Dragon Springs Road

by Janie Chang

  After a night of loud arguments from the Sheas, Anna would be quiet and disconsolate.

  “Mummy wants to go back to England,” Anna said. “She doesn’t want us to live in China anymore. She hates it here.”

  “Then why did she come?” I asked.

  “She says it was because of me.” Anna sniffled. “She said Father wrote her hundreds of letters asking her to bring me to Shanghai. He didn’t want to leave the Shanghai Police Force and begged her to join him. So we could be a real family.”

  A real family. Were all foreign parents so quarrelsome?

  It occurred to me that in the short time I’d known her, Anna’s carefree brightness had dimmed. She rubbed absently at a spot above her elbow and then winced.

  Then she jumped up. “Come and see something.”

  She took my hand and I followed her to the very back of the Central Residence, to the sturdy bamboo fence that stood between the Eastern and Central Residences.

  “See, I’ve loosened these slats,” she said. “Just slide them apart like this, and we can slip through and slide them back. I can visit you any time, without having to go in and out of the front gates.”

  She beamed, cheerful again. “No one else knows. It’s our secret.”

  For once, I had something to give her in exchange. Something Fox had agreed I could do.

  An unused garden shed leaned against the wall between the Central and Western Residences. The shed was an open-sided shack, just a sloping roof on posts that sheltered a jumble of cast-off tools, furniture, and broken pots. Creepers and climbing hydrangea had taken hold and a curtain of vines hung down from the roof, almost to the ground.

  Soon after the Yangs moved in, Master Yang had locked the front gates of the Western Residence as well as the door between the two front courtyards. “Until we’re ready to use this property, let’s keep people out.”

  How brief your human lives and how short your memories, Fox had said, the first time she took me to the shed. It only took a generation for people to forget the door was here.

  Now Anna followed me through the cascade of vines, between stacks of broken clay pots. The wooden door was nearly hidden behind a broken sedan chair. Although its planks were warped and its hinges rusty, the door opened quietly and we stepped through. Pushing past vines that covered the other side of the door, we stepped into the rear garden of the Western Residence.

  Anna ran into the courtyard and spun around. “That’s a real secret door! It’s like going through the doorway into a magic world. Is this the haunted courtyard?”

  “There aren’t any ghosts here,” I said. Unless you counted Fox, who would’ve been offended to be called a ghost.

  “The Shens’ cook told me this place is haunted,” Anna said. “He says it’s haunted by the ghost of a woman who couldn’t give her husband sons. She grew so sad she killed herself.”

  I shook my head and repeated. “There aren’t any ghosts.”

  Anna looked around the courtyard. “If there had been a sad concubine who died here, the courtyard would feel sad. But it doesn’t. It feels safe.”

  I showed her the main house, my playroom in the undamaged erfang, and inside the door of the derelict erfang, where wisteria vines had crowded their way through the hole in the roof, clusters of pale purple blossoms dropping their fragrant petals on the floor.

  In the kitchen, I showed her the Fox altar. Every so often I stole incense sticks from the Yangs’ family shrine, and now I pushed one into the jar of sand and lit it. I knelt down and bowed my head.

  To my surprise, so did Anna, her face solemn as she rocked back and forth on her knees. When she leaned forward, her dress pulled up at the back. As usual, her stockings were bunched down at her ankles. Not so usual were the welts on her calves, stripes of purple against her white skin. As if she could sense my eyes, she reached behind and flicked her dress down, never breaking the rhythm of her prayers.

  “Why did you pray?” I asked when we got up. “You’re not Chinese.”

  “My amah used to take me to the temple with her,” she said. “She said heaven is a big place. Big enough for everyone’s gods.”

  We spent the afternoon there. We pulled some furniture from my playroom onto the veranda of the erfang and played at having a tea party. We used small bowls from the kitchen as teacups, and she showed me how to drink the foreign way, little fingers sticking out.

  “Next time, I’ll bring some biscuits and we can have a real tea party,” she said. “Mother won’t notice if I take a few.”

