Master Wu's Bride

by Edward C. Patterson

  “A fuss?” Lao Lao said as he folded the bridal robes. “If you want to see a fuss, you should see the other wives. They hate me and ignore my old woman. The first wife does not address us, nor should she, but the other two remain like painted dolls in their pavilions, demanding fine food and other dainties. That is why they only managed daughters.”

  “They managed a husband’s touch, Lao Lao. I shall not have as much.”

  Lao Lao bowed deeply.

  “Forgive Lao Lao, mistress. My tongue has no mind and speaks without thinking.”

  “It does not matter,” Chi Lin replied. “Second and third wives are always baubles.”

  “Fourth wives also, mistress, when they have their feet crammed into golden lotus slippers. Lotus and Orchid need help standing. They walk on a cloud. Give me a full footed maid. Give me . . .” He stopped, staring at Chi Lin’s feet. “Again, my tongue, mistress.”

  “Your tongue is loose, but it says truth. My feet will allow me to get about.”

  “Your feet will force you to work, mistress. That is the way of this place. The Old Lady of the House likes industry within these walls. The first wife is exempt. Sons, you know. The other two are hobbled. So I am sure you will be assigned tasks. It is the way of the place.”

  Chi Lin reflected on this miserable servant. He was like a history book. Although honest and, in that honesty, brutal, he might prove a keynote to the way of this place. She longed for her old life and her father’s gentle voice, her brother’s industrious study and even her nagging sister. But there was nothing she could do. She was destined to this fading hall, the dusty bed, the makeshift fire and the one open window to the world, unless she regarded Lao Lao as a second window, one that she wanted to shutter now.

  “I am weary, Lao Lao.” she said. “I would sleep.”

  “Shake the clacker if you need me or my old woman,” he said pointing to the rattle hooked to the bed.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Suddenly, Lao Lao’s face brightened — a man not having been thanked in an age, now kneeling before a new mistress, one who might ease his mind in his dotage.

  2

  Dreams would not come for Chi Lin, weariness having taken her within seconds of clamping her neck into the headrest. When she awoke, it was still dark and she thought she saw a strange creature near the bed cabinet. In the scant light she recognized the form as old and bent, perhaps Lao Lao again. But when the creature tripped and stumbled about emitting low curses to the shadows, Chi Lin knew it must be Lao Lao’s old woman. A bitter odor drifted to the bed. Chi Lin hoped it was not the food being shuffled to the table. Perhaps it was old-lady smell. But soon, after the woman departed, the odor lingering, Chi Lin realized it was breakfast.

  She sat bedside, her feet dangling, still hoping that this was a dream that would not come. Yet as the sun rose, the gray light filtering through the window gauze, Chi Lin knew the Silver Silence Hall was her legacy — the inheritance for the Purple Sage. She hopped to the low table, peering into a watery bowl of sorghum, dotted with shattered plums. Beside this was a kettle of water and a tea bowl, the leaves strewn in the depths.

  “I could not eat that,” she said, sniffing the porridge.

  He nose wrinkled. The sight of it offended her. She was accustomed to rice congee — nothing rich, but rolled carefully by Chi Tsai and poked with cinnamon sticks. This slop was clearly stewed by a sightless woman, who might have lost her sense of smell also. Chi Lin took a cloth and covered it. The tea would do. She poured the water into the bowl and waited for the leaves to steep. This was an accommodation, because the ceremony of boiling the leaves was a ritual observed in her father’s house. She would teach it to the old lady or assume the tea duties herself. But this would do for now. Perhaps Lao Lao could fetch a steamed bun when he made an appearance.

  While Chi Lin waited, she peered through the window. A pool stood at a distance — a lotus pool with no lotus, just weeds and broken tiles. She wondered if it held water. Then from a hovel near the courtyard wall, Lao Lao emerged, went to the pool, opened his robes and performed his morning relief.

  “More than water in there,” Chi Lin muttered, and sighed. “No ducks either.”

