The Promise Bird

by Zhang Yueran

  He looked at himself in the moonlight. He looked like a man — a fisherman with a family to feed, hurrying along the star-lit road, a wife waiting at home. A heartening thought. This was his favourite part of the journey, the trees on either side of the road so familiar. He pictured himself walking and walking, until Chun Chi’s baby was born, until he became a normal man.

  After a month of this, he was out at sea when he heard someone singing on a nearby boat, a sandy voice that sighed three times for every note. He jumped up and reached the deck as quickly as he could, certain it was her. Staring across at the other boat, he could only see the corner of a yellow dress, desolate. Tsong Tsong, always so artless, had not been able to stay hidden for long.

  He’d dreamt of seeing her again day and night, but not of what would happen next. Now their boats were so close together than he could have leapt across in one step — but why was he hesitating?

  He realised now he had already betrayed Tsong Tsong.

  She finished her song to cheers and banter from the watching men. He listened hard, and thought he could pick out the strands of her laughter, her lip curled with a hint of disdain, mesmerising. He shut his eyes, trying to think, and felt them fill with treacherous tears that rolled down his face and into the churning sea. The two boats had crossed by now, and each went its own way, never to meet again.

  She was singing again now, the voice drifting to him from a distance, thin and then gone. When he could no longer hear her, he lifted his sleeve to dab away the tears, and went back down below deck. He sat on a wooden bench, a bucket at his feet full of shells and dead fish. Laying the fish aside, he lifted a long-handled brush and began polishing a shell. After he had got rid of all the sand and grit, it gleamed pure and white.

  16

  Tsong Tsong finally found Lombok Island, using a crude native map. It looked like a cooked chicken heart, still smoking and burnt. There were thirty-eight volcanoes on the island, some of them active. The heat and damp air meant the mountain vegetation was particularly lush, almost all the way to the summit. The lower slopes were either jungle or farmland, teeming with life.

  The islanders lived well, even luxuriously. The women wore gold and silver, jewellery all the way from wrist to elbow. Silver discs hung around their necks and through their ears, a dozen on a single chain. Their clothes were brightly-coloured but not particularly clean or well-made. This simple splendour was like sunlight, a brash, unstoppable noise. Tsong Tsong liked this flawed magnificence. Perfection was dull; she found cracked surfaces irresistible.

  As soon as she arrived on Lombok, she knew she would like it. To start with, she gave her attention to the scenery, like any other visitor. But then she dreamt of Chun Chi again — a Chun Chi who wasn’t blind, in a place colder than night, her gleaming dark pupils like a double-barrelled gun, pitiless. In the dream, Chun Chi seized her wrist and said, “Tsong Tsong, what are you doing here?” She only smiled in reply, but when she woke up, she knew what she had come to do.

  Two weeks later, she entered the military camp. Her beauty was her capital, and in all these years it had never let her down. Empty-handed but full of confidence, she strolled languidly near the camp, unhurried as a lost little deer. No one could have seen her and not been stirred: gold-bronze hair, pale skin, liquid eyes. She was the ultimate prey, causing desires in men’s darkest parts to ferment and bubble into heady wine.

  The soldiers seized her, intent on rape.

  “Take me to your chief. He’d reward you with more than anything you could possibly get from my body.”

  They looked at each other. The girl spoke with such certainty it was hard to doubt her. Her hair glittered in the white heat of the sun, her torso snaked sensuously. Her voice had grains of sand in it, like the smoky haze of the early morning jungle.

  17

  Chun Chi and Zhong Qian lived in the boat house for a few months, undisturbed except for itinerant monks asking directions. Once they had become used to the loud bird cries first thing in the morning, this seemed the most peaceful place on earth. And yet there was something cursed about it too. Tsong Tsong had built this house, and now it seemed full of murderous energy. Nothing would grow in the garden. It was like the scene of a massacre. Finally, Zhong Qian managed to coax a few orchids into life.