  “I’ve got something for you,” I said, suddenly remembering.

  The folded page had been in my pocket all day. It was an illustrated story torn from one of Third Wife’s old magazines. The simple inkbrush sketch showed an old man facing an open door. The door was set in a high wall, and behind the wall was an orchard filled with blossoming trees. The landscape beyond the orchard rose up to layers of cloud, the land of immortals.

  Anjuin had read the story to me, and now I could tell it to Anna.

  There was a man named Zhang who lived in the small town of Pinghu, not far from Shanghai. At New Year’s, when red lanterns hang outside every front gate, he would make his way through the alleys of poor neighborhoods. Whenever he heard laughter and the clattering of dishes, he would walk past. Whenever he heard crying and laments, he would throw a string of cash through the door and hurry away.

  Even when he was so old that he had to walk with a stick, he continued this practice.

  One New Year’s, even though he was very ill, he made his usual rounds. He turned down an alley and was surprised to see the grand double gates of a mansion between ramshackle houses. The gates were painted cerulean blue and one of them stood wide open. He glanced inside, expecting to see a courtyard but instead there was an orchard in full bloom. A light breeze blew petals out to the alley, inviting him in. Zhang did not hesitate. He stepped across the threshold and entered the land of immortals. The doorway vanished, leaving only a few scattered white petals in the alley to prove that any such event had ever happened.

  “He was such a good person that he was allowed to enter the land of immortals,” I said. “It’s a true story. That’s why it’s in the magazine.”

  “My father says Ireland is full of doors to the land of fairies,” Anna said. “When you come back, you’re still young, but everyone you know has grown old because fifty years have gone by.”

  “In China, when you enter the land of immortals, you never come back,” I said.

  In the hydrangea bushes below us, I sensed rather than saw Fox lift one eyelid. Why would anyone want to come back? She settled back to her nap.

  Anna sat up. “Maybe your mother went away to the Chinese land of immortals. She’ll come back for you one day.”

  She was steadfast in her conviction that my mother would return for me.

  BY AUGUST OF that year the weather was relentlessly hot. I learned a new word, drought.

  When I went to the market with Mrs. Hao, all the talk was about the food riots. They were so bad that in Shandong Province imperial troops had been forced to fire on rioters. Shanghai and its surrounding areas were spared the unrest that embroiled the rest of China, but even I could sense the tension on Dragon Springs Road. Neighbors stopped Dajuin and Master Yang to ask what the mood was like among the warehouse and factory laborers in Chapei.

  What interested me more was that Grandmother Yang was preparing for the Magpie Festival. All the women of the household, even the servants, were going to sit in the courtyard to gaze at the heavens while Grandmother Yang recited the story of the Weaving Maid and the Cowherd. Mrs. Hao had made a vat of sweetened chrysanthemum tea for the occasion.

  I already knew the story, of course. I had stayed up late the night before so that Fox could point out the patch of sky between constellations where the magpies of China would fly, their bodies forming a bridge across the river of stars so the exiled lovers could meet in the middle.

  But you won’t be
able to see the bridge of birds, Fox remarked. Magpies are black. If it had been white egrets that responded to the Goddess’s call, the bridge might be visible.

  “You can see the bridge though, can’t you?” I asked. “Your Fox eyes must be better than human eyes.”

  She yawned. Yes, and every year I think the Weaving Maid should’ve known better, even if she was only a minor deity.

  It was still early morning when I accompanied Mrs. Hao to the market, but the heat was already oppressive, the air heavy with the threat of rain. With luck, it would rain during the day, leaving a clear sky at night.

  Mrs. Hao argued with the vegetable sellers, who insisted their greens were fresh but had wilted because the day was so unusually hot. Vendors brewed chrysanthemum tea for those who wanted a cooling drink, and the noodle shop owner shredded cucumbers to garnish bowls of cold noodles mixed with spicy peanut sauce.

  A small troupe of musicians was tuning up at the center of the square. The dizi player piped a few practice bars. Then the gongs crashed in, and the strings began singing an accompaniment. Festive notes swirled through the air, making me want to dance. I felt as though I’d known the tune all my life.

