The Promise Bird

by Zhang Yueran

  “I came to Lombok Island because of you, not the general.”

  “Why?”

  “I saw you when you came with your men to Banda Island. I hid behind a tree and gazed at you, memorising your face, your voice. But you didn’t know I was there. And of course you didn’t know how much I longed to leave with you then.”

  Camel sank into a wooden chair. The girl’s sandy voice was mesmerising.

  “Since I was a little child, I’ve wanted to follow a strong man. I’d make myself insignificant, worth no more than an ornament hanging from your belt. This is my only dream. Please don’t send me away.” Still kneeling, she shuffled over to his feet, her sharp little face upturned and gazing at him.

  Such honeyed, lying words — who knows how many men had heard them before. Camel looked at her dismissively. A whore with jade-green eyes. Without shifting his gaze, he absent-mindedly lifted the jar and drank a couple more mouthfuls.

  “The general is a powerful man too. He’s ferocious in the field, yet generous to his friends.” Camel’s voice was warmer now. His fingers slid through Tsong Tsong’s golden hair, running over her head.

  “I want a truly great man. A man like you.” As she spoke, Tsong Tsong rested her head on Camel’s thigh. Camel’s leg shivered violently twice, and then was still.

  19

  The baby arrived at midsummer, amidst nightmares. Zhong Qian could only find a native midwife who spoke no Chinese. She was rough, and Chun Chi lost a lot of blood.

  Zhong Qian knelt in the garden to burn the incense he’d specially obtained from the temple, but it was too damp and nothing would light. He refused to give up. Again and again, he clasped the incense in both hands and plunged it into the flame. His eyes streamed with tears. At that moment, he was certain that Chun Chi would die. The heat of his emotion shocked him. This was something he’d never felt before — not even when Tsong Tsong vanished. Neither pity nor respect, weightier and sweeter than both.

  A person without gender can nonetheless encounter a bright and burning word: love. He was redeemed by a woman’s moans and cries, a kind of baptism — but this feeling ebbed away and he wondered, stricken, if she would be taken from him.

  Growing up in the village, Zhong Qian and his grandmother had only had each other. They lived by the water, where his grandmother bred ducks. Every day, he herded the ducks to the lake where they would spend the morning. The shimmering sun on the water soon put him to sleep on a nearby boulder. When his grandmother came to find him, she never called loudly but woke him by whispering into his ear. He adored his grandmother’s voice, glutinous and soft as cake.

  When his father sold him to pay off gambling debts, he felt unbearable pain saying goodbye to his grandmother, knowing he’d never see her again. In the city, he was sent to work in a small hotel, where the landlady treated him well and he fell a little in love with her — before his cleansing, he’d had torrents of easily-stirred emotion.

  More misfortune followed. The landlady and her husband were murdered by hoodlums who ransacked the hotel and abducted the little boy as he knelt by the landlady’s side, clearing blood off her forehead so she could leave the world in a seemly manner. They sold him to the palace, where he often dreamt of the pretty landlady, slumped on the doorstep bleeding, him staunching the wound as she moaned in gratitude and clutched his leg tightly.

  In the palace, he became page to a noble lady and, of course, fell for her too. He loved watching her sit before her bronze mirror combing her hair and titivating herself. She rubbed rouge between the backs of her hands until it was warm, and then quickly smeared them over her cheeks. The red colour seemed to leap onto her face, exactly right. Sadly, the aristocratic lady was of a weak disposition. She caught the flu that winter and died a few days later, thin as a sack of bones. Zhong Qian warmed the rouge on his hand as he’d seen her do and tried to redden her face, but her cheekbones were now too prominent and her skin wouldn’t take the colour.

  And now his life was empty. When the Emperor sought men to go to sea, he put his name down and henceforth lived a shipboard life. Hope sparked up in him when he met Tsong Tsong, and when she went he moved the embers of his love to Chun Chi instead. He understood now that his weakness required someone to depend on, even dote on, for him to be happy.

  If Chun Chi left him now, he would become like waterweed, rootless, drifting. To avoid this fate, he prayed to the heavens again and again.