  The monsoon came. The fallen flowers mulched into soil, layer after layer, like open wounds. The rains dripped on for half a month.

  It took ten days of sun before the garden soil was dry. A mottled carpet of broken mandala blossoms had to be cleared with a shovel, leaving a scar in the earth. Rain brought out the scent of the flowers, filled every room in the house with it — as if time had gone backwards, as if the absent one had returned. Chun Chi found it hard to settle. As her pregnancy advanced, she began to hate the taste of food containing any trace of fat, and finally could only drink a little soup.

  After she fainted while walking in the midday sun, Zhong Qian forbade Chun Chi to leave the house during the day. The air in the boat-house was dank and heavy, as if Tsong Tsong’s breath still filled it. Chun Chi lay half out of the window, taking great gulps of fresh air. Sometimes Zhong Qian found her like this, slumped asleep on the sill, a beam of sunlight on her proud belly — warmth and brief happiness.

  Zhong Qian pitied her, but all he could do was find her more shells.

  When Chun Chi burrowed her way into the shells, each stretch of memory was a chaotic kingdom, full of murder or rescue, death or new life, scene after scene whistling past, flickering and then gone. These were the lives of people unknown to Chun Chi, and still she embraced them with both arms, clasping them to herself. Each of these joys and sorrows she felt acutely, as if they were her own. They ate away at her, until she became deadened to them. Neither the most fearsome death nor the most tearful parting gave her the slightest pang.

  This was a dangerous path. A woman on the verge of motherhood should be full of warmth and sympathy, but Chun Chi became colder by the day, concerned for no one except the baby who shared each breath with her. Without realising it, she had hidden herself and her child on a deserted island, cut off from the world.

  She barely spoke to Zhong Qian. Perhaps a few words of gratitude when he showed up with seashells. They were both careful not to mention Tsong Tsong’s name.

  Chun Chi knew that Zhong Qian went out to sea to seek news of Tsong Tsong, but had learnt nothing. She must have gone back to the life of a song-girl. Chun Chi dreamt of her singing, her golden hair tangling with the mast, tumbling into the sea. The still waters erupted in fury as Chun Chi woke, covered in cold sweat, her belly hurting.

  In the last few months of her pregnancy, bad dreams assaulted her more and more often. The terrifying memories hidden within the shells, Tsong Tsong’s piercing laughter, Camel’s heavy breaths — they all washed over her in a great muddle, swamping her. She often struggled awake in the middle of the night, terrified at what these dreams portended, tossing and turning till dawn.

  Follow the spiral staircase all the way down. This buried kingdom isn’t hell. Keep going, until the sound of wind fills your ears and dust blinds your eyes and vines still your feet. Only then will the memory-keepers appear.

  After all the Chinese had been killed, Manila no longer had barbers, or tailors, or cobblers, or cooks, or farmers, or cowherds. After the massacre, they had no food, no shoes, nothing — for any price. Having lost its Chinese inhabitants, Manila no longer seemed to have the ability to keep itself alive.

  A small child crowned with a dirty nest of hair ran through the streets, peering watchfully in all directions, terrified that someone would discover his secret.

  He had just made a new friend. Black hair, yellow skin — a young Chinese man, bleeding, having crawled for miles to escape. Half a month after the killing started, there were virtually no Chinese left alive in the city. The boy looked at the blood trailing behind his new friend with awe. This was no ordinary man. This was a Hero.

  The child hid him safely under a brid
ge on the outskirts of the city and brought him some water. He wished there were some way to stop the bleeding. The man asked the child to take him to a quiet place where he could die in peace. The child refused to listen and insisted on saving him. He would go back to the city and find a way.

  There were no more doctors, but the child recalled a relative of his mother’s who could heal with herbs. He told the Hero, and the Hero was so grateful he didn’t know what to say. A moment after the child ran off, he finally found his voice and called him back to give him a beautiful piece of cloth, embroidered with chrysanthemums, sleek as a leopard’s flank. The Hero said to the small boy, “Take this in exchange for the medicine. If they won’t accept it, then you keep it. I have nothing else I can give you.”

