The Ghost Bride

by Yangsze Choo

  I had little time to reflect upon this before I was hustled to a serving station by the steward. The guests were in the midst of eating and I could see by the stacks of dishes on the sideboards that it was a lengthy feast. Hissing some final instructions to me, the steward hastily made his way to the largest table with a steamed fish. He set it upon the table with a flourish and deftly deboned it for the waiting diners with much smiling and bowing. This must be the head table, I decided, for him to serve them first, and I craned my head to see its occupants. There were ten figures seated there: two of them enormous enough to dwarf the other diners. With a sinking sensation, I recognized the humped, hulking form and sweeping tines of an ox-headed demon.

  Chapter 25

  I told myself it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t notice me, hidden as I was at the back and dressed in a drab uniform. Still, my hands trembled as I carried out my tasks. I didn’t think that they were the same creatures that I had seen stationed outside my house. Those had been lowly foot soldiers, while these two had an air of command. I hoped they might not know me by sight. Preoccupied with my racing thoughts, I suddenly realized that I had allowed a couple of puppet servers to wander aimlessly around the room.

  The steward shot daggers at me with his eyes but it was too late. One of the puppet servers stumbled against the nearest ox-headed demon. With a snarl, it turned and bit off the server’s arm, spitting it out on the floor. It happened so fast that I had barely time to blink. There was a moment’s hush in the room, then conversation resumed as though nothing had happened. The puppet server was now aimlessly rotating on the spot while its severed arm twitched spasmodically like an insect on the marble floor. The steward, still in the midst of serving the steamed fish, cast an agonized glance at me. I thought about sending another puppet to fetch it back, but dared not do so. Keeping my head down, I made my way swiftly around the room and steered the damaged server back to the side.

  “Stay there,” I whispered and, miraculously, it obeyed me. Now there remained only the problem of the arm. I crept toward it, trying to remain below eye level of the guests. At last, with a shudder, I seized it. It jumped and spasmed like a live thing although it was cool, with no trace of warmth. The flesh had an unpleasant yielding consistency, like wax. Gritting my teeth as I tucked it firmly under my arm, I was about to retreat when a foot trod heavily on my hand.

  It was a wide foot with a bony ankle, shod in an old-fashioned man’s court shoe with upturned toes. Everything in this realm of ghosts was grotesquely and ornately old-fashioned. It was as though the funeral goods burned for the dead had marked no changes in vogue, no passage of time. I wriggled my hand experimentally, trying to remove it from under the foot, but it merely pressed down harder. For a moment I crouched there, wondering what to do. Then I gave a sharp tug. The foot came off with a jerk and its owner made a sound of indignation. I couldn’t help glancing up.

  “What a surprise,” said a familiar voice. “What are you doing here?”

  It was the shriveled old man whom I had first met when I had come to this ghostly Malacca, fresh from the Plains of the Dead. He was the last person I expected to see supping at the Lim family mansion, and my shock must have shown on my face.

  “I thought you were going to see your friend,” he said. Desperately, I pleaded with my eyes for him not to draw attention to me, but the wretch merely gave a cackle that cut through the buzz of conversation. “Why are you dressed like a servant?”

  “Is something the matter, Master Awyoung?” A woman’s voice broke in. The silvery sound of it made the hairs on my neck stand up.

  “I’ve caught a little chicken,” he said gleefully. “Someone who shouldn’t be here.”

  Chairs scraped as the guests peered around and down. I cowered, wondering if, in a mad moment, I could dash across the floor to the passageway. But the same female voice was speaking again. “Really, Master Awyoung. It’s just a servant.”

  “Ah, Madam. I don’t know whether this is really one of your servants,” he said. I felt an overwhelming urge to kick the evil old man in the shins.

  “Why do you say that? Stand up, girl.”

