The Promise Bird

by Zhang Yueran

  Sibyl felt a roaring in her ears. She did blame him. He was so carefree and optimistic, so focussed on his grand plans, that she had always suspected he would not take care of Mummy. In the name of doing the Lord’s work, he’d taken Mummy away, and now he’d lost her and couldn’t bring her back.

  He was so pitiful, though, that she couldn’t be angry with him. He trembled as he hugged Sibyl, like a child afraid of punishment. She stroked his face and felt his tears scald her fingers. Daddy was a passionate preacher whose face flushed and eyes reddened as he spoke the Lord’s word — but she’d never seen him cry in the pulpit. Finally, God had drawn tears from the son of unquestioning faith.

  Sibyl stiffened her mouth, refusing to let sadness show on her face. She rested her forehead on Daddy’s thick beard and patted his back, soothing him. “All I ask is that you take me with you from now on. Don’t leave me behind again.”

  6

  After two months of Amsterdam rain, the winter finally ended. Outside the house lay the light of springtime.

  Daddy no longer hid in his room. He started speaking in the pulpit again, full of strength and vigour, leading his fellow believers in prayer, reading psalms in his resonant voice. Sibyl could no longer see even a trace of sadness in Daddy’s eyes. Had he forgotten his dead wife already? It was as if his words were true, that worshipping God was his only purpose in life, that this could bring him unending joy. What a terrible thing forgetfulness is, though Sibyl. To her, Mummy’s departure was still a stark source of pain. She dealt with pain differently to other people, placing it within a picture frame so it could be viewed daily without diminishing.

  At times Sibyl believed that Mummy really had become a bird, flying close to her. On rainy nights she left her window open, and in the morning always found a few white feathers on her pillow. She knew then that Mummy had visited in the night, and stroked Sibyl’s face with her soft breast feathers.

  In March, Daddy set off on his travels again, this time bringing Sibyl with him. Before leaving, he sold the house. They would be homeless. Sibyl thought the Lord must have misunderstood. Her birthday wish had been to travel to a faraway country, to have a grown-up’s freedom — but she’d never said she wanted to be a vagrant.

  They were at sea for weeks, travelling due east, round the Cape of Good Hope, through the Malacca Straits, all the way to Siam: following the route taken by Columbus, Daddy said. This was Sibyl’s first sight of the ocean, and her first time alone with Daddy. She felt closer to him than when Mummy was alive. Now, she looked at him stealthily, and thought he’d aged much faster than Mummy. He was halfway to being an old man, unable to sit still for long without dozing off.

  Afraid he’d catch cold, Sibyl put a cloak over his shoulders. He was one of those helpless men who need a woman’s company. But wasn’t Mummy accompanying them too? That little bird circling in the vast blue sky above them, wasn’t that her? Daddy must feel it too. How could he be lonely?

  “Daddy,” she couldn’t resist asking. “Can you see Mummy? She’s still with us.”

  “Yes. Do you see her?”

  “She’s a bird. She leaves white feathers behind.”

  “That can’t be your Mummy. That’s your Guardian Angel.”

  “Angel?” She was suspicious. Daddy had talked about Guardian Angels for as long as she could remember. When she took her first steps, he told her not to worry about falling, the Guardian Angel would catch her if she did.

  “You’re a child of God. Our Heavenly Father knows that you miss Mummy, so he sent an Angel to watch over you.”

  “You’re always talking about Angels. I’ve never seen one. Have you?”

  “Of course. All the time.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “They look just like us, but with a pair of white wings. Beautiful. You’ll see them too, once the Holy Spirit has filled you and you’re born again.”

  Sibyl was silent. Through Daddy’s eyes, the world was full of God. But she knew she’d rather it were Mummy than an Angel who’d flown through her window those rainy nights and slept by her side.

  Four Dutch ships loaded with pepper made their way back to Holland. From that time on, the province of Banten became their fragrant spice garden.

