“Yes, father-in-law, I have been on one tour. Only one.”
“And what did you think of that?”
Chi Lin’s breath caught her tongue. Remember, what a man asks, a woman should be careful to answer. He wants to hear his own voice ask, but rarely will listen to what you say in response. She did not answer.
“Please, Purple Sage. Tell me your thoughts on the inspection. You are an outsider and perhaps have a suggestion that might improve things.”
“I dare not say,” Chi Lin said.
She heard her mother-in-law’s warning cough. You must not say.
“If I did not want to hear you, I would not have asked,” Wu T’ai-po said.
Chi Lin took a deep breath, and then spoke.
“The journeyman and the Ya-men authority were impressive, my lord,” she said. “Our presence was respected and received by the tenants as such. I truly believe there is high regard for the House of Wu.”
“I am glad to hear you say so.”
“It is true. But . . . but, I would think in an inspection . . .”
“Yes?”
“In an inspection, things would be inspected.”
Chi Lin heard her mother-in-law’s nearby grunt.
“The tour is mostly ceremonial,” Wu T’ai-po said, curtly. “It is detailed by law and I shall not apologize to a woman for her perceptions.”
“Forgive me, father-in-law. I meant no disrespect. You asked me for my observations, and I have said too much already.” She paused. “Only . . .”
“Only?”
“The elder prepares the books for inspection. He is a tenant and could perhaps misjudge the weights and measures. The commissioner’s proxy and your journeyman merely inspect the written characters and validate them. And when inspecting the silk ji-tzao . . .”
“The silk is not my concern,” he said, coolly. “That is for a woman’s eye. You must know, Purple Sage, we must trust the elder to record correctly.”
“Even if . . .”
He raised his hand. She looked to her hands.
“And how would you redesign the universe?” He grinned. “I am anxious to know.”
Chi Lin gazed now at the carpet. The repeated designs, circles, drew her attention into desperate focus.
“I would not change the way of law, but I would add a refinement.”
“A refinement?”
“I would ask for an accounting beyond the tenants and the Ya-men. And I would have it supervised by men paid for their loyalty to make accurate measurements.”
“You mean those uncorrupted by the lure of bribes? Where are such men?”
“I have a brother, father-in-law. His name is Chi Sheng. He excels in accounts, but he is lame and would tarnish the House of Wu’s name. But . . .”
“I am listening.”
Was he? Chi Lin recalled her mother-in-law’s words. What a man asks, a woman should be careful to answer. He wants to hear his own voice ask, but rarely will listen to what you say in response. She continued with care.
“He could review the accounts out of sight, while others supervise the weights and measures.”
“Others?”
“My father’s brother has a large family. They are weavers and farmers and assume no man’s tenancy. My cousins could be employed to oversee the weighing and the measuring. This would benefit the House of Wu and also show my gratitude as a ghost bride.”
Wu T’ai-po scratched his chin, his eyes squinting.
“Let us not speak of this,” he said. “You must not bother your head about matters of the monopoly except to play your part in the tour. Now, I have called you here to greet you for the Autumn Festival, a time of great joy in our household. These walls shall embrace my sons and their family. There shall be much revelry — games and feasting. You will be busier than usual and I recognize this by giving a gift to all the resident wives.”
Chi Lin arose, curtsied, and then bowed. It seemed appropriate, especially after the embarrassment of voicing her thoughts.
“Thank you, father-in-law.”
“So, what would you like to add to the peace and tranquility of the Silver Silence Pavilion?”
Chi Lin remained silent for some time, pressing her lord’s patience, but then decided.
“It is a costly need, father-in-law.”
“It always is,” he said laughing. “But say it and I shall make it so.”
She bowed, her words caught in her throat. Then she faced him squarely.
“I would like a silk funeral shroud and an ironwood coffin.”
Wu T’ai-po baulked. He stood, and then sat again. Chi Lin heard the Old Lady of the House rapping on the latticework.
