The Moon Pearl

by Ruthanne Lum McCunn

  Yun Yun, hurrying over to the corner by the altar where Third Brother had rolled, felt their father’s hand on her arm, restraining.

  “Your little brother is too young to understand.”

  Old Lady Chow scowled. “He isn’t too young to learn.”

  Yun Yun understood her motherin-law meant for her father to scold Third Brother. But her father merely furrowed his brow and pursed his lips as though he were in deep thought, and Third Brother’s clamoring continued unabated.

  Old Lady Chow’s scowl deepened. Yun Yun, uncertain whether she should try and appease her motherin-law by reprimanding Third Brother on their father’s behalf, rubbed one foot against the other.

  “Stop that at once!” Old Lady Chow shouted.

  Yun Yun froze. Third Brother screamed louder.

  Their father shrugged helplessly. “You see the problem.”

  Like a petitioner unburdening himself before a magistrate, he continued, “The poor boy’s been crying since Yun Yun left us. That’s why we’re here. To ask your permission for Yun Yun to come back to Twin Hills for a visit. Their mother wanted me to come months ago. I did too.” He pointedly surveyed the room’s plain furnishings, Yun Yun’s work clogs. “We know from the matchmaker that you’re sufficiently well off to do without Yun Yun’s labor throughout the year. But every hand in our household is needed except in late autumn and winter, so we couldn’t come until now.”

  At his thinly veiled accusation, Old Lady Chow bristled, and Yun Yun braced herself against her father’s chair, hoping against hope her motherin-law wouldn’t take vengeance by refusing to release her.

  “We cannot spare Yun Yun,” Old Lady Chow snapped.

  Third Brother, who’d quieted while their father was speaking, burst into loud sobs. Yun Yun gulped down sobs of her own. Their father shook his head sadly.

  Suddenly Third Brother shot out of the corner, doubled over in front of Old Lady Chow, and knocked his head against the floor in wordless supplication. Ignoring Third Brother, Old Lady Chow sternly reminded Yun Yun she hadn’t yet served tea.

  Yun Yun, stuttering apologies, stumbled back to the table.

  Third Brother seized Old Lady Chow’s legs and began thumping his head on her feet, wailing, “I want my sister.”

  Old Lady Chow whirled up from her chair. But with Third Brother wrapped round her legs, she lost her balance and sank back onto the seat.

  Curious neighbors and passersby—who’d been poking their heads in the doorway and then lingering at the threshold since Third Brother began his tantrum—gaped in amazement; and there were scattered sniggers, gasps of “Ai yah!”, more than a few sympathetic mutterings on his behalf.

  Yun Yun, having somehow managed to pour the tea, wondered whether she should try and serve it, whether her motherin-law—sputtering like a bead of water in a wok of hot oil—would strike her on account of her unruly brother if she came within reach.

  Her father shifted in his chair so he faced the crowd gathered at the threshold. “As you see, the little one is desperate for his sister. So I asked permission for Yun Yun to come back to Twin Hills for a visit. Maybe some of you heard us talking. Maybe you already know. Yun Yun can’t be spared.”

  Apparently taking his appeal to them as an invitation, many in the crowd eased into the common room and pleaded with Old Lady Chow.

  “Have a heart!”

  “Even your buffalo has this season for rest.”

  “Look at that poor boy. He’ll do himself an injury.”

  Third Brother’s face had become so swollen and red that Yun Yun did fear for him, and although she now recognized her father’s ploy and longed for its success, she had to dig her toes into the soles of her shoes to keep from running to her brother and cradling him in her arms.

  More and more people spilled in, addressed Old Lady Chow.

  “Take pity on the boy.”

  “Do you mean to say your daughter-in-law isn’t a useless rice bucket after all?”

  “Obviously the little one values her.”

  “And now her motherin-law, too.”

  White with anger, Old Lady Chow balled her hands into fists, slammed them down onto the arms of her chair. “Five days!”

  Springing to his feet, Yun Yun’s father confirmed, “Five days.”

  Their father’s boat was still some distance from Twin Hills when Yun Yun heard First and Second Brother calling, “Elder Sister!” “Elder Sister!”