  The child stroked the fabric and nodded. He folded it carefully and stuffed it in a pocket before running faster than he had ever run before. The street patrols looked askance at him, but he was clearly just a normal street urchin, nothing at all out of the ordinary about him. As he ran, he kept touching his pocket to make sure the material was still there. It was, but without him noticing, it had slipped halfway out, and flapped along with his movement. All the child knew was that he was stopped by one of the foreign red-stubbled soldiers, who pointed roughly at the cloth.

  The child looked down and hurried to hide the cloth again — but too late, the solder pushed his arms aside and snatched it. He weighed it in his hand, and unfolded it to see it in full sunlight.

  “Japanese silk. Where would you have got that from?”

  He tore the cloth in two with an easy movement of his hands. The superbly-made material ripped cleanly, not a stray thread falling from the two even halves.

  The child howled until the soldier casually nicked his throat with a small knife. Bright blood oozed out, the crying stopped and the child fell to the ground.

  The Spanish soldier and his compatriots folded the torn satin, and later presented it to their commander. That piece of fabric had a particular significance: after this, the Spanish colonisers forbade the wearing of China-made cloth. The chrysanthemum silk was the last such piece seen in Manila for a long, long time.

  18

  Tsong Tsong was locked in a small, dark room to await the arrival of the leader. The room was built of bamboo with a grass-thatched roof, and would be freezing cold atnight. Unidentifiable birds hopped about on the roof, their cries making her feel that something bad might be about to happen.

  After losing Chun Chi a second time, Tsong Tsong kept returning to their initial time together. Those memories were still within her mind, complete and undamaged, buried deep. Now she unearthed them and enjoyed each moment as a rare treasure, unwilling to lose any of it, as much pain as it might bring her.

  Camel was playing cards with one of his generals when a messenger came with news of a captive beauty. The room was full of the heady scent of rice wine, so strong it made the walls shimmer.

  Tsong Tsong was brought in. He glanced sideways at her and went back to his cards. She observed him from behind: decrepit, bloated, rolls of fat around his neck, older than she had expected. She’d assumed a commander would be sturdy and imposing, but he really couldn’t be called either of those things. Disappointment hit her. What had Chun Chi seen in him?

  The men gambled and drank, as if Tsong Tsong wasn’t present. Not many people were capable of ignoring her like that. In order to get Camel’s attention, she reached for his cup and said, “I’d like to try some. May I?”

  He turned and looked at her, then nodded.

  She sipped a little, and delicately nibbled at it. Good wine should be tasted with your teeth — she had learnt that from a European emissary on one of the ships. But this wasn’t good wine — it was strong, but not fragrant. With so many palm and coconut trees on the island, couldn’t they come up with anything better? In the world she’d lived in, no one would dream of making strong drink from glutinous rice. She twisted her mouth and said, “I can make far better wine than this.”

  The general lifted his head then, and weighed her up from head to foot. She felt her bait quiver and knew he was on the hook. But Camel merely moved his gaze away from her face and said to the general, “Let’s keep playing.”

  Camel could hold his liquor. He lost the next round, and happily drank three cups, another three, and then three more for luck. His expression stayed the same. The general was clearly not a stranger to wine either. It was several hours later before either of them showed signs of intoxication.

  Now the general’s bleary gaze stumbled over Tsong Tsong’s body. She was like a luminous pearl, more spectacular when gleaming in the dark than in full light. No longer drunk, he said, “It’s too dull to just play drinking games. Let’s make things interesting. I challenge your highness for the beauty standing behind you.”

  Camel turned to glance at her again. “I have no idea where this woman’s come from. For all I know, she was sent by our enemies.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her, if I win.” The general smiled.

  “As you wish,” Camel nodded.

  What misery Tsong Tsong felt then. The way these men spoke of her was no different to the passengers on the ships. Was this to be her fate, to be a gift passed from man to man? Such a cold man could never really love a woman. Why on earth would Chun Chi suffer so much for him? Could he be worth her pains?