  At Banten harbour, a young man hefted yet another sack of pepper on board a Dutch ship, and paused to wipe the sweat off his face. When the Portuguese cannons sounded, he heard the boom at the same moment as the deck before him exploded in flame and the ship splintered into two halves. Scores of pepper sacks caught fire and tumbled into the sea. Blinded by the gunsmoke and pepper mist, the young man coughed and spluttered. Instinctively, he burrowed into the mounds of pepper.

  Movement. He stood and saw that someone was steering the front portion of the ship towards the far shore. The other half was already too far away to jump back — and he didn’t dare go into the water, littered as it was with floating, burning sackcloth.

  The dock receded into the distance, and so did the sounds of gunfire. He hid himself again in the cargo, only his head protruding, watching the sky fill with stars. His heart became light, even joyful. Goodbye, then, to Banten Island, a life enslaved by violence. He looked in the direction of the ship’s movement, and the far shore seemed full of hope.

  7

  They finally reached an island on the equator where it was summer all year round. Sibyl could shed her thick coat and stockings, and walk barefoot on the sand. She loved the native girls with their chestnut skins, their straight dark hair. How she envied them their hair, as sleek as satin. Her own golden hair was pretty, but curled naturally, and would never pour over her shoulders like a waterfall the way theirs did. She had to admit that she hadn’t liked travel very much so far, but she loved the tropics, the beaches and unusual plants. In her home country, she’d never had the chance to enjoy such an abundance of sun.

  Sadly, sunlight was no protection from violence. That year, the fires of war reached Siam. As chaos approached, Daddy said, “We should stay. We’ll be needed more than ever, at a time like this.” They did not board the last boat back to Holland.

  Daddy and Sibyl walked the streets all day, helping countless refugees. By May, several neighbouring countries had been dragged into the war, and it looked as if the Kingdom of Siam would soon fall.

  On the day the armies reached Siam City, the refugees tried to escape, but the city was sealed and no one could get out. Sibyl was separated from Daddy in the fleeing crowds. They’d previously agreed that if this should happen, they’d wait for each other at the city gates. Sibyl remembered that these lay to the west, but became lost in the misty jungle.

  8

  Sibyl was nearly at the end of her tether when she ran into the soldier hiding on the hill. They stared at each other, each instantly knowing who the other was. She recognised him for a cowardly deserter, and he detected the condescension in her eyes. Intent on punishing her for her lack of respect, he launched himself at her. Of course, her pale skin and moon-bright eyes could not fail to stir him.

  And perhaps because she was prepared for death, she had a vision: a glass palace in the north-western clouds, suffused with a pale pink glow. The Mansions of the Lord, where Mummy now lived. She left her own body, watching dispassionately as the soldier violated it and it leaked blood. It no longer mattered. She would be reborn, her old self consumed to produce the new.

  The soldier walked away. She waited till he was out of sight, then pulled on her bloodstained dress. The smell of violence was all around her. She rubbed her nose and climbed out of the long grass.

  The north-west. Sibyl elongated her neck, lifting her face up, gazing towards the sacred building above her, a vessel ready to be filled with holy water. She could even hear the susurrus of liquid flowing within her. Her body was suddenly saturated with new energy, and she was able to start running again.

  9

  That evening, Sibyl felt she was on the verge of a miracle. She reached the edge of the jungle just before dark, and sa
w in the distance the tall city walls, the smoke-shrouded city gates. Beyond that wall were the docks, from where Daddy and she could escape.

  She saw Daddy tending to the fallen at the gates, his back to her as she dressed a soldier’s wound. More enemy arrows flew over the walls in a constant stream. She looked on, afraid to call in case he ran to her, placing himself in greater danger.

  At the very same moment, a flock of huge white birds spread their wings and soared over the walls. Their pure white wings were full of strength.

  She blinked and looked again. No, not birds. Beneath the crisp, white wings were sturdy young men. Was this another vision? Handsome men vaulting easily over the walls. Their leader looked the biggest, although maybe only because he was in front. His shirt, the colour of a fir tree, flapped in the wind. His back was so straight the wings actually seemed to sprout from it. She couldn’t make out his features, but thought she could see thick eyebrows and flashing dark eyes.

