Suddenly, her brother was on the threshold.
“You are not allowed here,” Chi Tsai snapped.
“I do not see why I should not hasten slow women when time is lost on the horizon. The chair has arrived and the drummers too.”
Chi Tsai turned on her brother, but did not dare push him. In his unsettled condition, any push might tumble him. Instead, she opened a fan and waved him away.
“He can stay,” Chi Lin said. “I will miss him when I am tucked away beneath Master Wu’s roof.”
“And you will not miss me?” Chi Tsai asked.
“I will. Although I will not miss your rules of order.”
“If you have learned nothing else in your xien filled life, Chi Lin, you must remember the rules of order. The day tells us where and when we should be, how we should prepare and how we must fulfill.”
“No space for idle dreaming?”
“Just so. You have had your days of idle dreaming. Now you must find your way in your husband’s household.”
For Chi Lin that was like being a flower boat unmoored in a whirlpool. She could not guess the rules of order in such a house — a gentry estate in a busy town. But since she did not die in the night, she guessed Guan-yin had decided a daughter must fulfill her role. Fulfill the sacrifice.
The drums beat and a half-dozen xiao flutes bleated competing with the goats.
“Let me see,” Chi Tsai said, inspecting her sister’s face.
The powder had been applied quickly, the eyes given an underscore and the lips a vermilion coat. It would suit. So Chi Tsai hoisted the heavy robe onto her sister’s shoulders and tied the sash. The headdress was fitted and the veil prepared.
“Leave it be,” Chi Lin said.
“What bride would go out with her face revealed?”
“I would see the sun. I would see our father’s face once more.”
Chi Tsai hissed, but gave in. She guided Chi Lin over the threshold and through the kitchen. Carefully the bride swept over crockery and dust until she crossed the high threshold barring demons from the inner sanctum. The sun was bright, reflecting her white face like the moon’s borrowed light. She squinted. The veil would be a comfort after all. Chi Lin saw her brother inspecting the dowry and paying the musicians. She noticed three bannermen toting red flags to signal the nature of the procession. The animals were restless, except the ox, who winked at her as if he knew nothing more than that he was destined to yet another field or perhaps a roasting pot. The pigs were oblivious. Beside her father stood Cousin Chi Fa, a mature man, who was dressed in his best robes, his sandals tied with yellow ribbons and his hair coiffed in a tight bun, a spatula holding it together. His cap was an old official’s bonnet, secondhand, but suitable. Upon seeing Chi Lin, he nodded and pointed to the chair.
The bride’s chair was plain and smaller than she expected. Bright red and wrapped in crimson bunting, it was nothing more than a carry chair lacquered for the occasion. But it would do, she supposed, as long as the porters did not drop her in the road. A makeshift awning covered the vehicle to assure no one saw the bride before the household did. Her father approached.
“Come, come, my daughter. You are as ugly as ever.” He winked, and looked to Heaven. “Was ever a man so cursed? But somehow I will miss you and perhaps I will see you again, if not here for a visit, at the Yellow Springs beside your mother’s tablet.”
She gazed into her father’s eyes — eyes dewy. She loved this man, whose kindness and sponsorship gave her the privilege of letters and painting and hours of going beyond what her sister called the rules of order. He had forgiven her lapses in mending and cooking and feeding the chickens. Perhaps her brother’s ailment had allowed her a special place. But that place now evaporated like the water in the salt marshes that hugged Ting-hu Prefecture’s monopoly. She saw those salt marshes in her father’s eyes. She bowed.
“Now, now, daughter,” her father said. “You will be a mistress in a great house. No need to bow to me. True, I am your father. True, you owe me much. But you have paid me well with smiles and giggles and hugs.”
He turned away and disappeared over the high threshold.
“No time for sentiment,” Chi Tsai snapped.
She had not noticed her sister’s presence. She thought Chi Tsai had drifted off to feed the pigs. But Chi Lin realized she would also miss the nattering of this constant in her life. Suddenly, the world was red, the sun dimmed by the heavy brocaded veil. She could not see to get to the chair, but a hand touched hers.
“Thank you, brother,” she said.
“It is me,” came a voice. “Chi Fa. I hope the feast will not be curtailed because of your ma-lan bouquet. In times like these, they withhold the full feast and make do with cold gruel and scallions.”