“You are young, Purple Sage,” Wu T’ai-po said. “What use would such things be in restoring the hall?”
“Pardon, my lord,” she said. “They are not for me, but for Lao Lao’s old lady, Snapdragon. Death approaches my household and such things are needed for peace and tranquility.”
It was Wu T’ai-po’s time for silence. Then he nodded to his daughter-in-law.
“It shall be so. I had quite forgotten those loyal servants at the Silver Silence. Indeed, they are faithful and deserving. It shall be so.”
He picked up his document again, but Chi Lin knew he only pretended to read it. He was far away in the arms of his Second Wife and perhaps recalling her faithful servants. Chi Lin bowed herself out. When she passed the latticework, she caught the eye of the Old Lady of the House. She expected a resumption of criticism concerning the boldness of tongue and uselessness in advising men on business. She expected more than a lecture. Perhaps a beating. But her mother-in-law was demure, watching as her daughter-in-law passed her.
“I shall feed the worms, mother-in-law,” Chi Lin said.
The old lady said nothing — no lecture, admonishment or promise for pain. Perhaps she had heard the words truly and was impressed. More likely, she recalled her our need for a shroud and coffin and would find Purple Sage a great ally in the end, the ghost bride being more like her than not. In the end, a woman’s heart is sometimes plagued by things she knows and cannot address — and the words of men lived in beehives gathering honey and doling out stings.
Chapter Thirteen
Gentle Rain and Lanterns
1
Wu T’ai-po was good on his word. Within a week, an ironwood coffin and a fine white funeral shroud was drawn on a donkey cart into the Silver Silence courtyard. Snapdragon, who expected them, stood in the threshold watching as the porters unloaded the cart and flopped the shroud loosely over the dark wood. Snapdragon’s blindness kept her from fully seeing her burial furniture, but when the cart departed, Lao Lao led her to it, her hand running across the handles and latch. A grin overcame her as she touched the shroud, bringing it to her nose. She pulled it from the coffin and draped it over her shoulders, and then clapped.
Chi Lin watched from afar, but soon the old woman shuffled to the hall looking for her benefactress.
“Mistress,” she called. “Heaven had sent me a living saint on the day you came into this courtyard.”
“You deserve no less,” Chi Lin said.
Snapdragon went to her knees and touched her mistress’ feet, wiping the toes with the silk shroud. In fact, Snapdragon would come into the hall daily to help with hair and wardrobe. She fumbled most of the time, but Chi Lin allowed her to manage the first steps, only to correct them herself when the old woman left. Always Snapdragon wore the white shroud, and the coffin was moved into the servant’s hovel sitting beside the bed mat. Chi Lin supposed Snapdragon tried the coffin out in the evening, but it was no great matter. Peace and tranquility descended over Lao Lao and his old lady. In fact, it descended over the entire Hall of Silver Silence as the Autumn Festival approached.
There was much to do in preparation for the festival, especially making lanterns of various types. The general sort would swag from rope lines along the pathways, but the more elaborate would be hoisted on tall poles reflecting the
reason for the festival — the moon in all her radiant glory. Others were prepared to fly skyward, flights of illuminated prayers to the Lady in the Moon. Chi Lin’s tasks evolved around lantern construction, both cloth and paper – preparing surfaces so the men could brush poetry and prayers in their most stylish hand. Even Lin-kua and Chou-fa practiced making their mark upon the lanterns.
In addition to folding and shaping lanterns, Chi Lin had extra work with the shoes. There would be many more children in the house now that the brothers were coming. The Old Lady of the House would give each of her grandchildren shoes and slippers, and on the shoe faces would be tigers and lotuses and rabbits. Chi Lin was good at sewing rabbit ears on slippers and adept at embroidering tiger faces on shoes. Her fingers were more calloused now, so she could stay at it longer, her mother-in-law prizing her work.
The worms still needed attending. But the ji-tzao was filled with music now from the nearby Crimson Blossom and Golden Oak pavilions. The Second and Third wife excelled in song and playing, having been former pleasure girls. They now stepped away from their ji-tzao duties to practice for the approaching festivities. Lotus was expert on the p’i-pa, her fingers picking out sultry melodies from the strings.
