by Gale Sears
“Chan Lee was a ruthless emperor, and many innocent people died from his sword and because of his evil programs. As Chan Lee rode along, the Spirit Wind came and whispered in his ear to turn back. The Spirit Wind warned him that many people stood waiting for him on the Hundred Flower Bridge. They were going to take revenge for the wrongs Chan Lee had done to their families.
“Chan Lee laughed at the words of the Spirit Wind. He raised his sword high in the morning light. ‘I have killed many strong men with my sword, and I have my fierce guards behind me,’ he said. ‘Do you think I fear a few starving peasants?’ He rode on through the mountain pass. The path grew shadowed as the sun hid its face behind the high peaks.
“The Spirit Wind now came howling through the pass, shouting into Chan Lee’s ears to turn back! The Spirit Wind warned him that there were even more people waiting for him on the Hundred Flower Bridge and that the river below was dark and angry. Chan Lee lost his temper and slashed at the Spirit Wind with his sword. ‘Leave me alone, you cursed spirit! I am the great Emperor Chan Lee! I have a fierce guard behind me! I have a mighty sword. I would not fear a thousand starving peasants!’
“Immediately the cold Spirit Wind was gone, and in its place a thick gray fog swirled. Chan Lee moved forward, but his fierce guards hesitated. ‘I command you onward, you cowards!’ Chan Lee snapped as he plunged into the fog. His strong black horse squealed with fear and threw Chan Lee from his back. The emperor’s fierce guards ran away. Chan Lee was swallowed by the fog, where he wandered alone for many hours, muttering and cursing his men. He vowed that he would hang them all when he returned to the palace.”
Wen-shan became aware that all other conversations had stopped as everyone turned their attention to the auntie’s story.
“Finally, the Hundred Flower Bridge appeared before him, and a thousand ragged peasants stood at its threshold. The Emperor Chan Lee drew his sword. A poor man stepped forward. ‘You do not frighten us, Chan Lee.’ He moved forward again and the others followed.
“‘You had better fear me!’ yelled Chan Lee. ‘I am the great Emperor Chan Lee, and I have a terrible sword.’
“The crowd pushed forward. Chan Lee stumbled back toward the river. ‘Come any closer and you will feel the sharp edge of my sword,’ he warned.
“A woman rushed toward him, and Chan Lee swung his heavy sword and sliced through her neck, but her head did not leave her body, and the woman laughed. ‘You cannot kill me twice, Chan Lee. I am Nu Gui, and I have a fierce army behind me! Here is Yuan Gui, and You Hun Ye Gui, and Diao Si Gui, and we have fingers of ice.’
“The great emperor screamed in terror as he swung his sword through the bodies of mist. The ghost army advanced, forcing Chan Lee into the dark river. Now he felt the clammy hands of Shui Gui dragging him into the pitiless depths. Chan Lee drank the black water of death, and his great sword fell from his hand and sank into the mud. Nu Gui stood alone by the now-peaceful river. She sang a song of home as she disappeared into the morning sunlight.”
The old auntie looked around solemnly at the listeners, and then a slow smile touched her mouth. Jun-jai started the applause and everyone joined in immediately. Jun-jai leaned over to whisper in Wen-shan’s ear, “She is very wise, that one.”
“Why?” Wen-shan questioned.
“Did you think that story was really about the imaginary Emperor Chan Lee?”
Wen-shan didn’t know what he was talking about, but she didn’t want to appear stupid, so she just nodded her head and said, “Ah, she is quite wise. Tell me more.”
“Well, she certainly knows how to tell two stories at once. Cruel leaders will one day have to answer for their crimes, no matter how well they think they can swim.”
“What does that mean?”
But Jun-jai could not finish his explanation because he was interrupted by his brother standing to leave. Many family members stood to make their polite farewells, and Wen-shan stood with them. Auntie Ting brought Wen-shan her sweater and gave her a bag of almond cookies. “For your walk home.”
Wen-shan took the crisp white bag and bowed several times. “Thank you so much for allowing me to be a part of the celebration.”
“Oh, most welcome. Lucky thirteen!”