  My delight in the music must’ve been obvious because Mrs. Hao actually smiled at me. “It’s an old, old melody called ‘Full of Joy.’”

  That’s exactly how it sounded. Full of joy.

  It was so hot Mrs. Hao paid for us to ride back on a handbarrow so we wouldn’t have to tote our heavy shopping baskets in the scorching sun. I’d always been amazed that a single man could push the long, single-wheeled barrow with so many people riding on it. The four other passengers, all servants returning to Dragon Springs Road, joked about the heat.

  “Wah, wah, it’s too hot,” Mrs. Hao said, wiping her forehead. “If the Cowherd and Weaving Maid have any sense, they’ll cool off in the River of Stars instead of walking across the bridge of birds.”

  Everyone laughed, including the barrow pusher.

  “Let’s hope the celestial river is cleaner than Soochow Creek,” he said. “With all the filth those factories pour into the water, the skin peels off your legs if you stand in it too long.”

  When we returned, Anjuin was in the kitchen rinsing a basin of rice. I filled two pails with water from the well for washing the vegetables. The rain barrel by the kitchen door was almost empty, so I filled it again.

  My duty done, I went to look for Anna.

  CHAPTER 5

  As soon as I slipped into the Western Residence and saw Anna, I knew something was wrong.

  She sat on the steps, her face in her hands. She made no sound, but from the way her shoulders heaved, I knew she was crying. When she finally lifted her face, there were purple bruises on her pale, freckled skin. Dirt streaked her dress, and one ruffle was ripped. The frill around her neckline was stained with blood from a cut on her lower lip.

  “Mummy was angry with me,” Anna said, when I sat beside her. “She isn’t well. My father will be back from the station soon. She’ll be all right when she wakes up.”

  But I knew Mrs. Shea wouldn’t be all right for long. She would get drunk again, blame her husband for her unhappy life, and spew her rage at Anna. I’d seen the bruises on Anna’s arms and legs before, but never on her face. And never blood.

  “She’ll be all right,” Anna repeated in a dull voice. She wiped her eyes with the back of a dirty hand. “It’s just that she’s angry with me. I’m the reason she came to China and she hates it here.”

  Overhead, a faint rumble of thunder promised rain and relief from the heat. Then we heard Mrs. Shea shouting. She was out on Dragon Springs Road. Her tones were both pleading and angry as she called Anna’s name.

  Anna stood up, terror on her face. She was no longer the talkative and confident girl I’d first met.

  “You can’t go,” I whispered. “Stay here where it’s safe.”

  “She’ll be angry with me for running away,” Anna said. She sounded forlorn, helpless. “I should’ve stayed in the storeroom, but I was so frightened of the rats.”

  Outside on the street, her mother’s cries sounded again, harsher. Anna looked dumbfounded. “She knows we’re in here. She thinks we found a way to climb in.”

  A pause. Then more shouting.

  “She’s gone next door to get one of the Yangs,” Anna said, now in a panic. “To unlock the gate so she can get me.”

  “Go through the secret door and run back to your house through the fence,” I said. “You can pretend you were out on Chung San Road all this time.”

  “No, I can’t.” Anna’s eyes were round with terror, and her breath came in shallow gasps. “She’ll be even angrier if she thinks people have seen me with my face like this. Oh, I wish I were dead.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, standing up. “Back through the door.”

  As I ran toward the wall beside the main house, rain fell on my skin, a sudden downpour as though a bucket had emptied over me. The wind began to roar and the bamboos rustled as though in a frenzy. I turned to see whether Anna was following, and in that moment of distraction, I tripped. The side of my head slammed against stone paving and a lightning-sharp flash of pain shot through my skull.

  Too shocked to cry out, I lay on the ground trying to regain my breath. Then slowly, I pushed myself up by the hands. I felt too dizzy to stand. Even turning my head to look for Anna made me nauseated, and my elbows collapsed under me.

  “Fox, do something,” I whispered, my head sinking back to the ground.