  Looking up from Third Brother, asleep on her lap, Yun Yun scanned the riverbank, found the two boys on a large flat rock that jutted out into the water. Naked to their waists as though it were hot summer instead of cool autumn, they were swinging their jackets back and forth like flags while they jumped up and down, whooping and hollering.

  So as not to disturb Third Brother, Yun Yun didn’t shout back. But she waved with such enthusiasm that Third Brother woke anyway.

  Sitting up, he confided proudly, “They wanted to come fetch you, but I cry better.”

  At the stern, their father steered the boat towards shore. “Don’t you get any ideas about pitching more fits.”

  That her family had plotted together to bring her home touched Yun Yun to the core, and when she called out to First and Second Brother, her voice cracked with emotion.

  “We’ll race you,” First Brother shouted, waving their father off.

  Leaping up from Yun Yun’s lap, Third Brother urged her to help their father row. Yun Yun, glad for the chance to release her feelings through energetic rowing, scrambled to her knees, her feet.

  “Third Brother,” their father cautioned.

  “I forgot.” Quickly Third Brother seized Yun Yun’s hands, pulled her back down, rocking the boat crazily. “I have to let you rest.”

  Spreading his own legs wide for balance, he recrossed Yun Yun’s, restoring her lap, snuggled down in it. Yun Yun, pinned to the deck by her sweet burden, rested her chin on the top of her baby brother’s head and closed her eyes.

  Glare from the setting sun warmed her eyelids, and as the golden glow penetrated the darkness within, Yun Yun thought of the day she’d stared up at the sky looking for buffalo with her father. Reminded of the story he’d told of the buffaloes’ fall, she understood that just as the blind Earth God, Day Jong Wong, and the Community Grandfather, Seh Gung, had tried to show their remorse and prove their integrity to the animals they’d betrayed, so too was her father attempting to redeem his mistake.

  On those rare occasions when gentry came through Twin Hills and Strongworm, they sent runners ahead of their palanquins to open the road for them by blowing bugles or hitting gongs, bellowing, “Make way!” And it seemed to Yun Yun that her brothers, racing ahead of their father’s skiff, yelling, “Elder Sister’s coming!” were not unlike these runners, that all her family—with the exception of Third Brother—treated her with the deference reserved for an honored guest rather than a familiar member of the household.

  There was meat at every meal, and her parents and grandparents heaped her bowl with the best pieces. Nor would her mother allow Yun Yun to assist with either the preparation of the meals or the washing up. If she so much as picked up a broom or a bit of mending, it was snatched out of her hand, and she’d be urged to sit, offered a bowl of steaming tea, a tasty snack. If she was caught playing with Third Brother or helping him with some small task, she’d be pulled away and he’d be sternly reminded, “Let your sister rest.”

  Over and over Yun Yun begged her parents to let her resume her old chores.

  “We only have you for five days,” they’d say. “Let us spoil you.”

  Finally, realizing her pleas upset them, she gave in.

  With their houses side by side, Yun Yun saw Lucky daily. But Yun Yun didn’t seek Lucky out. And when Lucky visited, Yun Yun evaded any prolonged talk by fussing over Third Brother or feigning a headache, a sudden need to use the outhouse. For Yun Yun, having been as close to Lucky as if they were wearing one pair of pants, found restricting their excha
nges to idle chatter unbearable. Nor would she disturb Lucky—betrothed to be married that winter—with unhappy tales of the Chows’ cruelty. Most of all, Yun Yun did not want to torment Lucky, as she herself was tortured, with the knowledge that in Strongworm three girls had accomplished what the two of them hadn’t dared imagine: seizing control of their own lives, refusing marriage, and vowing lifelong spinsterhood, so they could remain together.

  Outcasts

  ON HER WAY to Strongworm in the wedding sedan, Yun Yun’s grief over leaving everyone she loved had been tempered by her mother’s promise that her husband would be as gentle, kind, and affectionate as her father. Returning to the Chows on her father’s boat after her five-day visit, Yun Yun recognized that all the rivers and streams in the world would run dry before her husband or in-laws would become what she and her parents had wanted for her. In truth, she felt like an outcast who’d been granted a brief reprieve and was now returning to exile. Yet Yun Yun still harbored hope of happiness. Indeed, she had happiness growing in her belly.