  The tea was ready. She took it quickly, and then went to the clothes box to select the attire for the day. In the morning brightness, she explored an array of fine garments, each more beautiful than the next. She had never been one for finery, but she supposed as a married woman in a monopoly holder’s house, she would need to be presentable. Her eyes caught a turquoise jacket with matching skirt and shawl. A robe would surely be within. It would suit for today, although she wondered who would pin her hair, her sister having done that for her all her life. She could manage it, if she could find a brush and varnish.

  “Mistress,” came a voice on the threshold. “My old woman shall help you dress and adorn your hair.”

  Chi Lin turned about seeing Lao Lao and the old creature he called his wife. She was huddled over a cane, her rheumy eyes squinting about the hall perhaps looking for her new mistress.

  “Approach,” Chi Lin said. “Let me see you.”

  The old woman tripped, tapping the cane before her, looking about until she spied Chi Lin. She smiled, and then bowed.

  “Have you selected, mistress?” she croaked. “Or shall I do it.”

  “You could not see the box,” Lao Lao chided. “But you can manage buttons and hair.”

  Chi Lin smiled and reached for the old woman, who shied at the touch.

  “I am too low for such kindness, mistress,” she said, and then looked over at the table. “Was the porridge to your liking?”

  “I shall have some later,” Chi Lin said, as brightly as she could. “The tea served well. And . . . and if there is a steamed bun, that would be fine as well.”

  “We can do that,” the old woman stammered. “I can get the basket going. But what have you decided to wear? You will be summoned for sure after you pay your respects.”

  “Stop bothering the mistress,” Lao Lao snapped. “Help her dress. I will fetch the hair things.”

  Chi Lin stood near the box, while the old woman rustled through the jacket and skirt, muttering what sounded like her favorite, I remember. Her favorite.

  “Lao Lao, what is meant by being summoned?”

  “You will have household chores. The Old Lady of the House will speak to you for sure and tell you what is expected. It is not for me to guess.”

  “And paying my respects?”

  “To your husband, mistress.”

  “You must burn the incense and red paper,” the old woman muttered as she slipped the undershirt over Chi Lin’s head. “It is a daily thing that you do, no doubt. But we have never had a ghost bride in the House of Wu, so I can only say what I have heard.”

  “She thinks she knows everything,” Lao Lao said. “It is a fault you will need to come to know and forgive, I hope.”

  Chi Lin spun about as the jacket and skirt jostled on her. The garments were far from straight, so she had to snug them while the old woman sought slippers and robe. The robe would make the entire ensemble hot, but if she was to be summoned, she needed to look her best. She was pleased with the garments and her old dresser amused her, drawing her from darker thoughts.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked the old woman.

  “I have one. Do not bother your head about it. I come when you call.”

  “But when I call, who should I call?”

  The old woman laughed.

  “Just wave and say, Come, you and I shall manage to come, if I can see my way clear.”

  “Which she cannot,” Lao Lao added, bringing the brushes and pins.

  “But I must call you something.”

  The old lady sighed.

  “Snapdragon,” she said. “You can call me Snapdragon, if you need a name.”

  Lao Lao laughed.

  “That is nicer than the flowers I recall.”

  The banter continued, while Chi L
in’s thought drifted. She felt the brittle touch of Snapdragon’s fingers through her hair, the bun being formed, and the varnish applied. The first pins stuck true, grazing her scalp, making her wonder how her head would appear. She was quite surprised when Lao Lao lifted a hand mirror showing her his old woman’s blind handiwork. Chi Lin looked presentable — more than presentable.

  “A jewel perhaps,” Chi Lin muttered.

  “There are hair baubles, mistress,” Lao Lao said. “But I would not advise it.”

  “Not on the first day,” Snapdragon whistled. “The Old Lady of the House is fussy about such things and must approve what dangles from your quills.”

  “And face paint is not encouraged,” Lao Lao said. “When a rouge pot is sent to the hall, it will be sign enough for what you may smear. Besides, you are too pretty to wear a mask.”

  “Is she?” Snapdragon asked.

  “She is, but to say more will incite Heaven to jealousy.”

  Chi Lin laughed. She was ready to venture into the bleak courtyard and pay her respects to her husband, a ritual she would perform every day for the rest of her life.

