by Celeste Lim
“It’ll only hurt for a little bit…but if you leave, it’s going to hurt a lot longer.”
My sleeves were completely wet from his tears. “Stop. You know I cannot do this. When I’m gone, it’ll hurt, but it will go away, all right?” I stroked his hair. “Didn’t it hurt when Mama left us? But we’re fine now.”
“I don’t want to go through that again…”
No. I didn’t want Wei to go through that again, either. I pulled back and cupped his face in my hands. “When you grow up, come to Xiawan. Find me.” I gazed straight into his puffy eyes. “I promise, if I’m not happy, we’ll run away together.”
He looked at me for a long while, then raised his hand.
We pressed our thumbs together and slapped our palms thrice.
Later that morning, I headed up to the shrine to pay my final homage to the guardian and pray for a fruitful marriage. I didn’t care about any of those things—what I really wanted was to say goodbye to Lian. And sure enough, she was there waiting with Yue Shenpo.
“Fret not, dear child. The ribbon that binds you to the guardian will protect you,” said Shenpopo. “Find the home of your spirit. It will be your final refuge, for its doors will always be open even when all others are closed.”
I thought I knew what Shenpopo meant then. No matter where I went, I would never forget my home in Huanan. Lian pressed a yellow amulet into my hands. She held on longer when she felt how cold my hands were, and then began to cry.
“This is for luck and protection. I embroidered the sachet myself.”
I pulled her into a hug because I couldn’t find anything else to say that wouldn’t make me burst into sobs. I wished her a life of more freedom than my own.
Before leaving, I turned around to look at the statue of the Great Golden Huli Jing one last time. I remembered the other day when I thought it had grinned at me while I prayed. It didn’t do anything today.
Goodbye, Golden Huli Jing. I may never get to visit your shrine again, but if we truly are connected by the ribbon of Yuan, maybe it doesn’t really matter how far I travel, for you will still watch over me, won’t you? But no matter what happens, I will always remember you.
At home, I was surrounded and fussed over by a dozen village women as they readied me for the ceremony. Grandmama held up my bridal gown proudly. The red silken robe, covered in elaborate embroidery showing a phoenix rising into the clouds, was the most exquisite thing I had ever seen. And I was sorry I could only imagine the satisfaction of shredding such an expensive thing with a pair of scissors.
“This is what the Guo family has sent over as part of your dowry. See how generous they are? You’ll be happy with them, you’ll see.”
I would’ve gladly given up a golden throne if it meant I could stay here.
One of the women smeared some kind of white, doughy clay all over my face. My hair was roughly pulled, twisted, and braided in small locks and tied into an elaborate bridal faji. From what they were doing to my hair in the bronze mirror, I was beginning to look as though I had a tiny model of the imperial palace on my head.
“Do not move!” barked Mrs. Lin, one of our neighbors, who was trying to give my lips a pouty, blossom-like shape with tint that was a deep red.
Was there a way to tell her without sounding rude that it was all that brutal yanking on my hair that was making me move? Ornaments of all sorts were being piled onto my head, each mercilessly scraping the skin on my scalp—ribbons, clips, floral pins—and by the time they finished, my scalp felt raw and my head heavier than two buckets of water.
Mrs. Lin finished the pattern she was drawing on my forehead to enhance the beauty of my red mole, and stepped back. I almost cringed as the women sighed with pleasure and pride. “Oh, what a pretty bride she makes!” they gushed.
A pretty unhappy bride was a more fitting description.
I looked away. Then Grandmama took my hands in hers. “Jing, from today, you belong to the Guo family. Honor us well by being an obedient daughter-in-law.”
I was expected to nod, so I did without looking at them. Grandmama produced a black bangle, sliding it into my left hand. “This is our family heirloom—a bangle made of black jade. It is very rare. Your mother wore it in her time.”
The bangle felt cool against my skin, and was a little too big for my wrist. I touched it with my other hand. This was a piece of Mama I could bring along with me. But what did accepting this gift mean? Perhaps even my own mother had meant for me to one day leave this family, just like Baba expected me to. For why else wouldn’t Mama save me even after I prayed so hard to her?