  They rolled dice. One point per throw, the first to reach fifty points won the girl. The general kept looking in her direction, each glance seeming to bring him strength.

  In the end, Camel lost. As the general walked over to claim his prize, Tsong Tsong clutched at Camel. “Can your highness bear to send me away?”

  “I’ve lost now, I have to honour my promise.”

  She looked at him in disappointment. His eyes met hers and turned away swiftly. She felt he had some interest in her, but not enough to make him dishonour his word.

  As she left the hall, she turned and looked at him in anguish. Suddenly, she felt attached to him — inexplicable, unless hearing Chun Chi speak so movingly of him had made her feel she knew him already.

  Tsong Tsong stayed with the general for some time. His long, wooden mansion was newly built. He was surrounded by people at all times — servants, gardeners, a retinue. This general was no ordinary man, fearless in combat, and not lacking in intelligence either. He treated Tsong Tsong exceptionally well, allocating her the biggest room, keeping his concubines and children away from her. He gave her jewels and rare flowers from other islands.

  But all Tsong Tsong could think of was how to return to Camel’s side. Other pleasures seemed unimportant next to her great mission, and she wouldn’t allow the general to touch her. At first, he respected her wishes and gave her time to adjust to her new surroundings. This was a sign of confidence — a steadfast belief that before too long, Tsong Tsong would tumble into his arms of her own accord. When she kept rejecting him, he finally lost patience. She could see the signs. His open face would soon sink into darkness and turn vicious. If not for the mandala grove she had discovered, she would have despaired.

  When Tsong Tsong said she wanted to brew some wine specially for the general, he was all smiles again. This wine would be the fruition of their love, he thought, for he still thought she was in love with him, that only her girlish inhibition and shyness kept her from giving herself to him. Now Tsong Tsong said that the most fragrant wine required a pure heart to brew it. Out of respect for the wine, they would have to stay apart for the month it took to ferment, and she would close her doors to him for that time. This announcement caused him more suffering, but he had already waited this long, another month seemed at least bearable.

  He watched his beauty gather coconut flower petals to stew, and then add fresh mandala blooms, sealing the liquid in jars. Each time the general walked past her window, the heady scent convinced him, even before tasting it, that this would be an exceptionally fine wine.

  The month passed, and on a cloudy evening, Tsong Tsong open
ed the bottles and got the general drunk. He wasn’t disappointed by the fine wine, and drank more than ever before in his life. He invited his soldiers to join him, and soon they were all comatose. Tsong Tsong was able to simply walk out of his mansion, taking the last jar of mandala wine with her.

  By the time she reached Camel’s palace, she was soaked from a night of rain. The sentry went to inform Camel, and she huddled under the eaves, clutching the jar to her. This was her final chance. She seemed to see Chun Chi standing before her, laughing at her for wasting her time. But no, she would prove Chun Chi wrong. She would succeed.

  When Camel saw her, she was shivering from the cold, pearls of water dropping from her body onto the ground. She opened her mouth, but was unable to speak.

  Camel ordered his men to light a fire to warm her. Finally, she found her voice and confessed openly to having run away from the general. Instantly enraged, Camel ordered her to go back. She smiled weakly, “I’ve run through the night to get here, and all I want is for you to try my wine.” She knelt at his feet, opened the jar and offered it to him with both hands.

  The instant she removed the cover, Camel felt the room fill with white light — either lightning had struck just then, or the wine really did have mysterious powers. Its aroma spread like a cloud. Desire leaked from the jar too, drop by drop.

  The rain grew louder. All was dark inside the house. Rainwater seeped through cracks in the bamboo roof, softening his vision. He bent and took the wine from her trembling hands. He took a draught from the earthenware container — the best wine he’d ever tasted. Even more surprising, after a journey through rain so cold she now trembled all over, the wine was still warm.

  “The general didn’t treat you badly. Why did you leave him?”