  Seated cross-legged on the deck and warmed by the winter sun, she could already feel her babe’s sweet weight in her arms, his lips sucking at her left breast, then her right. Satisfied, he gurgled, gave Yun Yun a wet, bubbly grin. And Yun Yun, her own hungers eased, brushed the tip of her nose, her cheek against his silky skin, burrowed her face into the firm flesh of his belly and breathed in his special fragrance… .

  A brisk river wind swept Yun Yun from her imaginings back to the cold, hard deck. Above her, dark clouds had rolled in, hiding the sun. On the bank to her right loomed the towering eucalyptus trees that marked the approach to Strongworm, and the air was soon permeated with their bitter scent.

  Shivering, Yun Yun scrunched her chin down into her tunic’s high collar, squeezed her eyes shut, and resolutely restored her babe to her arms.

  A husband was not supposed to impose on his wife while she had a baby in her belly or at her breast. When Yun Yun told Young Chow she was with child, however, he refused to release her from pleasuring him.

  Shielding her belly with both hands, Yun Yun attempted to reason with her husband. Young Chow, his face twisted with rage, slapped her into silence and fell on her.

  Desperately she tried to push him off. Tearing off her sleeping clothes, he bellowed, “Refusing your husband is a sign of immorality.” And his attack, always brutal, was so vicious that Yun Yun’s spirit fled her body.

  How long her spirit was gone, Yun Yun didn’t know. But she dimly became aware of Young Chow cruelly pinching her lips, the soft flesh of her inner thighs, the sound of her own voice whimpering pleas for mercy—not for herself, but for their unborn son.

  In answer, Young Chow roughly forced her to turn over onto her belly, then attacked her again, this time from behind.

  Under his pitiless battering, the baby died.

  With their first new year as spinsters approaching, Mei Ju felt the familiar excitement of her favorite festival heightened by the prospect of reconciliation.

  At home, Grandmother was doubtless marshalling the entire household into scouring walls, stove, and furnishings so they shone. And under her direction, Ma and Second and Third Aunt would be preparing special treats—fried dumplings stuffed with sweet red bean paste, several varieties of steamed cakes, crispy gok filled with crushed peanuts, sesame, and sugar—to serve to family, friends and acquaintances who came to offer New Year wishes. Just recalling the wonderful mix of sweet saltiness melting on her tongue made Mei Ju’s mouth water. But buying a winter quilt had used up too much of their savings for her and her friends to consider such indulgences for themselves, and they had no reason to expect callers.

  “I do want to give lucky money to my little brother and cousins when I call on my family, though,” Mei Ju said.

  Shadow picked at a loose thread on the hem of her pants. “If I give a red envelope to my niece, it’s likely to upset Elder Sister-in-law the way my matronly bun did.”

  Rooster reached over, snapped the thread. “We’re not married, but we’re not girls either, and as independent spinsters, we have the right, if not the obligation, to assume the responsibility of giving out red envelopes.”

  “We could take gifts of steamed cake, goh, to express our hopes that our families, like the cakes, will rise,” Shadow, already fussing with another thread, suggested.

  Hoping to ease Shadow’s fretting, Mei Ju hurriedly agreed. “Grandmother will like that, and I won’t have to spend as much as I would if I handed out lucky money.”

  “You don’t have to put more than one copper in each red envelope,” Rooster said. “Let’s give lucky money and cakes.” Astonished, Mei Ju pointed at Shadow’s frayed hem, the worn elbows and odd lumpiness of their tunics, which they’d padded against the winter chill with silk batting from their quilt. “Do we look like people who can afford both?”

  “Being generous although we’re in tatters will show our families how high we hold them,” Rooster came back.

  “And return us to favor,” Shadow murmured, tucking a stray tuft of silk batting into the sleeve of her tunic.

  Their families, like every household in Strongworm, had paper images of the Kitchen God above their stoves, and while setting up housekeeping in the rain shelter with Rooster and Shadow, Mei Ju had pasted one above theirs. To prevent soot from soiling their embroidery, however, they always dragged their small, clay stove outside when they cooked.

  When the time came for the Kitchen God to make his year end report to Heaven, then, Mei Ju—having smeared his mouth with honey so he’d say only good things—carried his image outside to burn. Rooster and Shadow followed with a lighted taper, and in the cold light of the moon, they appeared almost spectral.