A shout came from outside the hut. “The xi niang is here! The bridal procession has arrived!”
“Quick, the xipa and the jujube!” Aunt Mei ordered, and everybody jumped into action.
A large piece of red cloth was draped over my head and a big jujube pressed into my hands. The fruit was so big that it was almost the size of my fist, and like everything else, it was red. Redder than the blood running under my skin.
“This is for prosperity. Hold it tight, and for Buddha’s sake, don’t drop it,” came Aunt Mei’s stern voice. “And don’t let your xipa fall from your head. No one is supposed to see your face, understand?”
Then why did they bother with all that makeup? I nodded nonetheless and was pulled to my feet.
“The auspicious moment has come!” the xi niang screeched as she entered. “Ready the bride!”
Aunt Mei whispered in my ear. “The xi niang is your bridal matron; listen to whatever she says and you’ll be fine.”
The xipa was a silk cloth that kept me from seeing anything not directly at my feet, so I had to be led to where Baba and Grandmama were sitting for the tea ceremony wherein the bride would pay her respects to her elders by presenting them with small cups of tea containing two lotus seeds.
After accepting my cup, Baba suddenly stood up and hugged me. This wasn’t part of the ceremony at all…was I allowed to cry? Not sure. I managed to choke back a sob, but that didn’t stop the tears.
Baba, I’m going to miss you…I still don’t want to go, but would it displease you if I stayed? Would you stop loving me if I stayed? Does it hurt you at all to have to give me away? There was so much more I wanted to say, but a bride, the xi niang had warned me, was not allowed to speak on her wedding day.
I couldn’t see Baba’s face, but his shoulders shuddered under my chin. I clutched at the cotton fabric of his shenyi, his only presentable outfit. Then something was pressed into my hands, something long, thin, and cylindrical. I looked down and saw a dizi—Baba’s Chinese transverse flute, made from cured violet bamboo that produced the most eloquent warbling sounds. I gazed at it, remembering how much I loved listening to my baba play.
“It sounds just like birds singing, Baba!” I had exclaimed the first time I heard it. “Like nightingales!”
Suddenly, the dizi was swiped out of my hands.
“The bride is not allowed to hold anything other than the Jujube of Prosperity,” the xi niang barked. “I will get someone to place this in the carriage.”
I let out a sob. I wanted to throw the jujube onto the floor and stomp on it so hard all its juices spurted out. I wanted to hold Baba’s flute, not this stupid fruit! But Baba’s hands on the sides of my arms held me still. I wasn’t allowed to do that; I wasn’t allowed to do anything! Why? Why did I have to go like this? Was this what all brides had to go through? Did Mama or Aunt Mei or even Grandmama have to go through such unbearable torture on their wedding day? No! They didn’t! Weddings were supposed to be happy occasions. Feng got married last year to her neighbor and everyone was happy. Baoying looked happy at her wedding the year before, too. Baba and Mama must’ve been happy when they got married, so why did my wedding feel like a dreadful curse? Why was this happening to me?
“Farewell, my daughter.”
And that was all I had time to hear from my father before the xi niang took me by my arm and led me toward the bridal sedan that waited for us outside
the hut.
“Jie…”
I froze. It was Wei. I had the stupid red xipa hanging over my head, so I couldn’t see him. I hated everything red around me—the jujube in my hands, the tinkling jewelry in my hair, the stupid, awkward gown with all its shiny embroidery that probably cost more than our entire farm—but more than anything, I hated the piece of red cloth over my head.
“Jie!”
Wei sounded like he was crying. I clutched the jujube, my fingernails digging into its rosy skin. The hand on my arm propelled me forward. It took all my self-restraint to climb into the bridal carriage without acknowledging Wei.
Be strong, little brother. May our promise carry you through.
Then the high-pitched suona trumpet sounded, accompanied by gongs, cymbals, and Chinese drums, and the procession began its descent toward Baihe town, where we would catch horse-drawn carts straight to Xiawan.
