“Three slices, mistress? He will sing his song all day.”
“It is much, I know, but you must take and eat the remaining slices.”
Mi Tso-tze grinned, the sweet remembrance of the last slice still lingering, no doubt. She hastened outside and helped Lao Lao gather the baskets. Then she turned to Po Bo extending the fruit slices. The boy’s lips trembled. Chi Lin thought he would cry. Mi Tso-tze indicated the window, and Po Bo bowed low. He did not eat the fruit, but carefully placed them into his sash purse, which was otherwise empty, Chi Lin was sure. He would find a secret place and eat the slices like Prince Demon Pig. As he hoisted his empty carry pole and departed, he hummed his song. Chi Lin thought he was a fine lad — useful and bubbling with life. She sighed, because she was bubbling with life now, as her aching back and swollen belly told her.
2
Chi Lin often thought of her visit to the Ya-men and Ai-lo Wun-kua. She would have liked to visit there now, except it would mean a trip in the unsteady chair. Besides, she would not attempt a tour now after Jasmine had been chastised. Still, she needed company. Mi Tso-tze was fine as far as it went. Chi Lin knew little about her, but was afraid to pursue it since Tso-tze had been in service in the Second Son’s household. Such conversation would be a last resort. She had to settle with the occasional visit from Willow, and Snapdragon’s inevitable morning hair comb, and Lao Lao’s nonsensical chatter. The children made their appearance more often. She guessed they liked her company as much as she liked theirs.
Winter had closed in, and the sun shone lower in the sky. The wind whistled through the eaves and fog sometimes swept in from the coast. Despite her growth and discomfort, Chi Lin still managed to go to the shrine and visit with her husband – less frequently, true, but she feared that Heaven might be angered by any lapse. Mi Tso-tze was more than helpful, guiding her mistress over the cobblestones and into the alcove, sheltering her with the san-tze from the dim sun on clear days and from mists, drizzle and flurries on moist days. She would hand Chi Lin the incense sticks and the red paper. If the girls should show up, she would keep them silent while Chi Lin prayed. The girls seemed to like Mi Tso-tze, but wanted to chatter about Auntie Purple Sage’s big belly and when will the baby come and can we play with him when he is old enough. Chi Lin just grinned and nodded, while Tso-tze replied with pat answers – noncommittal and sweetly vague.
Mostly Chi Lin wanted to talk with her husband, so Mi Tso-tze would tend to Guan-yin’s alter while her mistress conversed.
“The fa-shr says it is a boy and you will have a third son. Just think of that, husband. Your ghost has been busy, they say, and I am glad for it. Heaven is gracious that I am big with child and you are content within your tablet.”
It was much the same on all visitation days, Chi Lin glad to rest before Wu Hung-lin’s effigy, choking a little on the incense and rejoicing when a chilly breeze blew it away in a different direction. She also reckoned that the exercise between the Silver Silence and the shrine was good. It eased the boredom, at least, and reminded her how lucky she was to have big feet, at best. And then there were the girls and their chatter. One day she turned to them.
“How goes your sewing lessons?” she asked.
“I do not like to sew,” Jade said. “It bites my fingers.”
“The amah is mean,” Pearl added. “She says I will never be good at it.”
“I can sew a tiger’s face,” Sapphire said, bragging at first, but then frowning when her sisters gave her a sharp glance. “Well, I can. My amah does not scold me for it.”
“Because she does not care,” Jade said.
“She does so,” Sapphire complained.
“You could stitch a loopy mess,” Pearl added, “and Day Lily would not know it.”
Chi Lin looked to Mi Tso-tze. It was the time to help her stand and return. Once on her feet, the girls turned their attention to the big belly, reaching out to touch it, but waiting for permission.”
“You may do so,” Chi Lin said.
“But gently,” Mi Tso-tze added. “You must not harm your brother.”
While the girls patted Chi Lin’s tummy in wonder, Tso-tze opened the san-tze, the day being particularly bright.
“How would you like to sew flowers and faces on shoes?” Chi Li asked them.
