Master Wu's Bride

by Edward C. Patterson

  Chi Lin thought well of this man, even from afar. He was praised and yet did not stand on ceremony. He toasted his hosts and challenged the journeymen to down their wine bowls in one go, if they dared. After the meat course, the vegetables came — stacks of melon, cowcumbers, and glistening peas in their pods, mung beans and bamboo shoots in chili sauce. Then came the sweets. Chi Lin had not eaten so much in years, not even at the family annual festivals. She looked to Lotus, who had no difficulty eating everything served to her, and then looked for more. Chi Lin did not begrudge Lotus her due, but somehow sensed that if she grew any fatter, they would need to build a larger carry-chair.

  “Let us drink to my liege-lord, His Majesty,” Cheng Ho shouted, standing on a raised platform to give him prominence, not that he needed it. “May He live ten-thousand years.”

  Everyone stood and echoed the sentiment, raising their bowls, the journeymen certain to follow the Grand Director’s example and down them in one go. Wu Lin-kua and Wu Chou-fa remained standing when the others were reseated. It was clear that they would make speeches, each in turn. But Cheng Ho raised his hands.

  “No fuss, please,” he said. “This has been a fine meal, one which makes me fond of Yan-cheng and the House of Wu. I am sure it will remain with me long before it seeks to add luster to the surrounding fields.” He laughed, drawing a round of frivolity from the guests. “I am a plain fellow — renown for my battle prowess, but that is on hill and dale. But now my lord wishes me to rule the fishes and the sea beasts. Of course, there is no fiercer sea beast than his Majesty’s navy, which stands in several ports waiting for me to haul it together into a single fleet on the crest of the Su-chou tide. What I shall find beyond the horizon matters little if it does not k’ou-t’ou to my Lord. So I am the envoy to the peoples of the South Seas. I will bring them gifts and take their tributes for His Majesty’s honor. That is what I am about. I shall bring back rare gems and oddities of men and animals, while my Lord builds his vast city in the north. Thus I am charged and I mean to succeed. But when I sit at the tables of the away folk beyond the touch of my native land, I will always remember this great feast and the folk of Yen-chang.”

  He raised his bowl again, and then tipped it. But it was empty. He frowned, and both brothers were upstanding to remedy the fault. Chi Lin did not regard it as a fault, because she could discern that Cheng Ho was jesting. But Wu Lin-kua and Wu Chou-fa were apologetic and had the bowl filled to overflowing. Cheng Ho downed it in one go, and then smacked his lips.

  “You will have me drunk, yet,” he bellowed. “But remember . . . I sleep alone.”

  He was a eunuch, after all.

  3

  The feast went past sundown and, when the time came, Lotus was lifted sound asleep in her carry-chair and taken to the Crimson Blossom Pavilion. Chi Lin was concerned for her sister-in-law, who snored, but also gasped for air. So she followed the chair to assure the servants did not dump their burden in the hall and leave without preparing her for bed. Chi Lin stood vigil, Willow also coming to watch.

  “It would not matter,” Willow said, “if they set her in the hall and retired. She will sleep until dawn and beyond.”

  “It may not matter,” Chi Lin replied, “but it would be disrespectful.”

  “I agree. I am here, but your presence weighs far more with them. See, they comb her hair and prepare her bed.”

  It was true. The servants pampered Lotus, who stirred briefly, but was soon asleep in her vast bed. Chi Lin, satisfied that they complied with proper conduct, retreated, heading for the Silver Silence. As she strode under the gate, Po Bo met her, agitatedly.

  “Mistress,” he said. “He is here?”

  “Who?”

  Her brother, perhaps, or the Master of the House?

  “His lordship,” Po Bo said. “He marched into the ke-ting and ordered us all out of the place. We dared not obey.”

  Chi Lin hurried to the pavilion as fast as her legs could manage it. Yu Li and Mi Tso-tze were outside, pacing.

  “I could not stop him, mistress,” Tso-tze said. “I told him it was not a proper course to take, but he just grunted and told us to leave him alone.”

  Chi Lin glanced up the stairs, and then took her resolve. No one would keep her away from the Silver Silence. She reached the threshold and peered in. Inspecting her book shelves and tables was Cheng Ho. His back was turned, but she knew by his bright yellow robe and his tall stature who it was.

  “My lord,” she said approaching him. “It is not proper to be alone in a lady’s ke-ting.”