The bridal carriage was a small wooden coach, enclosed on all sides, draped with red cloth, and carried by two men—one in front and one at the back. I had to keep my balance as the thing jolted and jerked left, right, back, and forward. My xipa fell and landed on my lap.
“Stay there,” I said. Now I had time to nurse that heaviness in my chest, thicker and colder than the blankets of snow in midwinter.
My husband-to-be, from what I was told, was the youngest and only son of the Guo family. And he was three.
Three! Hardly older than my own baby brother. Although I had no idea what it was like being a wife to another, at least I knew I could never see a mere three-year-old baby the way my mother used to see my father. Baba and Mama were perfect for each other; they were husband and wife. I didn’t want to get married, but even if I did, I wouldn’t want to marry a boy hardly older than Zhuzhu.
Grandmama said that I was what people called a tongyang xi—a wife and nursemaid to an infant husband.
This sounded about as appealing as Aunt Mei on any given day. Why did Baba agree to give me away to be someone’s tongyang xi? My dowry was worth more than two strong bulls, probably enough for a couple of good years, but was I worth only that? A few years of comfort? Would Baba have refused to let me go if the Guos had offered any less?
I bit down on my lip and tasted the sour red tint. My chest felt like a wok bubbling over with boiling-hot oil. So was all love measured in terms of money? Perhaps it was I who had misunderstood the meaning of family. Perhaps family members didn’t necessarily belong with one another. Perhaps I never truly belonged, not to the Li family, not to Huanan. For two strong bulls, a daughter could be traded like a sack of rice.
I suppose it was why Shenpopo told me to find my spirit’s home—the place where I truly belonged.
Stop, Jing. Think of happier things. You don’t want to keep crying and feeling sorry for yourself.
According to Grandmama, Mrs. Guo also had two older daughters—Yunli and Yunmin, who were fourteen and thirteen. Surely that was something one could be happy about? I’d never known what it was like to have elder sisters, but now it certainly sounded like a nice idea. And that, at least, was something I could look forward to. Maybe.
With the xipa over my head, the rest of my wedding day passed by in a blur. I couldn’t see anything, didn’t know anyone, and no one other than the xi niang ever spoke directly to me.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Guo! You’ve picked such an auspicious day for the wedding!”
“I heard the girl has babysitting experience. You don’t suppose…”
“Ai, ma! Of course not, she’s only eleven. Do you think we’d consider her if she’d been married before? She has a baby brother, it seems. Jun’an will be in good hands.”
“Five silvers, did you say? Tian, ah, these farmers’ daughters do come in cheap nowadays.”
Cheap. I cost them five silvers. They cost me my family, my life, my freedom, and my future.
I was gripping my robe so tightly the seams were in danger of coming apart. The xi niang pushed me from behind when I stopped walking, and that was when I realized I needed to tune out those voices in order to get through the day.
There was an endless array of proceedings and rituals—lots of kowtowing, incense burning, prayers, and a long, dreary tea ceremony. By the time I was allowed to turn in for the evening, I was so weary I could hardly drag my feet to bed. I had been given a small, windowless room at the back of the house, which doubled as a storage room. Grandmama had said that I would not have to share a room with my husband, which had something to do with what they called a bridal chamber. Whatever that was, they said we did not need it because we were too young to be a real husband or wife to each other.
As I lay on the thin layer of mattress on my wooden bed, which was actually an improvement from the straw-strewn one I’d had, I fingered Mama’s bangle on my wrist. How was a real wife different from what I was now? No one had told me what would be different after I became real. Grandmama said I would know when the time came, and I hadn’t cared enough to ask further. Could it be that I wasn’t really married until then?
Tired as I had been the day before, I woke up at dawn purely out of habit. I lit the oil lamp on the crate next to my bed and looked around. Brooms and mops were propped up in a corner just an arm’s reach away, crates of various sizes piled on top of one another along the walls and a bunch of worn-out shoes heaped in another corner, which I suspected gave the room its musty smell.
I changed into a simple blue cotton hanfu they had given me for everyday wear and did my hair up before heading down the first corridor. My porcelain lamp gave me so little light that I couldn’t find the bathroom. The house was that huge. Eventually, I wandered into what appeared to be the kitchen.