“We can already do it,” Jade replied.
“But you do not like it. I can show you how to do it so it is easy, beautiful and fun.”
The girls responded. So they followed Auntie Purple Sage and her handmaiden to the Silver Silence, where Chi Lin taught them how – simple floral stitches at first, but with care and a compelling voice. Now she would have company through the balance of the winter, at least two girls showing up a few days a week to learn and chatter. Sapphire did not always come, but she was a moody child and Chi Lin understood. Purple Sage had visited the Golden Oak Pavilion enough to know an ill spirit dwelt there. Still, to guide little fingers making lilies and cherry blossoms, and soon tiger faces and monkey maws, delighted Purple Sage and filled the hall with laughter. Boredom came and went, but was less so now with this little sewing circle of silly girls, not all of whom were children.
“She scares me,” Jade said.
“Who?”
“The old blind one,” Jade admitted.
“Snapdragon?” Chi Lin replied. “You must not be afraid of her. She is a kind soul inside.”
“She is always telling us to go away and not bother her, because she has a coffin and a shroud,” Pearl said.
“But she does,” Chi Lin explained. “You will understand one day when you have a household of your own and appreciate the people who do you service. When you honor them with kindness and consideration, you will know.”
“But a coffin is not a kindness,” Jade stated. “It is an old box where people go when their ch’i escapes their bodies.”
Chi Lin sighed. How was a young girl to grasp the kindness within death? It was a far away notion. Yet Chi Lin had learned that children see more plainly than adults and latch on more simply to the more complicated concepts of the world.
“That the ch’i escapes, it is true,” Chi Lin said. “But our bodies are a gift from our parents. If we have no place to store it away, how will the ch’i know where to go when it returns?”
“As a ghost?” Pearl asked, chillingly.
“No. To rest and carry on with the business of our ancestors. How can those who are gone look after us if they have no place to keep their body or their ch’i? So it is a kindness that Snapdragon has a place and knows about it now while she still breathes.”
“Now I see,” Jade said. “So she is worried we will steal her coffin and her shroud.”
“No fear,” Pearl said. “I am sure we will have our own coffin and shroud when the time comes. And I would not know where to put it now anyway.”
“That is so,” Chi Lin said. “I am glad you understand. Do not fear the old ones. They have much on their minds and you must let them finish out their lives in peace.”
This said, the girls went about their sewing as if the subject had never been broached; so much like children solving life’s complicated knots.
3
As winter waned and spring dawned, the girls came less often. Chi Lin wearied more easily, moved about less and embraced sleep more often to ward off the boredom. There was a bit of cheer at New Year – a week of noise makers and celebration, but Chi Lin remained confined. Mo Li brought her confections from the Jade Heart’s kitchen and Wu T’ai-po sent around fresh red paper for the outside wall of the Silver Silence – Prosperity characters and a portrait of the K’ai Chiao, Yan-cheng’s city wall god. The children visited to rub Purple Sage’s belly for good luck. But New Years whirled by Chi Lin leaving scant impression upon her. She secretly wished it would be spent fast so the world could return to silence and her courtyard could be at peace.
It was on the last day of the Lantern Festival, when the girls paraded to her door in rabbit costumes that she finally e
merged to enjoy the sun’s warmth. She sat on the porch and listened to household chatter, nodding when complimented. She laughed at Po Bo’s antics and watched Wu Lin-kua and Wu Chou-fa chase after him with a long pole. Lao Lao thought it delicious, rolling around on the cobblestones while Mo Li was upset at a rat she had found in her kitchen. She chased it almost as heartily as the boys chased little Monkey, only she was intent on killing it. Chi Lin hoped the rat got away, not wanting it served up inside a bun.
As the sun set, she sat outside until no one remained except Mi Tso-tze who waved a fan to assure her mistress was not overheated. The sun was not very hot yet, but still, in Chi Lin’s condition, Tso-tze chanced nothing. Chi Lin regarded her handmaiden – an essential in her life now. She often wondered what Tso-tze’s life was before she came here, but feared to ask because she had come from the Second Son’s household. But in the falling shade of this evening, she asked.