Wen-shan smiled. “You are a very excellent cook.”
“Ah, that? Just a little family get-together.”
Jun-jai walked up to give his auntie a hug. “Yes, you should see this home during a festival—there is no room to move.”
Auntie Ting slapped his arm. “Ah! You are so American with your teasing.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Auntie.”
Wen-shan bowed to Jun-jai. “And thank you, Jun-jai, for inviting me to dinner.”
Auntie Ting opened the door, and Wen-shan moved out into the narrow apartment hallway.
“Should Jun-jai go with you?” Auntie Ting questioned. “It is getting dark.”
“Oh, no, I’ll be fine. I walk around at night by myself all the time.” Auntie Ting gave her a questioning look. “Really, I’ll be fine. There will be many people out tonight.” Wen-shan walked off down the hallway with the crisp paper of her cookie bag crackling with each step.
When she stepped out onto the street, she turned to the west to find the sun had already set. A moist, cool wind brushed against her neck and made her shiver.
“I have only half a mile to home,” she told herself.
She walked fast, but the ghosts of Nu Gui and Shui Gui floated along behind her. It was almost dark when she saw the wall of her courtyard. She gave a small chirp of gladness and ran. Her almond cookies might have turned to dust, but she didn’t care. She reached the gate, threw it open, and ran through the garden. There was light coming from the front window, so she knew the door would be unlocked.
She flew out of her shoes and yanked open the door. Taking big gulps of air, she quickly closed the door and laid her head against the wood.
“Wen-shan?”
Her great-uncle’s voice made her jump.
He was coming from his room to scold her.
She went quickly to her room, stripping the picture of Zhong Kui, the vanquisher of ghosts, from the wall as she went. “I’m fine, Uncle,” she called. “I have just returned from the dinner with Wei Jun-jai’s family. I’m very tired. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” She knew it was improper not to report in, but she was tired.
Her bedroom door shut as his opened.
Ah, no scolding tonight.
Notes
A brief history of Hong Kong: In the 1700s, the British East India Trading Company traded goods with China. One of the more profitable items traded was opium. British merchants controlled many of China’s port cities. There was a war between China and Britain over the opium trade. Britain prevailed, and in 1842, Hong Kong (which means fragrant harbor) became a colony of the British Empire. First contained to Hong Kong Island, the colony’s boundaries were eventually extended to include the Kowloon Peninsula and the New Territories in 1898.
Chinese naming system: The last name is written first, followed by the generational name and then the given name. Mao’s two-part name consists of Tse, which means “to shine on” and tung, which means “the East.”
Stone Boy: In order to not tempt fate with too grand a name, peasant mothers often gave their children a rough, or common, name. Such was the case for Mao Tse-tung. His rough name was Shisan yazi or “Boy of Stone.”
September 9, 1976: The death date of Mao Tse-tung.
Capitalist Roader: Anyone thought to lean toward capitalism, or be on the capitalist road, was called this derogatory name.
Confucius: Born in 551 bc on the Shantung peninsula of China, Confucius was China’s first professional teacher and moral philosopher, and is known today as Asia’s greatest moral and social thinker. Many of his thoughts and teachings were collected in a booklet known as the Analects.
Chiang Kai-shek: Born in 1887 in the Zhejiang province, China, Chiang was a professional military man and
a Nationalist chief of staff. He was anti-Soviet and deeply averse to the Soviet socialist dogma of class struggle (dividing society into classes and making them fight each other). In 1927, he became Chairman of the Nationalist Party. He fled to Taiwan when the Communists took over in 1949. He continued to rule the Nationalist Party until his death on April 5, 1975.
Ghost stories: Ghosts play a substantial role in Chinese culture. Ghosts take many forms depending on the way in which the person died. The term for ghost is Gui (pronounced Gweye).
Qweilo: White ghost. Sometimes a person of Caucasian descent is called a qweilo or “white man.”
Nu Gui: The ghost of a woman who had committed suicide due to some injustice.
Yuan Gui: The ghost of someone who died a wrongful death.
You Hun Ye Gui: A wandering ghost of someone who died far away from his home or family.