  Reluctantly I stood, dropping my head and hunching my shoulders. Faces turned expectantly toward me. Thankfully, I was far away from the two ox-headed demons, a sentiment seemingly shared by the other guests who had moved their chairs slightly away from them. The rest were human ghosts, all elaborately turned out in the stiff costumes that I had come to hate. My eye went to a gaunt old man, very yellow and wrinkled, with eyes that glittered like paring knives. A single wart with two long hairs sprouted from his cheek. This must be Lim Tian Ching’s great-uncle, whom the servants referred to as Lao Ye, the Old Master. Next to him sat the source of the female voice.

  She was young. Not much older than me and strikingly beautiful. Her classically oval face was as smooth and white as a powdered rice biscuit, the sloe eyes long and tilted. Her nose was a trifle too long and the tip drooped; in old age it might become unsightly. But she would never grow old. She was already dead, after all. Numerous jade ornaments hung from her headdress and dangled from her ears and neck. When she moved, they gave off a faint ringing sound. Her delicately painted eyebrows were knitted together in a frown.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  I ducked my head respectfully, “I’m a new servant, Madam.”

  “I can see that,” she said. “But exactly who are you?”

  The yellow-faced old man made a dismissive gesture. “My dear, do we need to trouble our guests with domestic issues? Question her later if you want.”

  At this point, the steward broke in. “Lao Ye,” he said, addressing him respectfully, “I hired her a few days ago because we were short of staff.”

  “Oh, is that so? I seem to recall a problem with the kitchen staff. Something about soup.” He raised his eyebrows at the woman but she turned away from him, pouting prettily. I could hardly breathe. Although I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t stop staring at her. Was this my mother? I searched her features for any sign of familiarity. Did I look at all like her? Was my forehead like hers, my eyes, the shape of my ears? I couldn’t remember any specific details that Amah had told me, only that my mother was very lovely. Look at me! I willed her to gaze upon me with some spark of recognition. Can’t you see that I’m your child? I’d heard that even animals could recognize their young, but she gave no sign of it. Her bored glance slid across my face and drifted across the table to rest upon the ox-headed demons opposite.

  “Your Excellencies,” she said. “I hope you’re finding the food to your satisfaction.”

  Taking this as my cue to be dismissed, I backed away only to be arrested by a thin, grasping hand at my wrist. “Not so fast,” said Master Awyoung. Inwardly, I cursed the accidental meeting that had thrown me into his path earlier. “I spoke with this girl just a few days ago. She was asking questions about demons and the corruption of border officials.”

  “How do you know this?” asked the Old Master.

  “I stationed myself near the entrance as is my usual custom to check out any newcomers. She spun me a tale about looking for a friend, but now she turns up here. There can’t be any such coincidence. She must be a spy.”

  I blanched. Fool, fool! I’d dismissed him as a mad old man, but now I bit my lips and tried to keep my eyes on the floor. “If you please, sir,” I said in a trembling voice, “there must be some mistake.”

  “Take her away and lock her up,” said the Old Master. “We’ll que
stion her later.” He glanced at an ox-headed demon, and it grunted in assent. The steward made an involuntary move, his face filled with consternation, but the Old Master waved over a puppet servant dressed in dark livery, which had been leaning against the wall. I guessed it was part of his personal bodyguard. Seizing my arms with an iron grasp, it propelled me from the room. I cast a despairing glance at my mother, but she was lifting a morsel to her exquisitely rouged lips with a pair of ivory chopsticks. She didn’t even turn her head at my exit.

  I was frog-marched swiftly down endless dim passages. Gone were the suites of splendid rooms, the grand reception halls. This was a place I had never been to, far away from the kitchen and all that was familiar to me. As soon as we were out of sight, I struggled to free myself, but my attempts were only met by a tightening of the viselike grip. I had no illusions that the puppet servant would crush my bones with no qualms. And then what would happen to me? My spirit form might be injured, just as Auntie Three had been scalded. The thought made me shudder and any resistance I had melted away. At last we stopped before a plain door. The servant opened it with one hand and thrust me unceremoniously in with the other. “Wait!” I cried. “Leave me a light!” But it was no use talking to the creature. With a bang, the door closed upon me and I could hear its footsteps, rapid and impersonal, receding into the distance. I sank to the floor in despair.