It was bigger than our entire house in Huanan. Lining the walls were larders and racks filled with crockery and cooking utensils, and built into the wall was a large stone tank of water with the cooking hearth right beside it.
I didn’t want to continue wandering around this place until I had my bearings, so I scooped water from the tank for my face. Then I started a fire for hot water and breakfast. Mama’s bangle on my wrist was too big and kept knocking things over. I didn’t want to scratch or break it, so I slid it farther up my forearm until it fit snugly at a spot above my elbow. While working the bamboo pipe to strengthen the fire, I heard heavy footsteps.
I got up and bowed to a woman around Baba’s age. She was built heavily, with arms that looked as though they could single-handedly tame a bull, but I liked her immediately because of her smile—the exact same kind that Shenpopo had.
“Zao an,” I greeted her.
“Zao, my child. You wouldn’t recognize me, since you had that little head of yours hidden under that xipa all of yesterday. I’m the cook. You may call me Auntie San,” she said, placing a hand on my head. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine it was Baba’s.
No, stop. I turned back to the hearth and continued working the fire.
“It’s mighty early for you to be up,” she continued and started bustling about. “I just cleaned out the incense clock, and it’s barely past the hour of the tiger.”
“I’m used to it, Auntie San.” I heard a disdainful scoff. Did I say something impolite?
“You wouldn’t believe that an earthquake couldn’t wake this family till the sun’s so high up in the sky.” Auntie San indicated a height with one hand while the other punched at a hunk of dough that was to be made into dumpling skin. “Come help me with this while I prepare the fish cakes. Then you can go ahead and make tea. The mistress likes her oolong nice and bitter when it’s served.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I washed my hands, eager to obey Auntie San. She let me watch her work on the dough, breaking off small pieces and rolling them out into flat circles, then sprinkling flour over them. She watched me for a bit after I took over, then said, “You’re a good girl.” And patted my head again.
And I didn’t even mind the bit of flour that came off on my hair.
When I was finally summoned to the
living hall, it was already the hour of the dragon. Back in Huanan, I would’ve been done with farm work by this time. I stepped over the raised threshold with care, balancing a tray of strong oolong in my hands. Mr. and Mrs. Guo sat in two lacquered wooden chairs with a square table between them, going through sheaves of papers while waiting for their morning tea. Behind them, I saw a huge altar that honored a few deities, the Guo ancestors, and White Lady Baigu—the guardian jing of Xiawan. I shuddered as I remembered what the cart driver had told me about the guardian, and hoped it was as elusive as our Huli Jing.
Mrs. Guo was dressed as usual in her full regalia—doughy makeup, elaborate faji, and a hanfu in beautiful autumnal shades of brown and red. Beside her, the small man that was Mr. Guo looked almost poor in comparison. But although he was dressed only in a simple shenyi robe of dark gray, he was undeniably handsome and had the sharp features of a shrewd businessman, especially with the long goatee under his chin. They made a most peculiar-looking couple indeed. If they were vegetables, they’d be a tiny bean sprout and a big, fat pumpkin.
After pouring them each a cup of tea, I curtsied and greeted them in polite speech. “Jing wishes Gonggong and Popo zao an.”
Mrs. Guo cleared her throat after taking a sip. “You will address us as Master and Mistress from now on.”
I frowned. What an odd request. Didn’t all daughters-in-law address their in-laws this way? Maybe it had something to do with being a tongyang xi. I inclined my head.
“Yes, Master and Mistress.”
Mrs. Guo took another sip of tea. “Where is Jun’an? I told Liu to get him ages ago.” She replaced her cup none too gently.
Presently, a man who must be Liu, the house butler, hurried into the hall, ushering a little boy only as tall as my waist, hobbling and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Guo Jun’an had to be the most beautiful child I had ever seen. Unlike the small children in our village, who were dark, unkempt, and scrawnier than tofu skins, Jun’an was fair and well-groomed, his baby fat showing in his rosy cheeks and plump little fingers.