“Are you content here, Tso-tze?” Chi Lin asked.
Mi Tso-tze did not answer at first, which concerned Chi Lin.
“I am content, mistress.”
“I ask because if you were not I would allow you to return to the Second Son’s House.”
Mi Tso-tze trembled.
“Please, mistress. Do not send me away. I meant not to give offense.”
“You have not given offense. In fact, I am pleased with you. So much so I give you leave to go if you wish it.”
“No. No. The Second Son’s House is . . . I cannot say.”
“Please me and do say.”
Mi Tso-tze cocked her head, and then looked to the ground.
“My life has not been happy until now, mistress. The Mi clan are rice growers in Tua-ching-xien where the ground is not competent for many good seasons. So a girl child is not a blessing. When my father had a chance to sell his daughters to rich neighbors, he did so. And who can blame ones father? ”
“No one,” Chi Lin said touching Tso-tze shoulder. “My father has two daughters and, although he did not sell us, we were both unfortunate to his household.”
“You have a sister, mistress?”
“I do. And she, like me was set to marry, but into the Guo clan. Like me, her groom died before the ceremony. But unlike me, she chose to remain aloof. It saddened her and would have dishonored our household had she not decided to enter a nunnery.”
“That is an unfortunate life,” Tso-tze mused.
“She will go there when she reaches her twentieth summer. But I decided to be a ghost bride.”
“That was fortunate for me, mistress.” She bowed. “I was sold to Wu Liang-tze to serve his Second Wife. She is a pleasure house woman demanding much attention. I was one of six handmaidens and not the favorite. There was much squabbling over who was closest to the mistress. But our fear was from the Second Son, because, despite his many wives and his nightly trips to the town for pleasure, he insisted on having every woman in his household at least once.”
“It is as I feared,” Chi Lin said.
“No, mistress. It would have been improper for me to come serve you if I had been so sullied. You are big from the ghost, I know, but . . .” She sighed. “I shall say no more.”
“It is best you do not. But I am surprised you escaped his attention.”
“I did not escape his attention or his entreaties. If it were his decision, I would not have come here. But I was selected by the Old Lady of the House, and perhaps because I was, I am still unsullied.”
“Blameless.”
“I yearn like any woman, mistress. I should not say it. I have seen many attractive men much above my station, but not above my inclinations. Such is the trap.”
“Such is the trap.”
They fell silent as if the truth of the moment engulfed them as the shadows fell.
Chapter Nineteen
Springing Toward Summer
1
As the purple zi ding-xiang and zi-teng began their first bloom near the porch and over the eaves, Chi Lin came full term. Mi Tso-tze brought buckets of ornamental cabbage to be secured along the courtyard path, while Mo Li nurtured a crop of pen-tsao for their yellow hearts — good for both cooking and as an herb. The Old Lady of the House sent Po Bo to all the pavilions with bowls of fresh honey. But the best comb was reserved for Purple Sage, honey being particularly good for the unborn child, or so it was said. The girls came with nosegays of red mei-gui, the thorns removed, and with fistfuls of cheerful yellow chu-ju and played the petal picking game with their auntie Purple Sage. Chi Lin enjoyed the game and the fragrance of the deep red mei-gui, but the sprigs of zi ding-xiang — purple beards gathering like grapes beneath the boughs trumped all the fragrances save one — the renewed nip of salt from the ji-tzao. In fact, mixed with the filtered salt came briny aromas from the sea as it awoke to spring, anticipating summer. Chi Lin had only seen the sea from afar, but she respected those men who sailed on it, hunting for the monsters of the deep. The port was small, but rumors came that it was being expanded, the Imperial interest in trading missions on the cusp.
Generally, Chi Lin tried to work on the porch, but when the sun was high, she would squint and made no progress. So in the afternoons, she moved inside where it was less bright and cooler. One day while she busied her fingers on a tablecloth, the fabric on a flat stretcher, she heard someone at the window. She supposed it was one of the girls, particularly Sapphire, who would always peek in before coming to the door. But when Chi Lin looked up, she was startled.