“If it does not suit, cousin,” Chi Lin replied. “I am sure you can return here and kill a pig.”
“Yes,” Chi Fa laughed. “Yes, that would do. Not that I think the Wu family would cause an insult to the Chi or risk endangering the contract. The dowry is handsome. But you never know with the press of taxes and the squeeze of the magistrate. There are always concessions. Always concessions.”
Chi Lin took Chi Fa’s hand and trusted that he could deliver her safely into the chair. His words lay heavy on her heart, as heavy as the ma-lan bouquet, which she had thrown in the wood pile behind the mulberry shack. Still, there were always concessions and when her foot engaged the marriage chair, Chi Lin was making hers.
Chapter Two
Yan-cheng
1
The forests had long since disappeared in Yan-cheng District, the briny flats having eaten the roots of all but the hardiest yews and pines. Even then, the surviving trees bowed to the bogs like servants to Guo Po, the river god. Between cattails and water bamboos, the red-crowned crane reigned, strutting through silt, looting salt from salamanders and frogs. The wild was King Crane’s domain, the dammed zones champions of the Imperial monopoly — barriers and breakers demarking the ponds, dikes affording paths for salt workers to rake residue from the sun-resurrected brine and saline. The air was redolent with industry, water bugs clamoring the banks and mosquitoes dancing on ponds in search of crimson nourishment. Still, the cranes reigned, their trumpet call signaling the brood to create twig nests in bamboo hides, a sad attempt to preserve their plumage from some official’s cap or a display in gentry ke-tings.
The cranes arose with the sun, their dance marking the wild with elegance and perhaps with more industry than the workers who hewed salt from the boggy bottoms and through evaporation towers. It was ever thus in Yan-cheng, for two-thousand of years or more; and none but cranes worried about the ever-shrinking fen. Surely the salt merchant, who held the privilege, did not. Surely the bent backs cutting through the brine, did not. Surely the Hung Wu court, which managed well without bending backs, did not. And certainly Master Wu’s bride, enclosed in her bride’s chair, ported across these dewy meadows, did not. Only the cranes said as much, calling to one another, sounding throaty concerns and prancing like fleas on a glassy surface. Perhaps Guo Po on high witnessed their distress. More likely he ignored them as much as Guan-yin ignored Chi Lin’s plight. Perhaps a ghostly groom would show pity on her and allow the chair to reverse its course.
2
Chi Lin choked, the heat stifling her, enclosed in her prison chair. She had traveled in this chair before — before it was red-lacquered and repurposed with awning and drapery. Then a cool breeze had shown up and kissed away her perspiration. But not on this day nor in this state. Chi Lin had lifted the veil to breathe more freely, but that did not relieve the heat’s press. She pushed the curtain aside — a breach, but if she had not, she might have fainted. A slight breeze paid a brief call, but it smacked with the salt beds’ bite. She peered out. A serving boy pulled the pigs along to the constant drum beat and the occasional flute bleat. Chi Lin supposed it was useless to hail her progress to the multitude of laborers in the marshy spread. They would not be attending the c
eremony. What would they care? At least the drumming gave them a working rhythm. So Chi Lin’s passing was not an entirely wasted contribution.
Chi Lin leaned further out, daring to push the drapes aside. She could see the town gates — crenulated walls, blacked with time’s passage and charcoal burning. The drum tower stood sentinel to the ages. Over the roof’s sharp down and upturn, Chi Lin spied the Yan-cheng Ya-men’s distant façade, the Prefectural seat, where the magistrate and superintendent kept courts as proxy for the Hung Wu Emperor. It was in that place her father had served until summoned to the capital. In those days, the family remained at home, but enjoyed the honor of service. Chi Lin’s mother kept servants then. Mulberry was harvested and silk spun, providing a steady source of income. It was not so very long ago, yet it seemed like ancient days. The sight of the Ya-men stirred memories.
The curtain rattled.
“This is madness,” Chi Fa snapped. “You are not a proper bride if you do not keep to your place.”
“I am sorry, cousin. The air is . . .”
“That is part of it,” Chi Fa said, closing the curtain.
“But it would be good to see Yan-cheng.”
“You will have time enough for that.”
Chi Lin was not sure this was true.
“You are stern with me,” she dared complain.