  20

  Camel kept Tsong Tsong by his side. This would be the biggest mistake of his life. Perhaps age was softening his brain. Why else would he endanger a friendship with the general that had lasted more than thirty years, longer than this girl had been on earth?

  The general didn’t retaliate at once. He kept his rage under control, and trained his troops with increased fervour. Lost in the tangles of love, Camel neglected warfare, his armour hanging on the wall, growing cold.

  When the general rose against Camel and proclaimed himself the ruler, he easily breached his fortress and took Camel himself prisoner, as well as all his concubines and slaves. Camel ended his days humiliated, trapped in a dungeon, a heroic life abruptly terminated. Only then did he realise what an animus Tsong Tsong had created. The general tore the camp apart, but the beauty who’d crazed him was nowhere to be seen, and no one could say where she had gone.

  And yet Camel and Tsong Tsong had enjoyed a brief stretch of tenderness. When they first became intimate, Tsong Tsong bit through Camel’s lip. She was delirious, as if a comet had swept over her, its long tail grazing her body — she now possessed Chun Chi’s man, the man who drove her mad and took her away. She looked at his rapt face and found him unspeakably evil. And so, she bit.

  Camel hit her across the face but she was unrepentant. She had only done what she was compelled to. This man had destroyed Chun Chi, and destroyed herself, like a great ill-omened meteor tearing the night sky in two.

  Blood surging with passion is sweet as honey. He felt intuitively that she was a gift from the heavens, and would bring him limitless delight. Unwilling to wait even a moment, he burrowed into her deepest parts. This wasn’t the great love of his life, but it did achieve the distinction of being his last.

  Each morning, Camel opened his eyes and felt his weakness grow, watching her asleep beside him. Her face was covered with faint dew, like a half-open water lily, as if she’d just come from the garden. He searched her white petals for any traces of the previous night’s kisses. She was so young it saddened him. He owned many precious things, taken from the sea or stolen from the land, but never anything like this. Nightmares tortured him even as he embraced her, terrified she’d be stolen away. When he woke and she was still there, he gently stroked the palm of her hand, knowing himself to be a blessed man.

  He wrapped her in cloth like a cocoon, feeling both happiness and despair at possessing her. She turned and woke, shaking her head to scatter the water. He touched her little face, faint-hearted, and asked softly, “Where on earth did you come from?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Sometimes, I think my enemies must have sent you. You’re here to insert yourself into my life, and find a chance to kill me.”

  She rubbed her eyes and sat up, smiling at him over her shoulder. “I am.”

  “Then I’ll have to lock you up,” he said with infinite sorrow.

  When they made love the morning after her arrival, she’d struggled violently, her sharp nails scraping his chest so he bled freely. He shivered to remember the poison in her eyes at that moment. He’d actually had a chain brought to shackle her hands and feet, but she stared at him unmoved, her voice harsh. “The day will come when I’ll kill you and run away.” But still Camel let her stay.

  In her short time on Lombok Island, Tsong Tsong struggled free of the pains of girlhood and became a woman, fully grown, ripe. Now she had the means for revenge on Chun Chi. Free of both love and hate, the weight of her mission seemed to go out of her, her body light enough to fly.

  She ma
de her escape on a sleepy afternoon when Camel was absent. Still shackled, she slipped out as if for a walk.

  Camel’s mansion was on grounds so large that she could have walked for a long time without reaching its boundaries. She’d heard that his three brothers had once lived here, but they’d been lost after an accident at seam, so Camel took in their widows, concubines and children, to live alongside his own. The place was full of life — wherever she looked, small children were gleefully chasing each other, chestnut-coloured skin and hair, sturdy little bodies, fleet-footed. Their mothers, or perhaps grandmothers, sat on hammocks outside their huts, contentedly chatting away. They were still young, but moved lazily, perhaps exhausted from so much child-bearing at such an early age. Their brows were unfurrowed, free of care. The children sometimes ran up to them, playfully teasing, but were placidly ignored.