  This must be an Angel, then. She’d never seen one at home, but here they were, like Daddy said. The likeness of a man, with pure white wings. Faith made them strong and beautiful. Perhaps because this was an evening of miracles, the sun didn’t set at the usual time. Instead the world seemed embalmed in amber, barely moving.

  If there were such a thing as love at first sight, Sibyl thought, then she was in love with this strange man. She’d only glimpsed him, but that was enough for all the Angel-love she’d accumulated over the years to descend upon him. He must have come to rescue her and Daddy. He would reach out to them and lift them high over the land, leaving the carnage of the battlefield behind.

  10

  She ran towards the wall. It was important that she was there to meet him when he landed. Now she could see clearly that her Angel’s wings were made of paper tacked onto a bamboo frame, almost transparent in the sun’s last rays.

  As the Angel descended, he plucked a long sword from his waist, and in a smooth gesture slid it deep into one of the figures at the base of the wall. She almost screamed, but managed to clap her hands over her mouth. The figure toppled over, and now she could see Daddy’s face, lifted towards Heaven, his wide staring eyes. As he landed on the ground, the slim bible he always carried in his coat pocket tumbled out, its pale pages stained red. Then it became hard to see Daddy’s body, as the Angels began their massacre. Corpses piled up as everyone was slaughtered — Siamese soldiers, townspeople, foreign emissaries. Hacked to pieces, flesh mingled and indistinguishable.

  Sibyl stood motionless, watching her father’s mud-streaked hair blow in the wind, like a patch of golden grass. The gold soon disappeared, as if absorbed by the dark green tropical vegetation. It was high tide, and a sea wind picked up the Angels’ abandoned wings, tossing them about in a hollow dance.

  She knelt and closed her eyes. The cries of fallen Siam City disappeared. Her burning ears filled with the flapping sound of wings in motion, of freedom.

  11

  The church on Lian Yan Island had a long history behind it. It was built in the Gothic style, columns clustered like stalagmites, each so burdened with carved lines and trimmings that further ornamentation was impossible. Time had not been kind, though, and the humid, stormy tropical weather had snapped many of the stalagmites in two. Now they teetered in mid-air, like bloodthirsty swords.

  If anyone had reason to be grateful for the tsunami, it was the church. Afterwards, the islanders resumed the habit of attending service, and the nave was no longer cold and empty on Sundays. The Preacher said, “You must learn the art of forgetting. The dead are at peace now.”

  Every Sunday service, a young woman fluttered in, like a butterfly, and perched in the back row. Her face, alone of all the congregation, showed no sign of pain. She always wore the same green dress, her exposed arms and next tanned a deep brown, gleaming with health.

  When the congregants lined up for communion, the body of Christ received in a wafer, the girl always took three or four between her fingers, gulping them down before the Preacher could bless them. Even though she seemed half-starved, she attacked each hymn with extraordinary vigour, her voice clear as falling snow. The front rows naturally couldn’t resist turning back, and she seemed happy to receive their stares.

  The Preacher liked her. He went up to her after one service to ask if she was a believer. She shook her head.

  “But your singing is louder than anyone else’s.”

  She smiled and ran from the church. The Preacher gazed after her. She was a gust of wind, impossible to catch hold of.

  12

  The girl didn’t come every week, but seemingly only when the Preacher least expected her. Unprepared, he was never able to hide his joy when she appeared. Her wan face like a calla lily hiding in the folds of her leaf-green dress. Shesmelt of dew. He couldn’t resist raising his head several times during the sermon to look at her, only to find she had playfully moved to another seat so he had to search for her. His heart softened each time their eyes met. In a spring sundered by tragedy, she arrived like the breath of life.

  When he approached, she spread her wings and sprang away with the alacrity of an insect, trailing pollen from her legs as she vanished into air. He sneezed with longing.