“That is my part, daughter of my uncle.” Silence ruled, except for the drums. Then the curtain rattled again. “I will tell you what I see and, if you keep to your place, I will allow you one glimpse of the Wu mansion when we come to it. Is that agreeable, cousin?”
Chi Lin grinned, although Chi Fa could not see it.
“It is.”
“Good. Not that there is much to see now, except the gate and drum tower. You already have seen them.”
The chair swayed to the rhythm. Blended with the salt stink and the abysmal heat was oxen gas, the beast having decided to let free his morning hay. Chi Lin gagged, but did not make a fuss, fearing another round of chastisement. The flutes played steadily now. Then the curtain rattled again.
“It is busy here, cousin. We are passing water vendors and cowcumber sellers. There is a tea house and a pleasure den, which I will not describe, not that I could not, but you are delicate. Those who visit such places are rough.”
Chi Lin giggled. Chi Fa’s face peered through the drapery crack.
“This is no laughing matter, cousin. The world is seedy as you shall know. Best stay clear of such places.” The drapes shut. “Ah, now, there are flower sellers and a great market hung with meats of all kinds. Can you not smell the aromas?”
Chi Lin could, but they did not liberate her from the enclosure’s stench. However, to see flowers would be a treat. How she wanted to burst free and enjoy the blooms. Her cousin continued to describe people and wares along the market street. Then he whispered.
“The Ya-men. Bow your head, cousin, so Heaven knows that a lowly woman passes His Majesty’s place of sacred authority, may He live ten-thousand years.”
Chi Lin bowed and even returned the veil to its place. She could feel the Imperial force. She knew its power. She knew its wrath. She knew its changeability.
The flutes ceased, and so did the drumming as they passed the Ya-men in silence. When they resumed, Chi Lin knew they had passed the place. Then, and only then, did she lift the veil.
Her cousin was silent now. She wondered what she was missing — gentry houses to be sure, and the merchants’ quarter. A cook shop was definitely passed because she inhaled streaming buns and, a little later, the aroma of roasting pork. She also heard voices — well wishers. Her procession must have approached the Wu homestead, the neighbors and tenants expressing respectful regards.
The chair halted.
“One glimpse,” Chi Fa whispered.
Chi Lin pushed the curtain aside slightly and was stunned. The road was lined with hundreds of folk, all heads bowed. The man nearest her chair looked up and gave her a toothless grin. At first she started, but remembered she would only get a glimpse. She looked ahead to the walls of Master Wu’s estate, which gleamed golden in the sunlight, except for a long white banner imposingly draped along the breadth of the parapet, ending in a dozen white, flapping pennants. Chi Lin gasped, recalling her bouquet. She had had her glimpse, and returned to her place to avoid her cousin’s further chastisement.
“Thank you,” she said.
“We proceed.”
3
Chi Lin entered the House of Wu, the gates opening to her. A grave silence descended on her procession when they crossed the threshold into the first courtyard. Chi Fa’s whispers were quieter still.
“This is a grand place, cousin,” he said. “The yard is wide with many blossoming trees and fine pots with golden moss. Water runs in a rockery and there are peacocks. A dragon wall I see, the likes of which I have never seen before. The beast has four claws. Impressive.”
Chi Lin did not much care if the dragon had four claws or two. As for the vegetation, she was sure she would tire of it within a day. However, the rockery enticed her and peacocks were an uncommon bird.
The sun suddenly disappeared when the chair proceeded under a covered walkway. The light returned again and again, as they processed through many courtyards and moon gates.
“Where are we?” she muttered.
“Be calm. The place has many rooms — fine rooms and courtyards. There are attendants everywhere. Surely Master Wu was a great man.”
“But such silence. Not even the peacocks call.”
“A mixed blessing. But your journey is at an end.”
The chair halted.
“May I escape the chair?”
“Stay still until you are summoned.”
Chi Lin desired to bolt. She wanted to run free, her unbound feet fleeing through the invisible rooms and courtyards. But the silence bore its tension down her legs, paralyzing her in interminable waiting. She scratched her nose beneath the veil, the powder having turned to paste, itching her face. Suddenly, the curtain parted — the front portion, giving her a clear view of the main hall and its wisteria-kissed moon gate. Near the portal stood four fa-shr, Taoists priests no doubt by their high feathered caps and their white and red ribbon-dotted robes.