“Wu Lin-kua,” she said. “You have given me a fright.”
Mi Tso-tze was on the spot, emerging from behind her partition.
“Young master,” she snapped. “You should not be here.”
Lin-kua nodded, and then leaned into the room
“But I have come to give Auntie Purple Sage a gift.”
“It is not proper,” Tso-tze said.
“And why not?”
Chi Lin set aside her needle, lodging it into the tablecloth. She looked kindly to Lin-kua.
“I appreciate the gesture, Master Lin-kua, but a man does not present gifts to their Auntie. Gifts are reserved for the women of the pleasure houses. When you are older you will know what I mean.”
“I know now,” he replied. “I know about the pleasure houses and what happens there. Uncle Liang-tze has told me many times. He goes there often.”
“You must not say such things,” Tso-tze scolded.
“You must not be so abrupt with me,” Lin-kua said.
Mi Tso-tze pouted, but returned to her place.
“She may not, but I must,” Chi Lin said.
“Father had two wives from the pleasure house,” Lin-kua said, swagger in his voice. “When I am the Master of the House, I will have sixteen wives, and ten will come from the pleasure house.”
Chi Lin chuckled.
“When you are Master of the House, you may do whatever you please. I must caution you, as your auntie, having many wives might make you old fast. Wives from the pleasure house are expensive to acquire, so you must adhere to your studies and come to know the business of salt, so you can afford such opulence as sixteen wives.”
Lin-kua appeared crestfallen.
“That is what I want to do,” he said. “But for now I want to give you a gift, because you are my auntie and I think you will like the gift. It is not a gift for a woman in the pleasure house. It is a gift worthy of a nephew to his auntie. But if you think it not proper, you can return it. I will leave it at the door.”
He disappeared, leaving Chi Lin a bit concerned that she may have insulted him. Young men always think more of themselves without considering matters completely. There was no reason for this gift except that Lin-kua strove to be a man and knew no women except those in the household.
“Tso-tze,” she said. “See what he has brought.”
Mi Tso-tze hurried to the threshold, returning with an oblong parcel wrapped in silk. She cocked her head as she observed it, perhaps trying to determine its nature.
&n
bsp; “What is it?” Chi Lin asked.
“It is an odd thing, mistress. It appears to be a book. What use do you have for such a thing?”
Chi Lin grinned, thrusting her hands out above her belly, awaiting the gift. Tso-tze bowed and handed it to her.
“Sit beside me, Tso-tze, and I will tell you a secret.”
Tso-tze seemed uneasy, but obeyed. Chi Lin unwrapped the book, glancing at its cover — a creamy board edged in gold. She opened it, and then sighed.
“It is the Shr Jing,” she said. “The Classic of Odes.”
“How can you tell, mistress?”
“Hush, and listen.”
Chi Lin touched the first column with her index finger and grinned as if she had found a long lost friend. She read:
“Guan-guan go the ospreys,
On the islet in the river.
The modest, retiring, virtuous, young lady:
For our prince a good mate she.”
“Who would have thought?” Tso-tze said. “You can speak the characters.”
“They are more than characters, Tso-tze. They are beautiful thoughts. Indeed, Wu Lin-kua has given me a mighty gift, one that shall be my companion as much as you are. I am a scholar’s daughter, Tso-tze. All my father’s children know the Classics.”
“But does it not offend Heaven?”
“How so? I know it is not looked upon with favor, so I have been circumspect, but perhaps not circumspect enough, because the boys have gone beyond guessing. This is a gift a nephew might give his auntie, because no pleasure house woman would know the use of it.”
She returned to the next ode.
“Here long, there short, is the duckweed,
To the left, to the right, borne about by the current.
The modest, retiring, virtuous, young lady:
Waking and sleeping, he sought her.
He sought her and found her not,
And waking and sleeping he thought about her.
Long he thought; oh! long and anxiously;
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