the market, Alex had been tense and watchful, searching the crowds. Finally, his gaze lit on a shop hung with bundled herbs, bins full of nuts, and barrels and barrels of dried specimens whose identities I could only guess at. A young woman stood outside, scooping some of the dried objects into a basket for a waiting customer. It was odd to see a woman out in public unaccompanied by a man. Or one that did not teeter along on tiny bound feet. This girl moved with the grace of a dancer, her feet shod not in tiny little shoes but in flat canvas slippers. She looked to be around my age, small and dainty, almost doll-like.

  She turned, saw Alex, and her eyes widened, the scoop stilling in her hand.

  “Ching Lan!” Alex shouted, his voice joyful. He left my side and dashed across the road to meet her.

  I hadn’t seen Alex smile so much since the day I brought Kukla back to him. The girl seemed equally pleased to see him, bouncing in her slippers, talking to him in Chinese, waving her scoop in the air. The waiting customer scowled and said something. The girl, without even looking at the man, tugged the basket out of his hands and upturned it, dumping its contents back into the barrel. He gesticulated and shouted, but still she ignored him and continued her conversation with Alex. It was as though the man’s bad manners had made him invisible to her. Finally, dashing the basket to the ground, the customer gave up and stomped away.

  An old man with a pigtail wound round his head leaned out of the shop’s window. He looked in the direction of the man and then at the girl. Letting out an audible sigh, he pulled hi
s head back inside the shop.

  I followed Alex across the street. It took him a few moments before he realized I was there. I stood awkwardly, waiting for him to notice me. The girl was beautiful. Her dark brown catlike eyes tilted up at the corners, and her mouth was shaped like a cupid’s bow. Her straight dark hair hung to her waist, free of any ornament or binding. She glanced at me and said something to Alex in Chinese, gesturing to me.

  “Elodie, this is Ching Lan. I know her from when I lived in Foochow.” He smiled at the girl, that generous kind smile. “Elodie is my wife.”

  She stared at me, her brow furrowed. “Your wife?”

  I was astonished to hear her speak English, and with very little Chinese accent. “She speaks English!” I said, and then quickly tried to take it back. “I’m sorry . . . I mean you . . . you speak English.” I was embarrassed at my gaff, as though she were a thing and not a person of her own.

  “She does speak English,” Ching Lan said. “It’s a marvel.”

  “Ching Lan,” Alex said, a little note of exasperation in his voice. She glanced at me sideways, scowling.

  “I apologize for my bad manners,” I said.

  She shrugged and said something to Alex in Chinese.

  “In English, Ching Lan. Say it in English so Elodie can understand,” Alex said.

  She refused to look at me. Instead she stooped and picked up the scoop, letting a long fall of her hair obscure her face.

  “You’re the first I’ve seen in China without bound feet,” I asked. “Do your parents not believe in such a custom?”

  “I’m Manchu,” she said, addressing her answer to the barrels. “Foot binding is not our culture.” The way she said it, final and firm, put paid to any further conversation from me.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Alex said. “Didn’t you go to the Forbidden City?”

  She shook her head. “The imperial selection was put off because the war was ongoing. The mandarin says we must go to Peking in the autumn when Emperor Xianfeng returns from the royal Hunting Lodge.”

  “Oh,” Alex said, his expression regretful. “I’m sorry.”

  Ching Lan shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that did not match the emotion on her face. She looked as though she had resigned herself to something unspeakably awful. “It’s the law. I must go.”

  He touched her shoulder. “I know it worries you, but perhaps you won’t be chosen.”

  She laughed a little. “Everyone says I will. If not a concubine, then a palace servant.”

  “What is a concubine?” I asked.

  Ching Lan scoffed. “Ai yah! You don’t know what a concubine is?”

  I looked at Alex.

  “It’s a mistress,” he said. “The emperor and his brothers have many, hundreds even—it’s a way for them to have numerous children. The concubines live in a section of the Forbidden City called the hou-gong. They can never leave it. Manchu girls are required to present themselves between the ages of thirteen and sixteen to the Forbidden City in Peking, where they may be chosen as concubine or servant for the royal household. If chosen as concubine, they remain and are never allowed to see their families again.”

  I was horrified. “You’re made to do this? Why don’t your parents refuse?”

  Ching Lan merely looked at me as though I had a tree growing out of my head.

  “If they refused to send her to the Forbidden City for selection, they would be punished and heavily fined,” Alex said. “Her parents are humble people, and such a fine would devastate them and cause them to lose face.”

  “It’s considered an honor for a family’s daughter to be an imperial concubine,” Ching Lan said, making it sound like an insult instead of an honor. “Surely you have concubines in England?”

  Embarrassed with where the conversation was going, I pretended to be interested in a barrel of dried mushrooms. Next to it was a basket of dried scorpions. The smell was overpowering. My stomach turned over.

  “Do you know where Pru went when she left Foochow?” Alex asked.

  “She’s here,” Ching Lan said, her face brightening. “She’s the medical missionary. Up the hill. I bring her things from the apothecary shop, and I go out with her now on her rounds. I’m learning so much from her, Alex. I wish . . .” She bit her lip and Alex reached out and took her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Ching Lan.”