  He did not turn, but kept perusing the books.

  “You are the one called Mistress Purple Sage — the ghost bride. I know your brother-in-law Wu San-ehr, well.”

  “I am Mistress Purple Sage, my lord.”

  “Do not worry your head about propriety in my case,” he replied, turning. “I am a eunuch and have dwelled among court ladies since I was a lad with never a fear to stir Heaven’s head.”

  “Truly, my lord.”

  “And no need to address me as my lord. My father was a ditch digger and my mother, a basket swinger. I ate spoiled beans and boiled tree bark when I was a child; and was sold into the great house when I could hardly know where the sky was or that lobsters had claws.” He laughed. “I am embarrassing you.”

  “No,” Chi Lin said, curtseying.

  “That was then, but I know things now. I grew tired of shining tiles and cleaning pisspots. I learned to build things and draw my designs in the sand pits. The Prince, who is now His Majesty, had me tutored for better use — to read and write and sit a horse. So, although I am a eunuch, I have led an army and won battles. But I am no such thing as a lord — just a director, and a grand one at that.”

  Chi Lin did not know what to say or how to proceed. She curtsied again.

  “Shall you take tea, sir?”

  “After that feast? I am fit to fart. I am here because Ai-lo Wun-kua told me he had a particular rudder in his Library — a detailing of the shoal water off Pi-ch’u cove. And since his library is now your library, I would like to . . .” He stopped, his hand darting to a scroll. “I believe I have found it.”

  Cheng Ho snatched the scroll, read its label, and then spread it on the low table.

  “Is it the one?” Chi Lin asked.

  “I believe it is,” he said perusing it, his hands tracing the line work. “This is a handy thing to know. May I borrow it, Mistress Purple Sage?”

  “What would I do with a map, sir?” she asked. “It is yours.”

  “Fine,” he said, rolling it up and popping it into his robe sash. “You have done a service for me and His Majesty, may He live ten-thousand years.”

  “You will not have a bucket of wine, sir, before you leave?” Chi Lin asked.

  “Rid of me, you would be,” Cheng Ho said, grinning. “Yet I still have something to say to you.”

  “Please sit on my finest chair.”

  “What I have to say can be said standing.” He placed his hands on his hips and stood tall. “Your son is in my service, Mistress Purple Sage.”

  Chi Lin’s breath hitched. How could this man know such things?

  “You are mistaken, sir,” she said, whispering.

  “No, no. Wu Ming-kuan is a fine sailor and will make a seasoned seaman when he sets to sail. Have no fear. I, like Ai-lo Wun-kua, am not bound by family fiction — a ghost child, indeed. But for your honor, I will say no more on that score. If you must be his Auntie, I understand, but my roots are too raw for such refinements.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Think nothing of it. I am commissioning Wu Ming-kuan. He shall be the captain of the Zenith Star, a fine bark of good length and girth — a tailgater for my own flagship.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “He deserves it. Now I shall leave you to your domestic bliss.” He tapped the scroll. “Again, I thank you for this. I will retire to a place called the Blue Heaven Pavilion, where I am told the best bed in the house has b
een reserved for this mountain I call a body.”

  Cheng Ho headed for the threshold, a swaggering presence. Chi Lin was glad to see him leave. She had never encountered a man like this before — a being untrammeled by rule or regulation. Yet, as she watched him depart, she had a notion and needed to entertain it.

  “Sir,” she said. He turned, waiting impatiently for a question. “Forgive me, but I need to ask your advice on a matter of the sea.”

  “Fishes and waves are good companions,” he said. “What more is there to know for a land bound lady?”

  “Just one thing. Wu Ming-kuan is yet to marry and fears the prospects of taking a wife aboard a vessel. So he hesitates. Is it uncommon for a man to take his wife to sea?”

  Cheng Ho roared, quite disarming Chi Lin and probably anyone within earshot.

  “I see your point,” he said. “As an unmarried man, I cannot give you much advice on what a husband and wife can or cannot do aboard a ship that they cannot do on the shank of a hill. But as the Grand Director of this fleet, I can say this. As a condition of Wu Ming-kuan’s commission, he shall marry at once and take his prize to the decks of the Zenith Star.” He bowed to Chi Lin, touching the scroll again. “Again, I thank you Mistress Purple Sage. If you disagree with my commandment, I am sorry for it. But so it shall stand.”