  Finally, he found the courage to call after her. She stopped and looked at him. He’d thought himself ready to speak to her, but staring into her clear eyes, he found the words curdled in his throat. Still, he had her attention, and forced himself to open his mouth. “I say — would you be interested in joining our choir?”

  She looked distractedly towards the open door.

  “Do you live nearby?” he asked, flustered, trying to keep her from going.

  “I live on a boat.” This was the first time he’d heard her speak. Her voice was much softer than when she sang.

  He nodded without taking in her words. Her voice was like mist after rain, spread thinly across a deserted land.

  “Why don’t you join us more often? We’re a welcoming family.”

  She looked at him with suspicion, then burst into laughter. She didn’t trust him, but she didn’t hate him either.

  When the girl with her pollen scent flitted through the door, the Preacher’s heart turned over and over. He didn’t know what kind of impression he’d left on her. How had she looked at him? He thought with dismay that he recalled something like disdain.

  The Preacher felt himself changing. He wore his finest clothes when he preached, and kept his beard neatly trimmed and his boots spotless. This meant getting up much earlier on Sunday mornings. These small labours made him happy. Sometimes he even sang — a few lines of a song from years ago, something he thought he’d forgotten.

  Three years earlier, his wife had died of the mosquito fever. After that, he decided there wouldn’t be any more tempests in his life. He wrote to his son in England to say that he would stay in the tropics, and although this was a land of sorrow, he feared that if he left he would no longer be able to find her grave. He wrote that letter over and over, reading it through each time and finding it too heavy. In truth, he suspected his son would no longer be able to understand his withered heart.

  Forgetfulness came as he aged, but he still remembered her, frequently visited her grave, even wept over her tombstone. These few precious tears were evidence that he wasn’t frozen, that something still flowed in his veins.

  When the girl appeared, strong feelings surged in him like a creek undammed. He no longer dared to go before his wife’s grave, afraid she might detect his new lively heart. Still, he could not deny it was a pleasant sensation to hold a secret, to feel himself fill with yearning.

  13

  A few days after this, the Preacher was walking by the shore when he saw a great ship approach the harbour, andrecognised it as one of China’s Treasure Ships. Its body was painted bright gold, the beams above it a rainbow of colours, just like the ones used a hundred or more years ago by Admiral Zheng He. He remembered the girl’s words — “I live on a boat” — and stopped as i
f a great nail had suddenly skewered him to the spot.

  The ship stopped and several men in dark green robes — Chinese emissaries? — emerged from the hold, followed by seven or eight gaudy women, slim as wisps of smoke, trailing all manner of ribbons and silks. They clung to the men in lingering goodbye. The oldest amongst them stepped forward after the men had departed and gave a few sharp orders, at which the ladies formed a line and descended to the shore.

  The Preacher knew these were song-girls recruited from the brothels in Canton to serve lonely sailors and foreign travellers, “living on a boat.” They were much in demand before the tsunami, when they lived on ships far more luxurious than the present specimens, countless court officials passing through their hands. How the song girls loved these men, worldly and free with their money, full of stories of seaborne adventures. Every day on the ship seemed full of excitement, carving out yet another unforgettable memory.

  Now the song girls walked past him, some in front and some behind, spinning a dazzling web around him. A familiar scent caught hold of him and he lowered his head in humiliation, terrified that he would see her amongst them. His brows furrowed, he endured their shrieks of laughter, not moving until the fragrant troupe were far away.

  The Preacher trudged back to the church, his heart a tangle of weeds. He’d thought the girl might be an Angel sent to help him — but she was a song-prostitute, drifting the ocean rootless as seaweed, in an undignified, shameless whirl of men and song. He shut his eyes, trying to keep her image from the darkness of his mind.

  She had cheated him of his love. But he was too honest to believe this for long. What had she said to him? Only “I live on a boat.” This was no more than the truth. She had never asked him for anything. If only her beauty were not so pure, his normally sharp eyes might not have mistaken it for innocence.