Diao Si Gui: The ghost of someone who had been hanged.
Shui Gui: The spirit of someone who drowned and continues living in the water.
Zhong Kui: The vanquisher of ghosts and evil beings. Portraits of him are hung in Chinese houses to scare away evil spirits and demons.
Ghost dramas: An ancient dramatic genre which is characterized by tales of revenge by dead victims’ spirits on those who had persecuted them. In China, there is a strong tradition of using historical allusion to voice opposition. In 1963, Mao banned all ghost dramas. To him, those ghost avengers were uncomfortably close to the class enemies who had perished under his rule.
The old auntie’s ghost story includes many inferences to Mao Tse-tung. The Hundred Flower Bridge is a reference to one of Mao’s campaigns that he called “Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom.” Party leaders and intellectuals were supposed to express their opinions about communism and Chairman Mao’s leadership, but in truth, it was a means for Mao to uncover and silence dissidents. The fact that Emperor Chan Lee drowns in the story is telling because Mao Tse-tung prided himself on being a strong swimmer. And the thousand avenging ghosts in the story represent a fraction of the millions of people who perished under Mao’s rule.
Chapter 2
Wen-shan dressed in her school uniform and went to eat her breakfast of cornflakes. Her uncle was not in the house. She looked out the front window and saw him clipping the hydrangea bushes and talking to their neighbor, Mr. Yee. Mr. Yee was not her favorite neighbor. In fact, Wen-shan did not like the renters occupying either of the side bungalows.
Mr. Yee worked for the British bank, and Wen-shan figured he was arrogant because of his high position. Mr. and Mrs. Tuan, in the bungalow opposite Mr. Yee’s, had two bratty children—a boy, Yan, and a daughter, Ya Ya. The youngsters irritated her with their obnoxious questions: “Why do they call it a monsoon? Where does the sky end? Don’t you like dim sum for breakfast? Can you stand on one foot for a long time?” Besides, Mrs. Tuan was nosy—always peering out her window or standing at the front gate to watch the world and criticize any impropriety. The small-eyed woman had also warned Zhao Tai-lu about Wen-shan’s fondness for rock-and-roll music, which caused her uncle to ban it from the house. This, more than anything else, sealed Wen-shan’s opinion of the toadlike woman.
Wen-shan ate another bite of cornflakes and watched a young man wobble past the gate on a rusty red bicycle. He was trying to keep the bike steady as he looked at something in his hand. He moved out of sight, but before Wen-shan lifted another bite of cereal to her mouth, he was back, this time walking the bike and looking exhausted. He rang the bell at their gate.
Uncle Zhao and Mr. Yee stopped their conversation and looked over at the sweaty young man. He was fishing for something in his jacket pocket. Wen-shan watched as her uncle set down the clippers and moved to the gate. She couldn’t hear what either party was saying, but the young man handed her uncle a card of some sort and Uncle Zhao handed him a coin. The young man bowed several times, put the coin in his pocket, and rode away.
Her uncle stood staring at the card, and Wen-shan instinctively looked over to the Tuans’ house. As she suspected, Mrs. Tuan was suddenly out sweeping her porch. Wen-shan wanted to hear how Mrs. Tuan would try to coax information from her tight-lipped uncle, so she set her bowl on the coffee table and went outside.
“Good morning, Uncle,” Wen-shan said.
He looked at her and nodded.
“Look! Look!” Mrs. Tuan chirped. “Your uncle has received a special message.”
A smile ticked the corner of Wen-shan’s mouth. “A special message? Really?”
“Oh, must be special message. Come by messenger bike.”
Sweep. Sweep.
“I wonder what it could be?” Wen-shan said, emphasizing the word wonder.
“Yes, yes. Nice white paper for envelope. Very official.”
On the garden side of the front wall stood a small bamboo storage shed. Her uncle headed there to put away the garden tools, and Mrs. Tuan looked anxious.
Sweep. Sweep. Sweep.
“You are not going to read your message?”
Her uncle came back from the shed.
“No.” He turned to Wen-shan. “You have school.”