  Chi Lin curtsied to the Grand Director as he left. She could hear his merry chuckling through the courtyard, even after Mi Tso-tze, Yu Li and Po Bo returned to the hall. She was happy she had asked for advice and happier still with the conditions. She could now set about arranging Wu Lin-kua’s marriage over his objection and hesitation. Cheng Ho had commanded it, if the Zenith Star was to have its new captain.

  Chapter Ten

  Serenity

  1

  Ying Ling had already assessed the available candidates to marry Wu Ming-kuan in anticipation of the inevitable. However, she did not take into consideration the conditions, both Cheng Ho’s and Chi Lin’s. The first required a wife willing to go to sea, and the second required the most perfect paragon ever to be born in the county. Chi Lin reviewed the candidates, a list of ten daughters, and when she dismissed each for one flaw or another, Ying Ling reached over the border to T’ai-p’ing county, the mei-ren there most willing to split the commission. It was in the House of Fei at Guo-lin-shr that a daughter was found who satisfied Chi Lin.

  In order to confirm the beauty of the second daughter of Fei, called Morning Glory, Chi Lin paid the household a visit. It was a necessary inconvenience, which tired her greatly. But she did not want Wu Ming-kuan to place the red tea pouch on the saucer for expediency, his ship more important than his wife, although that might become the case. So Chi Lin traveled to Guo-lin-shr where she was paid the highest respect by the Master of the House, Fei Tang. While the mei-ren conferred with each other, Chi Lin observed the girl.

  Morning Glory was the most beautiful creature Chi Lin had ever beheld and was surprised that her feet were unbound. She was further surprised when she learned that Fei Tang was liberal in his views of daughters, much like her own father. Morning Glory could read and write and even paint fans. Then came the question.

  “The groom is a man of the sea,” Chi Lin said bluntly. “It would be required that you travel with him over the waves. Is that acceptable?”

  Morning Glory smiled, and then nodded to Mistress Purple Sage.

  “I have known only these walls, mistress,” she replied. “But I have gone beyond them in my books. To see the world beyond these shores would make me a lucky girl, indeed.”

  “It is a hard life,” Chi Lin cautioned. “Consider the sickness you might experience. Consider the harsh language you might hear.”

  “Words are but words, mistress. A woman can dismiss them by shutting her mind to them. As for the sickness, will I not be sick when I bear my husband a son? Perhaps I can combine the two and never know the difference.”

  Chi Lin’s heart soared. This was the one. Before the next moon she had Wu Ming-kuan in the House of Fei for see for himself. Never had a man so hesitant to marry made such a turnabout. Whether it was Morning Glory’s beauty or her charm, her wit or intelligence, the red pouch was practically thrown on the plate. The pact was sealed. Wu Lin-kua agreed to a fair bride price and the dowry was settled, half to go to the household and half to go to sea.

  Chi Lin was content — weary from the travel, but content. Upon returning, she set her daily chores aside for weeks while the wedding preparations went apace. She read and even slept, but mostly she sat by her rock pool and reminisced.

  2

  “It is time, mistress,” Mi Tso-tze said. “The porters are approaching and you have not even made an effort.”

  Chi Lin was drifting to another time and place, her hand stroking the cool pool water. Mi Tso-tze tried again.

  “Do not sleep, mistress,” Mi Tso-tze nagged. “The priest will scowl.”

  “Let him scowl,” Chi Lin muttered. “Let him wait. He has waited before.”

  “When?”

  “Ah, yes. Before you had entered my service.”

  Chi Lin could hear Mi Tso-tze’s chuff, but ignored her. Chi Lin snored.

  “Mistress, Wu Ming-kuan waits in the Jade Heart. The bride will be in the courtyard. Honeysuckle and Moon Flower will be greeting her.”

  Chi Lin heard the farty priest horn and the drum. It stirred her. She looked at the sky — a grey sky portending rain, but that was a lucky thing for a wedding, a gift from the dragon-king.

  “I do not know why I am so tired, Tso-tze, but it is so.”

  “You have been doing too much, not that I should say.”

  “But you say it anyway.” Chi Lin stood, her knees stiff. Tso-tze steadied her. “It is an auspicious day — a day to end all days. I am content, but . . .”

  “I know, mistress. I know. Yu Li will help dress you, but we must hurry.”