  Tsong Tsong walked past them and was immediately surrounded by children refusing to let her pass. They were unkempt and uncivilised, but their energy was difficult to resist. Tsong Tsong had never liked children, but something about these ones pleased her. They adored her. Stadning in a row, they sang her a clapping song. The strange native syllables were comical, but they sang with such enthusiasm, their heads shaking in time to the music. Tsong Tsong turned back to look at the mothers. They knew she was Camel’s new mistress, and smiled at her with great warmth.

  All was harmonious there, but Tsong Tsong knew she didn’t belong. If it had been a little earlier, before she’d met Chun Chi, before the tempest of her previous life, perhaps it might have been different. Perhaps she would have been happy to live here, partaking in this simple, good-hearted life.

  Now she carried too many wounds, and her heart would never be at rest. She wasn’t fit to lead such a good life. She pushed her way past the children and, ignoring their cries, walked into the jungle. She wanted to see birds, the many species of birds that lived on the island and flew into her dreams, bringing a kind of intimacy she hadn’t felt since she was little. The dreams were as dense as the forest, filled with the evening tumult of birdsong. When she stood amidst the trees, they came down to her, one by one, fearless, as if they recognised her as one of their own.

  Peacocks were plentiful on Lombok Island. They managed to be both proud and shy, striding expansively and langorously spreading their bright fan tails, turning back to admire each gleaming feather. But as soon as a human appeared, their magnificent display shrivelled and they scuttled away, taking off at a low angle and rising till they could clear the tallest trees. Tsong Tsong raised her head to watch them — their backs and throats were metallic green, small feathers like scales, their violet crowns swaying majestically in the burning winds.

  She admired the peacocks for their remote grace. Soft things always moved her; men, with their violence and roughness, could never hope to touch her heart.

  When the peacocks passed overhead, she felt a surge of emotion rise within her. They made her think of the kites she used to watch as a child, so white they seemed the purest things on earth. In her innocence she’d thought they might be angels.

  She trusted too much in her intuition, and so kept making bad choices. Like when she saw Chun Chi sprawled on the beach, when her sharp eye told her at a glance the strength and desire hidden within this woman’s body.

  It was now past June. Counting the weeks, Chun Chi must be due soon. The bud that gave her such courage and determination would soon bloom. She must be steeped in happiness now. Would she bring the baby to meet Camel? How ridiculous it would be for her to walk in and see Tsong Tsong lounging on his bed, his heart in her hands.

  But this was an impossible scenario. Tsong Tsong knew Chun Chi too well. She would not return without the crucial seashell. The silly girl, throwing her life away on such a trivial thing. She worshipped this man, but from a distance — she would never really be close to him, didn’t even know who was reclining in his bosom at this moment.

  Revenge may satisfy, but is always followed by disappointment and emptiness. Now Tsong Tsong walked into the quietest reaches of the forest, yearning for a place to hide herself, to live with the animals and birds, free from desire.

  Camel sent men after her. They found her deep in a palm grove and brought her before him. He looked hurt. “Where did you think you’d escape to? Were you looking for another man, would you make him wine?” Although he was still very fond of her, his words came out frosty.

  She answered listlessly, “I only wanted to see the peacocks.”

  “You like peacocks? I’ll have them captured and brought to you.” His heart softened to see her before him, so helpless. He would have done anything for her.

  That June, Tsong Tsong became the owner of many peacocks. They lived in the garden, surrounded by prying eyes. The compound contained only short shrubs, no trees that they could fly over, displaying their wondrous plumage, and so they stayed earth-bound. Tsong Tsong stood by the lake, watching her upside-down reflection. She posed like a peacock, but could feel her feathers beginning to wither.

  21

  Zhong Qian’s prayers were answered, after a fashion: Chun Chi survived, but her baby didn’t. This baby girl, fated formisfortune, arrived after accompanying her mother through ten months of nightmares, a frail little thing. Zhong Qian took the tiny body from the midwife, supporting her droopy head. She made no sound, only looked at him with wide, fearful eyes, fretful at being swaddled and rocked. He loved her eyes. In the village he came from, they said that a baby born to a blind woman would have exceptionally bright eyes. It was as if the child’s eyes contained Chun Chi’s as well.