Chi Lin visited Lotus during this time, even being offered a bowl of tea and a slice of melon. Crimson Blossom Hall was elegant, covered in gold and silver beadwork and festooned with silk pillows. Centered on a teakwood chair, Lotus played and sang sweet songs of the pleasure house; only the words were altered for family listening. She was poised over her tiny feet, a pink robe cascading just high enough to leave them exposed. Her hair was triple coifed with ebony pins, jade clusters dangling from the ends. Her face paint was as near to death white as death itself, except Chi Lin had learned that, despite the moribund references, men liked pale faced women. She wondered why she, as the ghost wife, could not blanch her face instead of remaining in her purple robe. As she sat listening, Pearl and Jade emerged with their amah. They winked at Purple Sage, the auntie who had brought them moon cakes. Chi Lin smiled in return, but the amah brought the girls harshly to attention, their mother’s playing to be accounted as the important event.
Chi Lin admired Lotus’ talent. She also played the p’i-pa – mother taught and guided. But playing to while away the time in the silence of your house and playing to wile men in a pleasure pavilion were different applications. So Chi Lin accepted the Second Wife’s special place for what it was – Wu Hung-lin’s homage to a night of sweet dreams and his attempt to capture it for all times.
Orchid was a different flavor. Chi Lin visited while Orchid practiced on the ehr-hu. Her pavilion – The Golden Oak was less ornate, pastel in effect, draped with silk gauze and decorated with pearl strands. Orchid’s temperament was different. She neither offered Chi Lin a tea bowl or melon – not even the rind. But she did nod her welcome and began to play a melancholy song, the bow arching the single string, catching it front and back as the hand decided. The melody was mournful, Chi Lin depressed after hearing it. It sought a place far from here – a solitary rock in a barren land. As Orchid played, her daughter, Sapphire peeked around a partition. She grinned at Auntie Purple Sage, but was immediate poked by her amah. Sapphire pouted, a face that mimicked her mother’s demure, melancholy look. The Golden Oak was a morose place. Chi Lin wondered if Orchid was more prisoner than wife. Chi Lin was glad to leave this sad place. Despite this, Orchid was an expert player, but she had ceased singing. If she had sung, Chi Lin supposed it would have been a lament.
2
Chi Lin enjoyed preparing for the Autumn Festival. She saw cheery faces on the servants as they anticipated the extra rations of food and the sparkle of entertainment approaching. New work made the time pass quicker. Still, when she retuned to her pavilion, she was tired. She would eat her repast in the quiet of her ke-ting and imagine how she could improve the place – a new wall hanging here and a set of chairs there. As she mused, she could hear Mo Li complaining about new dents in her old wok and Lao Lao laughing about old days before he came to the House of Wu. And there was always Snapdragon talking about how lucky she was to have her shroud and coffin – no fear now for the trip to the Yellow Springs. Then Gao Lin, who worked until moonrise, sang a fascinating song about a cricket in a cage:
“Old Man cricket sings his song
Caring not for the beetles at play.
He knows he can beat them at their dance
And taunts them to fight him as they may.
They laugh at his mocking
They joke at his sneers
But they keep their distance with their fears,
For Old Man Cricket is a crafty one,
There is no one like him under the sun.”
Chi Lin leaned out the window.
“That is a fine song, Gao Lin,” she called. “Is that from your native village?”
“No, mistress,” he said, waving to her. “I wrote it myself.”
“Truly?”
“It is a brash verse and stands on its own. I would think it would make a nice wall hanging and would do it myself . . . if I could write.”
Chi Lin laughed and asked for another verse, but he sang the same one.
“It would be nice if I knew someone who could write it down,” he said, whistling.