  “Look.” Shadow pointed to the thin threads of smoke above Strongworm’s houses. “Our families, every family in the village is doing the same thing.”

  Rooster lit the paper Mei Ju held. In one brilliant, searing flash, the Kitchen God’s image crackled into flame, and as it ascended to Heaven in a spiral of sooty smoke, it seemed to Mei Ju that the smell of burning sugar was as bittersweet and powerful as her feelings about her family.

  Mei Ju had valued her sister too much herself to ever begrudge Bak Ju her position as family favorite. But Mei Ju had often felt unjustly criticized by her family, including her sister, and on these occasions she would comfort herself with thoughts of New Year.

  Back to sharing a bed with Bak Ju and Grandmother for the duration of the festival, Mei Ju would waken long before they or anyone else in the house stirred. Soon as her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she’d slip out from under the thick quilt and, shivering despite the layers of undergarments she wore to ward off the winter cold, she’d carefully feel her way to the stool where Ma would have left her a new suit of clothes.

  As Mei Ju pulled on the tunic and pants, the crispness of the unwashed cloth would make her bits of exposed skin itch deliciously, the intensity of the indigo dye would tickle her nose, and to keep from giggling or sneezing, she’d gulp great swallows of chill air. Ma of course made everything extra long to allow for growth through as many years as the cloth would endure, and Mei Ju would have to fold back the sleeves, hike up the pants, and stuff handkerchiefs into the shoes. These adjustments completed, she’d stand absolutely still to savor the clothes’ stiff newness. Then she’d pad out to the kitchen, start a fire in the stove, and put water on to make Grandmother her tea.

  Waiting for the kettle to spout steam, Mei Ju would rake her fingers through her hair to unravel her pigtails, hurriedly comb and rebraid them. She’d pace the length and breadth of the small kitchen once, twice, become sure she’d burst if she lingered another moment, and whether the water was boiling or not, she’d make the tea.

  Almost at a run, she’d carry it into Grandmother with a glad shout of New Year wishes for wealth, health, and long life, confident that Grandmother—although wakened abruptly and presented with a bowl of tepid water thick with leaves—wouldn’t glower or s
nap, “Nuisance child.” Instead, she’d smile, hand Mei Ju a red envelope of lucky money.

  Bak Ju, also wakened by Mei Ju’s loud greetings, would silently slip out of the bed, the room. Their little brother and cousins would come tumbling in, ply Grandmother with their good wishes, and eagerly accept their red envelopes before running out to wash and dress.

  By then, Bak Ju would be back with her face washed, her hair neatly combed, a perfectly brewed pot of Grandmother’s favorite Iron Goddess tea. And after offering Grandmother New Year greetings and accepting her red envelope, Bak Ju—laughing at the mess Mei Ju, in her impatience, had made of her hair—would comb and braid it for her.

  There were more red envelopes to collect from their parents, aunts, and uncles, then gambling games to play with their lucky money. There were also firecrackers to set off, treats to eat. Better than the tasty treats, lucky money, and joyous play, however, was the knowledge that for fifteen wonderful days she, Mei Ju, did not have to brace herself against criticism from her grandmother, parents, uncles, aunts, and sister.

  Now, steaming cakes and preparing envelopes of lucky money for New Year calls, Mei Ju was confident that she and her friends would be free from censure for the length of the festival. What she and Shadow and Rooster were hoping for, though, were lasting reconciliations.

  Mei Ju arrived home just as her family was gathering before the altar in the common room to make offerings to their ancestors. And, as she’d expected, their faces were wreathed in New Year smiles.

  The moment they noticed her stepping over the threshold, however, her grandmother’s, father’s, and uncles’ faces turned stern, her mother’s and aunts’ shocked, her brother’s and cousins’ fearful. Stammering out New Year wishes to each member of the family, beginning with Grandmother, Mei Ju couldn’t hide her own shock and fear.

  Grandmother’s acknowledgment was terse, her tone harsh. Mei Ju’s parents, uncles, and aunts were likewise cold and hard, her brother and cousins only slightly warmer. And when Mei Ju offered them the bundle of cakes with additional good wishes, no one reached out to take it. When she tried to give lucky money to her brother and cousins, they backed away from her.