  Chun Chi thought of several names for the child, but none seemed right. No word she could think of encompassed all that this child meant. She called her by a different name every day: little river, flower blossom, starburst — all the most beautiful names. If she could have, she would have given the entire world to this baby. She was so pitiful, to arrive into a world of loneliness, no one welcoming her.

  Chun Chi’s body produced no milk. Zhong Qian persuaded a local woman to act as wet nurse. It was difficult for Chun Chi to be parted from the baby — she handed her over to the woman reluctantly, blaming herself bitterly for not even being able to nourish her own child.

  Two days later, the child contracted the pox. Her face sprouted bright red blisters that exuded pus when they broke, new ones forming over the scabs. She was now half a month old, and instead of growing actually seemed to have shrunk. Zhong Qian told Chun Chi only that the child had some kind of infection that she would doubtless recover from, with the help of his herbal medicines.

  As her condition worsened, the blisters burst as soon as anyone touched them, soaking her bedding in thick yellow liquid. The wet nurse refused to go near the baby, and when Zhong Qian took the baby into the village to plead with her, he found the front door boarded up — the entire family had fled. No one in the village would open their doors to such infection, not even the doctor. When Zhong Qian brought the baby back, he found Chun Chi waiting at the door, grumbling they’d been gone such a long time.

  Still not knowing how to explain, Zhong Qian stayed silent and made some rice porridge for the baby. She only managed a few mouthfuls before vomiting. Perhaps itching from her rashes, her little body twisted within its covering of blankets, arching painfully. By early morning she was convulsing violently, huddled into a ball. Chun Chi still had no idea how serious her condition was, thinking the child would be all right after a night’s sleep. She’d assumed her daughter would be like her, full of life, a survivor. She kept believing this even as the child grew cold and hard in her arms. When she stroked her, her skin rustled, as thin as paper. Now she was scared. She shook the baby and felt for breath. She was motionless, a wooden block rigid in Chun Chi’s arms.

  “Did you kill her?” Chun Chi asked, her voice trembling.

  “She had the pox. No one could have helped her.”

  Chun Chi knew about the pox. It appeared often amongst the many tragedies and illne
sses she’d encountered in the seashells. As she caressed her child’s face now, the many memories she’d uncovered floated to the surface of her mind. She stepped into the sphere of illness and pain, gladly accepting their torture.

  Now she hugged her child, lifting the poor, broken face and kissing its temples, its cheeks. The pox burst and sprayed Chun Chi’s face and mouth with hot liquid. Could these be her daughter’s tears? She wept in sympathy, even as she knew that it couldn’t be, that her child had long stopped breathing. She would not see the morning. She didn’t have a name.

  She hadn’t died from lack of love. Chun Chi had loved her too much, laid before her everything in nature. Now, from the next world, her daughter would draw back the curtain and see her, a pathetic blind girl all alone, holding in her hands all that she owned, and think: I was born into this woman’s poor embrace. Her love was deformed, because thwarted, like the lianas on a thousand year old tree, countless creepers binding around her. We’ll never know each other. Cruelly separated after only a few days in this world — how long have we waited to come together, and will we meet again?

  Her darling girl. So much love, and still she hadn’t been able to hang on to her. Fate was so cruel, just like her father.

  Three days after the child died, Chun Chi still refused to let go of her. Even when she slept, the dead baby remained tightly clasped to her chest.

  Zhong Qian worried that Chun Chi would catch the infection. He waited till she was deep in sleep, stole the corpse and buried it nearby. Because the child had no name, he didn’t mark the grave. All the way back, he thought sadly of the anonymous patch of earth. Back at the house, he stopped a little before the door, viewing the remaining stretch of path with trepidation.

  As he’d expected, Chun Chi was spitting with hatred. It was as if she’d forgotten about the pox. All she knew was that Zhong Qian had taken her daughter away, and brought her back dead. Her faint dependence on him was gone. She didn’t need him now. She would never need anyone again.