  Chi Lin was beyond hurrying. The day needed to be savored. After it, she would never see her Ming-kuan again. His happiness would be her fretting — a melancholy touched with satisfaction. Suddenly, Raisin Cake scurried about her feet. So many Raisin Cakes, almost as many as weddings arranged. Po Bo approached, ushering Yu Li in his wake. The whole crew meant to get their mistress ready for the event. All she needed to do was enter the Silver Silence and stand still. The rest would happen, much like the day when she was a bride standing in her father’s house, her sister wrapping the undergarments tightly and draping the heavy red gown and harsh veil over her entire being. How was this different? This time Chi Lin knew what to expect, while on her journey as the ghost bride everything was a mystery. This time life was an open scroll.

  3

  Chi Lin listened. She sat in the Jade Heart Hall — the Lady of the House’s ke-ting, Honeysuckle yielding the place of honor to her — the Old Lady’s chair. Chi Lin did not refuse the offer. Lotus was carried in and placed at the far end of the room, where she promptly fell asleep. Moon Flower joined Honeysuckle on the couch. Mistress Purple Sage was content as she listened, first to the rain, which, as promised, gently kissed the roof, and then to the chanting priest and the cup ceremony. There was a constant hum from the men folk attending the couple as Wu Ming-kuan said his prayers to Guan-yin and the ancestors. Then came raucous rounds of toasting. Chi Lin recognized the voices — Wu Ling-kua, Wu Chou-fa and Ai-lo Wun-kua. Some voices were familiar, but she could not place them exactly as they praised the moment but insulted the bride’s ugliness.

  When the feast began, the voices returned to a low constant hum. Dishes were brought into the ke-ting for the ladies. Chi Lin was pleased by the exquisite care taken in the preparation of the pigeon, Wu Ming-kuan’s favorite dish, and the peppery flavor of the steamed dolphin, which danced on her tongue. She could not remember when she enjoyed a dish more. Honeysuckle and Moon Flower tended to Lotus, who awoke for the feast, but resorted to using her fingers, as the kuai-tze were too thin for her to manipulate.

  Chi Lin sighed as the voices arose again, almost dro
wning the sound of the rain. The guests were about to lead the happy couple to their wedding bed. Suddenly, Wu Ming-kuan appeared before Chi Lin, bowing deeply. Morning Glory stood behind him.

  “I have come, Auntie,” Ming-kuan said. “You see before you a married man, just as you wanted.”

  “And the captain of the Zenith Star,” Chi Lin crowed.

  Wu Ming-kuan beamed.

  “And this is my wife,” he said, as if it was the first time Chi Lin had encountered the woman.

  Morning Glory curtsied, and then kissed Purple Sage’s hand.

  “When I am at sea,” she said, “I will not forget your diligence in this match, Auntie.”

  “I am glad to be of service,” Chi Lin said. “But do not forget to greet Lotus and your brother-in-law’s wives. You must recall them when you are far away in the realm of the fishes.”

  Morning Glory curtsied again, and then approached Lotus.

  “And this, Auntie,” Ming-kuan announced. “This is my mentor, who taught me about ships and maps and the wonders of sailing.”

  Wu Ming-kuan moved a tall man forward, but was then taken by the elbow, tugged by his brothers, who announced it was time to prepare for bed. Chi Lin heard the commotion. It was as noisy as New Year. Distracted for the moment, she finally gazed at Wu Ming-kuan’s mentor, the man who had taught him seamanship. She trembled. The world of the ke-ting moved in circles about her as Ming-kuan was dragged away and Morning Glory was ushered quickly under a san-tze to be in bed before her husband arrived. Lotus was lifted, a chance to take her home. The men folk howled — singing bawdy songs. But none of this mattered to Chi Lin now — nothing except this tall man. She sighed.

  “Gao Lin,” she whispered.

  Gao Lin bowed gently. He had grown older and sported a short white beard, but age was kinder to him than to most. Chi Lin shivered.

  “Gao Lin,” she said again. “Odd, but happy that you are here.” She suddenly thought. “You know, Ming-kuan must never know.”

  “His ignorance matters not,” Gao Lin said. “I have watched him since he was born. I would sneak in at night or with a bamboo delivery. I would observe him at play and with the amah. He has always been within my sights. And when he took to playing with boats, so did I — the big kind, preparing for the day when he would come to the port and seek guidance. So, I was there — Master Chou K’ai-lin as I am called now.”