  After a time, my eyes became accustomed to the darkness. A dim, barred shape resolved itself into a shuttered window. Faint gleams of light came through the slats, but they were fastened so tightly that I couldn’t pry them apart. The room itself was barely ten paces across and smelled musty. It was dry, however, and on ground level. I guessed it was a disused storeroom, which seemed infinitely better than being cast into a dungeon. Though perhaps they were only holding me here temporarily. I remembered the ox-headed demon’s casual assumption about interrogation and began to panic again. If it didn’t like my answers, it might well decapitate me on the spot and then what would happen to my soul?

  I had cried before when I felt sorry for myself, but now I found I was weeping silent tears of pure terror. After some time, however, I gave myself a fierce shake. If I died here, truly died with no hope of an afterlife or rebirth, then it would be my own fault for getting into this. So I might as well try to get out by myself. I searched the room several times, fumbling around in the darkness. The door was solid and would not yield to my attempts. There was not even a stick of furniture, nor a weapon of any kind. I sat down heavily on the floor and felt the familiar shape of Er Lang’s scale. With trembling fingers, I drew it from my pocket and immediately it began to glow with a pearly radiance.

  Carefully, I examined Er Lang’s gift again. He had said that I could call him by blowing upon the fluted edge of the scale, although he warned that he couldn’t come to the Plains of the Dead. Still, I picked it up and blew gently across the edge, much as one might blow across the mouth of an empty glass bottle. A faint, musical sound emerged, like the wind catching the last notes played on a faraway hillside. Nothing happened. I blew again a few more times, then ran my fingers across it. It held a razor-sharp edge and, with growing hope, I dug it into the doorjamb. It was sharp enough to bite into the wood, but progress was painstakingly slow. I turned my attention to the thinner window slats instead, hoping they would give more readily. As I worked, I began to wonder whether anyone would come for me at all. The banquet must be long over. Perhaps they had forgotten about me. My heart leaped absurdly at this hope, then sank again. I heard the distant sound of footsteps.

  Quickly, I thrust the scale deep into my pocket, then hesitated. What if they searched me? In the end I tucked it into the waistband of my trousers in the small of my back. The footsteps grew steadily louder. There were at least two or three of them, but though I listened hard, none sounded as heavy as the footfall of an ox-headed demon. There was the jangle of something metallic, then the Old Master’s voice. “You put her here?”

  There was no reply, so I assumed the puppet servant must have merely nodded. I had never heard any of them speak, and the thought of a voice emanating from such a lifeless mockery made me shiver with revulsion.

  Master Awyoung asked, “Is it secure?” I’d hoped he would leave after the banquet, but obviously he was much in the Lim family’s counsel. Why had I ever spoken to him?

  “She won’t get out.” The cold, silvery voice was my mother’s. Then the door swung open.

  They were holding oil lamps, or at least the servants were holding them. Accustomed as my eyes had become to the dark, the light was blinding.

  “Get up!” said the Old Master. “Who are you, girl? And what are you doing in my house?” A puppet servant seized me by the arms. It wasn’t difficult to drop my head and mumble.

  “Please, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Who is your family?”

  “They’re from Negri Sembilan. We moved to Malacca shortly before I died.”

  “What about that story that you told me about your cousin?” Master Awyoung interjected.

  “It’s partly true. But I was afraid to talk to you because you’re a stranger.”

  “She’s lying,” he said contemptuously, but the Old Master stooped over me for a closer look, forcing my face up under the oil lamp with his cold bony hands.

  “Well, it might be true I suppose,” he said sourly. “I can see why a young girl might not want to tell you everything.”

  “Nonsense! She knows something, I’m sure of it.”