Also in the courtyard stood three women, all older than Chi Lin. They came to the chair to leer at its passenger. These were Master Wu’s other wives, come to inspect the fourth wife, although their approval or disapproval would be too late. The wives wore unadorned white silk robes. The first wife stood tall. Severe. Unbending. The other two wives were assisted by handmaidens because their feet were bound. They tottered precariously over the cobblestones.
The first wife poked Chi Lin with her fan, raising the veil slightly, inspecting the face. She then looked down to inspect the feet.
“Free of the lotus pads,” she proclaimed. “Good. You shall be a worker.” She turned to the others. “No porcelain beauty this. The mistress shall be glad in that.”
Chi Lin, uneasy with this assessment, noticed the other two wives listened intently to the first wife, preserving seniority’s strict form. The first wife sneered at Chi Fa, who was all bows and homage. She then snapped her fan and led the other two wives away. They would not be attending the ceremony. Their participation in the service had ended.
From the hall emerged a plump official — the magistrate of Yan-cheng. Chi Lin knew him as Po T’ai-kuan. He was once an under clerk to her father, but he had managed to survive the purges and now thrived. He was famous for wearing the finest robes even for the most menial functions. This day was an exception. The Wu family was too important in Yan-cheng to overturn protocol. So, Po T’ai-kuan wore a simple white robe over a red lace undercoat, his hair wrapped in an unadorned black turban. He approached the chair.
“Daughter of Chi Ming,” he said. “Your actions will not be forgotten by Heaven or the Ya-men. Your tablet shall stand in its proper place and will assure the lineage of the House of Wu and the House of Chi.”
He bowed, holding his heart. “I am privileged to escort you into the ke-ting and to affix the seals.”
The magistrate’s leer made Chi Lin’s skin crawl. His tongue swept his teeth as if he wished to be the groom or at least sample the groom’s privileges now that such privileges were blown to Heaven.
“Master Po,” Chi Lin said, sweetly allaying her disgust. “I am honored by the courtesy.”
Po T’ai-kuan turned to Chi Fa.
“Your duty has been fulfilled. You are discharged, Master Chi. The ushers will show you where to store the tributes and to take refreshment.”
Chi Fa bowed, probably happy knowing that he would be fed, although he would have preferred a wedding feast and wine enough to assure a carry-chair home.
The four priests began a simple dance, rattling hand drums and chanting a prayer. It unsettled Chi Lin further, especially when Po T’ai-kuan latched his hand to hers, tugging her forward to the threshold. There she paused.
“Say the words,” Po T’ai-kuan coaxed.
She knew the words. She had dreamed of the day when she would say them. But now they were shallow acknowledgements to a contract, and nothing more.
“I come to the edge of the end of my life in the House of Chi,” she said, her voice breaking on the words. “I am suspended between the worlds. Is it Heaven’s wish that I enter the House of Wu?”
“It is,” came a masculine voice from within.
Chi Lin bowed, and then crossed the divide between her old life and her new one, not knowing what she would find in the Wu household tomb.
Chapter Three
The White Cockerel
1
Wu T’ai-po was long the head of the household, old but steadfast in his position as the holder of two Imperial salt monopoly certificates — one granted and one bestowed. The granted certificate made the household rich because the Wu family oversaw the individual salt work holdings, the ji-tzao, and distributed this commodity through the local Ya-men for a fixed, but profitable, amount. The pledge made the Wu family wealthy, the old man doing little more than holding the precious document, while his tenants fulfilled the terms. The monopoly rights would be passed to Wu T’ai-po’s eldest son, Wu Hung-lin, whose wedding was today, his fourth wedding and, indeed, a curiosity for the family. The granted salt certificate would pass through Wu T’ai-po’s eldest son and onward until the end of time or the end of the blood line, whichever came first. The bestowed certificate was outsourced to a merchant guild, which transported the salt to the border regions where it supplied the Ming Imperial armies. It was lucrative and made the Wu wealthier still. This trade was overseen by Wu T’ai-po’s second son, Wu Liang-tze, who lived in a nearby villa and fulfilled the certificate terms through minions. Wu T’ai-po’s third son, Wu San-ehr, was a captain to the Hung Wu Emperor’s fourth son, Prince Chu Di, and lived at the northern garrison near Yen-jing. But it was to the first son, this Wu Hung-lin, whom Chi Lin would marry today.
Master Wu's Bride Page 2