  I looked toward the tea shop, hoping Papa had returned early. The sun was so hot, but, oddly, I wasn’t sweating. In fact, I felt cold; goose bumps rose on my skin, and I began to shiver. Suddenly possessed of a fearsome thirst, I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry, my tongue wooden against the roof of my mouth.

  Alex glanced at me. “Are you feeling unwell again, myshka?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re swaying on your feet. And you’ve gone pale.”

  “Perhaps we should take her to see Pru,” Ching Lan said.

  Alex was saying something again, but the words weren’t making any sense to me. I blinked. A cold sweat came over me, soaking my blouse. A high-pitched noise filled my ears, and my face grew incredibly cold, so cold I felt as though my skin was freezing. A strange haze had come to claim me. I tried to speak, but I could barely muster the strength to breathe. I tried to fight it, but it was as though I were sinking into a black void.

  And that was all I knew.

  I SHIFTED IN AND OUT OF CONSCIOUSNESS, FOR HOW LONG I DID NOT know.

  Each time I managed to struggle free, another wave of weariness sent me spinning into the void again, pinning me into place like a butterfly on a specimen board.

  And then, slowly, so slowly, I came to myself. I was lying on something soft, a pillow under my head.

  “How stupid can you be, Mr. McGregor?” I heard a woman say. “How could you let your daughter head out on a journey so ill-equipped to deal with the China heat?”

  “I—” my father said.

  “A wool skirt and heavy petticoats are one thing, but that tiny bonnet is quite another,” she interrupted. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes how unsuitable that is. You as well, Alex. You both should have known better.”

  “Is it a putrid fever? Or . . . perhaps malaria?” Papa sounded panicked.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  I opened my eyes.

  “There now, she’s back with us.” The woman leaned over me. She smiled and her eyes tilted up just a little in the corners, a smattering of freckles decorated her cheeks. She had the delicate appearance of a newborn fawn. She wore the most peculiar outfit, an odd looking all-in-one garment, which looked like a combination pantaloons and skirt. The skirt portion fell to below the knees, and underneath this was a pair of pantaloons gathered at the ankle. On her head was a Chinese straw hat, the same as the coolies wore; an upside-down cone that tied under her chin with a bit of string. Her curly dark brown hair was wound up into an untidy bun at the base of her neck.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m quite well,” I said. “Only a dizzy spell.”

  “Tosh,” she said. “Alex told me you’d had a turn like this yesterday.”

  My eyes shifted to the other side of the bed, where Papa and Alex stood. Papa held his hat, turning it round and round in his hands, looking at me anxiously. Alex had his arms crossed. I narrowed my eyes at him. Turncoat! He shrugged, not looking guilty in the least. “I did say you shouldn’t flog yourself along, myshka,” he said. “You should have told me you were feeling unwell again.”

  The woman laid her hand on my forehead. “You’re not as cold as you were when Alex carried you in.”

  Alex carried me in? I wanted to bury my head under the pillows. How humiliating. I could picture it: Alex panting under my weight, my arms dangling awkwardly, my mouth open, perhaps drooling.

  “My name’s Prunella Winslow, and I’m the medical missiona
ry here.” Miss Winslow removed her hat and flung it in the direction of a table, which it sailed past and landed on the floor. She stepped back and cocked her head, considering. “Tell me, Elodie, are you pregnant?”

  I nearly groaned out loud. This was the second time in the space of a few weeks that someone had asked if I carried a child. My gaze shot to Alex again. His face went pink. “We . . . we were married only a few days ago, Pru,” he said.

  “Marriage has nothing to do with it, my dear boy,” she remarked. “You’re old enough to know that.” She leaned over me again, pulling the corners of my eyes down and bidding me to poke out my tongue, all of which I did, my skin crawling with mortification. I wished with all my heart that Alex and Papa would leave the room and let me die of embarrassment in peace.

  Miss Winslow had an unflinching way of speaking, darting from one direct comment to the next, like a bee gathering nectar from one flower to another. Despite her odd appearance, I could almost picture her in a social setting, a ball perhaps, a string of men following behind her. But I could also picture her breezing into a hut, medical case in hand, undaunted at the sight of blood.

  “Well, if you’re not in the family way, then my next diagnosis is heat and sun exposure,” she said. “That’s all. No lasting damage.”

  “Can I continue on the journey?”

  “No,” Papa said, shifting from foot to foot. “Of course you cannot. May my daughter remain here, Miss Winslow, until I return?”

  “Call me Pru. Your daughter will be right as rain by morning.” Pru frowned at Papa. “We just have to outfit her in some more appropriate clothing. I see no reason why she mayn’t travel with you. She’s fit as a fiddle otherwise.”

  Ching Lan entered the room carrying a pottery mug. “I brought the tea, Pru.”

  “Ah, just the thing,” Miss Winslow said.

  I pushed up on one elbow and took the proffered cup from Ching Lan, who studied me carefully as she handed it to me. She must have thought I was the most ridiculous miss she’d ever laid eyes upon. I hid my face in the flower-scented steam that rose from the mug. Ching Lan already thought me a dolt for making that awkward remark about her speaking English. And then to go and faint in front of her like some cossetted lady overcome by vapors. And what was more, I didn’t like all this attention; everyone staring at me as though I was a creature to be pitied.