Suddenly, Chi Lin shivered. The man knew she was schooled. How did he know? She had taken a book from the schoolroom when master P’ing Chin was not looking and she read it by dimmed light after Gao Lin was asleep. He must have seen this. He must have seen her practicing her brush strokes too, something she never did when he was in the hall. But he was a keen observer and ink stained fingers.
She grinned, and then peeked out the window again. He sang the song louder still. She quickly retrieved her brush, well and ink stick – only one so as not to make much mess. She kept her rice paper in the cache beneath her bed. She would not have time to prepare it properly, now tacking it roughly to the floor with her tea bowl and her shoe. She used tea water in the well, pressing the stick lightly into the wet, and then rubbing it on the stone. Dipping her brush into the water, and then slathering it against the stone, she tested for consistency on a remote edge. A few tries achieved success, and then she held the instrument in her fist and began to write, hoping she recalled the poems.
“Sing it again,” she called, and he complied, laughing between strophes.
Chi Lin hesitated, trying to remember the character for cricket, but then happily recalled it. The brush flew perfectly down the sheet, breaking to the right for each measure. Dancing and fighting and joking and mocking, all came forth in lyrical arrays until there was nothing like him under the sun. At this Chi Lin mused.
“Indeed, there is no one like him under the sun,” she whispered.
With a few flicks of the brush tip she created a small cricket creature escaping from a cage. She wished she had a chop seal to make the work official. She dared not put her name to it, but since Gao Lin claimed authorship, she scrawled his name, or how she supposed his name should be presented, at the lower left side. She used the characters Gao Lin, which, in his case meant tall forest. She removed the bowl and her shoe, assuring the ink was set. It was. So she rolled it loosely, went to the window and threw it at him, ducking quickly back into the hall, laughing like a silly girl.
“What is this?” he asked. “I wish I could I read it.”
“It is your poem,” she shouted from out of sight.
“What scholar god has visited us?” he laughed.
Soon he came inside, the scroll grasped in his fist. Chi Lin sat on the floor examining her big feet by candlelight.
“Mistress,” he said. “Look what fell from Heaven while I worked.”
She gazed at the scroll.
“You are fortunate, Gao Lin. Your words flew to the Jade Emperor, who, liking your song, preserved it for you.”
“I think it should hang in the hall, behind my screen, so I can admire it when I wake in the morning. And it will be the last thing
I see at night. I would show it to you, but alas you cannot read it either, so it will be a glorious mystery for the Hall of Silver Silence.”
He laughed, and then disappeared into the shadows. Chi Lin smiled, but then sighed. She heard him tacking the scroll to his partition and whistling his song. Her hands trembled, and her heart leapt just a little. She knew she needed to climb into her bed and draw the bed clothing very high – up to her shoulders if need be. She was unsure of her desires, but she felt it would insult Wu Hung-lin if she pursued them.
Gao Lin was called away from the hall the next morning. The sky portended rain and the worms needed protection. Every man who was skilled in construction was ordered to build tents over the mulberry grove. When the winds picked up, the challenge increased. Gao Lin was absent for a week tending to the ji-tzao.
Chi Lin attended the shrine, assuring, when the rain began, her husband’s effigy would stay dry and the incense would remain burning. The new lanterns were stored in a dry place, those that had been hung already or bolted to the towers, were retrieved and secured. The Old Lady of the House was sterner than usual, fearing the Autumn Festival preparations would have a set back. A little rain would not matter and could be welcomed to clear the air of bad smells, but if the lanterns were ruined, there would not be much point in celebrating. So she barked orders to everyone to secure this and stow that, threatening that any damage would be taken out in promised beatings and diminished rewards.
Chi Lin had two concerns. The first was Snapdragon’s health and the second, the condition of the Hall’s roof. To the first, she visited the old lady to set aside her concerns. She found Lao Lao’s old lady sitting inside her coffin draped in her shroud. Lao Lao sat at one end, shaking his head.
“She is still grateful for this, mistress,” he said.
“I can see,” Chi Lin replied.
Snapdragon upon hearing the mistress’ voice, rocked back and forth.
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