  Beneath the rumble of thunder, faraway strains of music came to my ears. “Full of Joy.” A light drew my gaze to the bamboo garden. A door was taking shape beneath the arch, a wooden door with brass studs. A door without handle or lock. A door whose edges glowed. Slowly, ever so slowly, it swung open. Rain was pelting down in the courtyard, but sunlight and a scent of peach blossom spilled out from the doorway.

  Anna never even turned her head when I called her name.

  She stepped over the threshold of the Door, and her bright curls shone even brighter under the sunlight of that other world. Her shoes sank into thick grass, and a drift of white petals fell on her from above. Slowly, the Door began closing.

  Then I saw Fox.

  Her entire body quivered with eagerness. She ran back and forth in front of the arch, whining. Then the Door shut, and a moment later it was gone. There was only the garden seat, the bamboos, and the lingering scent of peach blossom.

  Fox lifted her nose to the rain and howled. A long, animal wail of sorrow that constricted my heart and compressed my breath. Her cry stirred in me such a torrent of nameless longing that I curled up and began to sob, hiding my face in my hands. When I finally sat up, Fox was gone.

  I dragged myself over to the erfang and sat on floor of the veranda. For how long I sat there, I couldn’t tell. Nor could I prevent my eyes from closing.

  VOICES JOLTED ME awake. I heard Master Yang’s voice in the bamboo garden. “I don’t understand it, that gate should’ve been locked.”

  Mr. Shea said something in English, and then I heard Mrs. Shea’s voice, angry and defensive.

  “Apparently the girls play here even though it’s supposed to be locked,” Mr. Shea said, this time in Chinese. “My wife has heard them talking from inside these walls.”

  They saw me as soon as they came out of the bamboo garden. Anjuin was with them and she ran to me.

  “That little foreign girl has gone missing,” she said. “Have you seen her?”

  I pointed at the arch and whispered to Anjuin, “She went through the Door. To the land of immortals, where it’s safe.”

  She turned around and repeated my words.

  “What door?” Mr. Shea asked. “Where is it safe?”

  Mrs. Shea glared down, as if daring me to say what I knew. What could I do? She was an adult, a foreign adult.

  “She ran away,” I said, trying again. “She wanted to go someplace safe.”

  “Where did she run to?” Master Yang
asked, but I could only stare helplessly at the arch.

  Mrs. Shea said something in English, but Mr. Shea held up his hand. “If Anna has run away, then we need to search the neighborhood immediately.”

  EVERYONE DISMISSED MY outburst about a Door to the land of immortals as childish imagination, some game we had been playing.

  A day later, Constable Shea came to see me again. This time he brought another foreigner with him, an older woman who introduced herself in perfect Chinese as Miss Morris, the headmistress of the Unity Mission School. Master Yang wasn’t present, nor was Mrs. Shea. Anjuin and I sat together on a wooden bench in the reception hall, alone with the two foreigners.

  I felt sad for Constable Shea. The circles under his eyes were almost purple, and his tall frame slumped in exhaustion. If only I could make him understand that Anna was safe and happy. He sat on a low stool that put him at eye level with me. The foreign woman took a seat on a chair beside him. She gave us an encouraging smile.

  “Miss Morris is here because my Chinese isn’t as good as hers,” Constable Shea said to us, his tired voice gentle. “I want to be sure I understand what you say, Jialing. If the two of you were doing something naughty when Anna disappeared, I promise it doesn’t matter. The most important thing is to find Anna.”

  I nodded but still couldn’t speak.

  “When Mister Shea first asked you about Anna,” Miss Morris prompted, “you said she wanted to go someplace safe. What did she mean by that?”

  They waited quietly while I stared at my feet. Anjuin gave me a prod and I looked up. “Anna was locked in the storeroom but she escaped. There was blood on her face and her dress was torn.”

  “Which storeroom? Who hurt her?” Constable Shea’s hand curled into a trembling fist.

  “The storeroom in your house,” I said, defiant. “Her mother beat her and locked her in there. Anna was too scared to go back.”