Mrs. Tuan must have decided her porch was clean enough already, because she moved quickly into the house and snapped the door shut.
Wen-shan was disappointed. Even though she loved seeing Mrs. Tuan’s attempts at snooping blighted, she really wanted to know what the message was all about.
“Uncle . . .”
“School.” He passed her and opened the door.
“But, Uncle . . .”
“You will find out what it says when you get home from school.”
Wen-shan came inside and her uncle shut the door.
“Bowl. Sink.”
Wen-shan snatched her cereal bowl from the coffee table and took it to the kitchen.
“Can I at least see the envelope?” she asked curtly.
“‘The superior man is satisfied and composed; the common man is always full of distress,’” her uncle said, quoting Confucius.
Wen-shan held back her frustration. “I just want to see the envelope, and then I’ll run quickly to school.”
“Since it has your name on it, along with mine, you have every right.” He held out the envelope.
“My name?” She took the card. “Who’s it from?”
“The Department of Art and Antiquities.”
Wen-shan was speechless as she stared at the English writing on the envelope. The Department of Art and Antiquities. And in the center of the envelope were two names: Zhao Tai-lu and Chen Wen-shan.
“Now, have you seen the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Then your promise was to go quickly to school.”
Wen-shan looked dazedly up at her uncle, who held out his hand for the card.
Reluctantly she relinquished it, and went to get her schoolbag. Her mind was filled with questions, but her uncle had already gone to his bedroom to get ready for work. So, she trudged off to school, unrequited. She would have to wait not only until after school, but until her uncle returned from the furniture store. By then she would most likely have exploded from curiosity.
• • •
Song Li-ying caught Wen-shan’s eye during history class and motioned with her head toward the door. Wen-shan looked over, as did all the other students and the teacher. In the doorway stood Uncle Zhao, his hat in his hand and his head slightly bowed.
Wen-shan felt heat rise into her face as a few classmates mumbled inquiries about the older gentleman and what he wanted. Her teacher rose from his seat and went to greet the visitor. They shared a few unheard comments, and the teacher turned to look at her.
“Chen Wen-shan, please collect your belongings. You will be going with your uncle.”
Wen-shan did as she was told, gave a look to Li-ying, and exited with her uncle. They walked silently in the dim hallway. Wen-shan knew she must wait for her uncle to speak first, but patience was not one of her virtues.
“Is it about the card?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
They reached the front doors of the school and moved outside. Her uncle stopped on the steps and handed her the envelope. She pushed back the opened flap and removed the note card. On the front of the card in embossed black letters was the title of the agency. The Department of Art and Antiquities. She opened the card to find a note written in carefully penned English.
Dear Mr. Zhao Tai-lu,
My name is George Riley Smythe. I am the curator for the Hong Kong Museum of Art. I extend an invitation to you and your great-niece, Chen Wen-shan, to present yourselves at my home at your earliest convenience. It involves a matter which will be of interest to your feelings.
Regards,
Mr. George R. Smythe
Wen-shan flipped the card over to find Mr. Smythe’s address and telephone number.
“Did you telephone?”
“Yes.”
“And we’re going there?”
“Yes. Right now.”
Her uncle started walking.
“We’re going to Kowloon to meet with Mr. Smythe?”
“Yes.”
“About a matter which will be of interest to our feelings?”
“Yes.”
“But I’m in my school clothes.”
“No matter. We have to hurry. I told him we would be there by five o’clock.”
“Uncle—”
“Hurry, hurry. We have to travel to the harbor and catch the ferry.”
Wen-shan was almost running to keep up with her uncle’s long strides.
“But I have my schoolbag.”
“No complaining or talking, just walk.”
Wen-shan reset her bag on her shoulder and pushed ahead. She had many thoughts to occupy her mind as she and her uncle made their way to Bonham Road. The road would eventually lead to the harbor and the Star Ferry, and then to what? Who was Mr. George Riley Smythe, and how did he know their names? How did he know her name? The card was very mysterious. What connection did she and her great-uncle have with this museum curator? He was a stranger. And why were they going to his house and not to an office at the museum?