  Chapter Five

  Husband and Mother-in-law

  1

  Chi Lin knelt on the temple cushion before the ancestral shrine. Wu Hung-lin’s effigy was newly planted beside a prayer scroll to the Jade Emperor. The incense had burned out overnight, but the sharp orange blossom aroma still lingered. The brazier burned low although maintained by the shrine attendant, whose sole job was to manage the shrine. He was nowhere to be found, but somehow Chi Lin felt his eyes watching from behind a rock blind. Chi Lin clapped three times, and then bowed, first to Guan-yin, and then to the Household god, who was Wu Xin-fei, an ancestor from Tang times, a great scholar and courtier, who first brought wealth to the house by marrying a Li princess of the twelfth degree and receiving a dowry enough to build a home south of the capital. Many Wu ancestors followed in Wu Xin-fei’s footsteps, a long line of obedient sons to the Empire, both the native one and the foreign invaders. Such history Chi Lin knew because her father was insistent that she learn it before crossing the Wu threshold, but she cared little for it. She only bowed out of respect. Perhaps the old patron god might be on her side when the rest of the family ignored her.

  Chi Lin reached for a joss stick, lit it in the brazier, and then tucked it in the sand before her husband’s totem. She bowed and clapped, and then burned the red paper prayer with the hope the sentiments arose to his soul in Heaven. She squinted through the smoke to observe his portrait. She had seen a similar one well enough during the brief ceremony, but the room was dark then and the white cockerel a noisy pest. Now that she had a quiet moment to reflect, she could see her husband’s features were comely. He was older than she; much older. But if he had lived, he would have demanded sons and she would have complied. He was not so old and withered to be shunned in bed. She would have welcomed him freely and without regret. Yes, he was a handsome man; mature, but a maiden’s delight.

  Chi Lin sighed.

  “My lord,” she whispered. “I fear because you are gone and I am a ghost bride, my place has been set aside. If you could speak to your noble ancestors on my behalf, I would be most obliged. We were both denied the marriage bed, but I would have given you many sons. To show you this, I live here and honor your parents as my parents, and come to your shrine to thank you for choosing me as wife.”

  Chi Lin bowed, burned another red paper prayer, and then clapped three times. Suddenly, she felt she was being watched. Perhaps by the shrine keeper. She turned to see two black marble eyes staring at her. It was a girl, perhaps three or four sui in age, looking up, her head resting on folded arms.

  “You pray?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Chi Lin replied, cocking her head.

  “They say you are the ghost bride,” the girl said, cocking her head to match Chi Lin’s. “I have never seen a ghost bride.”

  “Now you have,” Chi Lin replied. “Are you lost?”

  “No. I live here. I am Pearl. My mama is called Lotus.”

  “Does she know you are here?”

  “I come here sometimes to smell the smoke. She does not care. The amah watches me and my sisters. She does not care either.”

  Chi Lin shuffled to her feet, approaching Pearl. But the girl darted to the rock blind.

  “I will not hurt you,” Chi Lin said.

  “But you are a ghost,” Pearl replied. “They say ghosts eat little girls.”

  “I am a ghost bride.” She pointed to Wu Hung-lin’s portrait. “There is the ghost.”

  “That is papa.” Pearl frowned and shook her head. “He died. He was nice to me. He came to our hall and mama would sing for him. He would laugh and tickle us.” She frowned again. “But he died.”

  “Yes, Pearl. I am his bride but have never met him. You must tell me more about him.”

  “But you are a ghost.”

  “Do not bother Mistress Purple Sage,” snapped a high pitched voice from behind her.

  Chi Lin turned. Standing there was a tall woman in a stately robe, but had unadorned hair and a servant’s badge, three gray ribbons sweeping from her right shoulder. She bowed to Chi Lin, and then stepped closer to Pearl.

  “Child, where is your amah?”

  “She is asleep. She is always asleep except to feed us.”

  “She should be more attentive to your doings,” the woman said. “You should not be conversing with your elders. You should be learning to sew with your sister.”

  “It hurts my fingers, and you are an elder. You speak to me all the time.”