  “It’s too bad our guests had to leave.” It was the first time that my mother had spoken since she had entered the room. She hung back, watching the proceedings with a bored look. “They would have had the truth out of her quickly.”

  “Well, they’re gone,” snapped the Old Master. “And I hope this isn’t a waste of time.”

  “Give her to me,” said Master Awyoung. “I’m sure I can make her talk.”

  My mother merely raised an eyebrow. “As if we didn’t know that you just wanted another plaything.”

  “I don’t need any more trouble,” said the Old Master. “Give her to the demons. They’ll look into her soul and if she doesn’t know anything, then my grand-nephew can have her. So don’t cripple her.”

  “But what about me?” Master Awyoung said.

  “You can have her if he doesn’t want her.” My mother’s light laugh echoed through the room. “But I’m sure he will. There’s been a shortage of concubines lately.”

  The puppet servant abruptly released my arms and I collapsed onto the floor. My interrogators began to exit, taking the oil lamp with them. “Please!” I begged. “At least leave me a light.”

  “A light?” asked Master Awyoung, lingering. “No such thing. In fact, you don’t need food or water either. That’s one of the beautiful things about this world. I can shut you in this room for months, even years. You’ll be like a doll in a cupboard. And by the time I take you out again, you’ll be begging to do whatever I tell you to.” The door swung shut. Outside, I heard him address the puppet servant. “Stay here. Whatever happens, don’t let her out of this door.” Then his footsteps died away.

  I lay on the floor for a long time after they had left, not daring to breathe. The faint gleam of light from beneath the door revealed the shadow of the servant outside. It was a silent guard that would never sleep, never eat, and never succumb to weariness. I supposed I was fortunate that they hadn’t maimed or tortured me. But if
I ever fell into the hands of Master Awyoung, I didn’t think I would remain unscathed for long. That is, if I survived an interrogation by the ox-headed demons. Where they had been suddenly called to, and when they might reappear, was an alarming prospect. And my mother. The sting of her betrayal cut deep, even though I tried to tell myself she had no idea who I was. But the faint, sweet image I had long treasured of the gentle mother of Amah’s stories and my father’s sighs was shattered. The worst part was that there was nothing in her demeanor or speech that drew me to her. She was calculating and sly, exactly as the Third Concubine had depicted her. I told myself that it was an act, and she would surely return to rescue me. My ears twitched in the silence, waiting for the sound of light footsteps, but they never came.

  When I opened my eyes again, it was still dark behind the nailed-down shutters of the window. I must have slept a little, for my bones ached from lying on the cold floor. Strange that one could suffer physically even in this world of the dead, a thought that didn’t bode well for the prospect of torture. Master Awyoung’s threat of walling me up like a doll in a box filled me with dread. The one solace I had was that I wasn’t hungry, at least not yet. Anxiously, I sprang up. The clatter triggered a sharp rustle from the puppet servant stationed outside the door. I froze, hardly daring to breathe. It took many false starts before I made my way over to the window and began to work on the shutters again with the scale. The small, regular noises appeared to soothe the puppet servant, for after a while the shadow that I could see under the door fell back into a trance. Still, I feared that any sudden sound would propel it out of its stupor.

  I began to scrape harder, feeling a dull pain in my wrist and shoulder, my mind wandering to Tian Bai. Where was he, and what was he doing? How many days had elapsed in the world of the living? Why had I been in such a hurry to reach this wretched place? I wished I had lingered to share his dreams further. Remembering the firm pressure of his hands upon me, I blushed in the darkness. I replayed our conversation endlessly, trying to recall his exact words and tone of voice. My fancies ran on, imagining what it would be like to marry Tian Bai, sit by his side, and slide my arms around him at night. A dark thought crossed my mind, however. Such a marriage would make me a member of the Lim family, dooming me to reenter this house if I ever truly died and passed on to the Plains of the Dead. It had a deflating effect on my fantasies.