  “Enough.”

  “She meant no harm,” Chi Lin said.

  “She never does, but must learn her place. Children can grow wild and, in this household, they seem to do so,”

  “My brothers are wild,” Pearl objected. “They do anything they want.”

  “But they do not bother Mistress Purple Sage.”

  “They would,” Pearl said. “But they are afraid of ghosts.”

  Pearl stood tall, bowed to Chi Lin, and then scurried away.

  “She meant no harm,” Chi Lin said, bowing to the woman.

  “No need to bow to me,” the woman said, pointing to her badge. “I am Willow, and nothing more than the Old Lady of the House’s maid. She sent me to fetch you. Come.”

  Willow turned brusquely about and walked to the courtyard gate. Chi Lin quickly looked to her husband’s effigy, nodded, and then followed at a near trot.

  2

  As Chi Lin followed Willow through four courtyards, each busy with servants, energetic in their work, each nodding to the ghost bride as she passed, she was not sure how to respond, so she returned the nod not wanting to insult any one. She also noticed the careful landscaping in these courtyards, nothing like the shambles of her own courtyard. The pools were pristine, water flowing over rock hides; buckets of cabbage plants and tea flowers were carefully placed along cleanly swept walkways. The Halls were laced with wisteria and trumpet flowers. The entrances sported wood carved plaques heralding their names — Blue Heaven, Crimson Blossom, Golden Oak and, finally, and the most prominent, Jade Heart.

  “Look smart, mistress, if you please,” Willow said over her shoulder. “We approach the Hall of the Jade Heart where the Old Lady resides with the Master.”

  “Will she see me?” Chi Lin asked.

  “She may, if she is so inclined. But if she does not, I will instruct you in the days work.”

  Chi Lin said no more. The Old Lady of the House was a queen within these walls. If she was moved to give an audience to a fourth wife — a ghost bride, she would order it. If not, she would allocate her message to someone else. Chi Lin thought if she entered this hall and did not to see her mother-in-law it would be a slight of tremendous proportions. Willow perhaps was trained to answer questions concerning the great lady’s schedule without commitment. It was not Willow’s place to make commitments.

  The threshold was being scrubbed by a plai
n servant, a man of strength. But he hid his face, so Chi Lin was unable to assess his age. He immediately curled into a subservient ball to allow Willow to pass. He muttered something to Chi Lin, but she could not make it out.

  Inside, she was overcome by the fresh smell of lavender. It was too potent to ease her to thinking sweet things about her mother-in-law. It evoked sanitation and sterility. Her eyes squinted in the dim hall, looking for a throne or a magnificent chair. Instead she saw four women sitting in a circle, sewing. Willow left her at the edge of this circle.

  Silence prevailed, until . . .

  “So you have come to work,” the Old Lady of the House said from her seat in the circle. The women were mending sandals, their fingers accosting the soles deftly. “Do you mend shoes?”

  Chi Lin was not sure this question was meant for her. She hesitated until the old woman looked up, frowning.

  “I have never done so, mother to my husband,” she replied.

  The woman shook her head, pointing to another woman, the one beside her. They were all serving women as Chi Lin could reckon by their shoulder badges. That woman stood, bowed, and then withdrew. The old one pointed to the chair.

  “You begin now,” she snapped.

  Chi Lin took her position beside her mother-in-law, who thrust a small red shoe into her hands.

  “Your father was remiss to not have someone teach you to sew sandals,” she snapped. “But no matter. Look here.” She took the needle hook to her own red shoe, poking it into the last. “You push in and pull out, loop twice, and then pull out again. Tighten and . . . no, no. Give it here.” She repeated her sentence frowning at the remaining servants, who sported grins. “You try again.”

  Chi Lin followed the old woman’s example, but missed the second loop.

  “I will learn well, mother,” she said.

  “You will practice, but . . .” The woman looked to the servants. “About your business. There are tables to repair and chairs to straw.”

  The two servants put their shoe work aside and disappeared into the hall’s shadows. The old woman grumbled, but snapped the shoe from Chi Lin’s hands.