The Promise Bird

by Zhang Yueran

  Our clothes became soaked with sweat, and my breathing slowed. I longed for my afternoon nap. Tropical regions have a way of thwarting desire. The damp and hot climate make the skin sticky and moist, so the idea of touching or hugging becomes repellent. People here live in their own shells, growing used to solitude. Any sprouting threads of lust quickly evaporate, like sweat.

  I had only been with two women during my time here — yes, given time, pent-up desire can overcome the heat. They were both local girls, older than me. One was a widow, making her rounds collecting coffee beans, in a hurry to get to the next farm. She was pretty for a native, and had long, nimble fingers. I felt something in me move, and asked her to stay and work for me. She asked about wages, hesitated, and agreed. We dallied for a couple of days, but by the third day I was already regretting my impulsive decision. She disrupted my routine, and robbed me of the calm I needed to find my way into the seashells. That night, I used her body with a savagery that bordered on madness, surprising even myself. Boundless pleasure followed by utter desolation. I was a rain-sodden bird huddling under the eaves, trapped, unable to do what I needed to.

  Tumbling into sleep, I dreamt that Chun Chi was calling my name as she walked into the garden. Her voice was weak and her footsteps like a lost child. I was not far from her, but there was a pond and grapevines in our way. I walked around them, calling to her not to move. She heard my voice and smiled, turning towards me. I shouted again that she should stop, but it was too late, she was caught in the grapevines, her hair tangled and ripping loose. By the time I reached her, she had fallen into a flower bed. I lifted her up and touched her torn scalp, blood spilling onto my face. She said, softly, “Why did you take so long to come?”

  At midnight, the widow shook me awake. I kept my back to her, both hands over my face, afraid she would see the blood on it. The next day, I sent her away, with a sack of coffee beans as compensation.

  2

  By the time we reached the house, I was calm to the point of coldness. I was ready to tell Hua Hua that I was too busy with my work to take care of her, and Chun Chi needed a companion, so perhaps she would like to return — but before I could get the words out, she had already turned to me and said, “Is this where we’ll live?”

  “Yes.”

  She flung open the door and stuck her head in. “It’s small, but we could make it quite comfortable if we worked on it a bit.”

  I was speechless in the face of her positivity. She took my hand and smiled, “Come with me.”

  “What for?”

  “Just come with me and you’ll find out.”

  “No. I have far too much to do.” I pulled my hand free.

  She pouted. “I wanted to bring you to see your child.”

  “My what?”

  “I’ve been on this island for a few days now, staying with a family by the docks. When I told them I was coming up the mountain to look for you, they said it was dangerous and steep, so I left the baby with them.”

  I thought she was mad, but looking at her closely, the smiling creases of her eyes and mouth shone with motherhood. This explained the changes in her. Starting the day before I left, she had been making a baby for me.

  I went with her, back into the hot sun. She sweated copiously, but never complained of tiredness. Her legs must have been strong from so much walking.

  “It’s a boy,” she said, puncturing my silence. Her smile made me feel guilty at not having asked the question.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you to give him one. I call him Baby.”

  I began walking faster to demonstrate my eagerness to see the child, which reminded me of the last time we’d hurried down a road together, as Master Zhong lay dying, her in front like a little deer. I’d felt close to her then, and now we were tied fast together: her, me and my son, temporarily called “Baby”. I felt suffocated at this thought, as if the pair of them were pressing down on me. All along, I’d tried to make my life as simple as possible. And now they’d burst into my life, turning me into an ordinary man, burdened with a family to feed.

  Looking sideways at Hua Hua, skipping along cheerfully, I thought suddenly how evil she was, coming all this way to be a stone around my neck.

  At sunset we arrived at a wooden hut near the docks. She knocked once, then ducked in. I waited outside, nursing a fantasy of running towards the ships and leaping onboard one of them, disappearing into the wide ocean. She reappeared with a baby. I first saw my son in the murky light of dusk. He had a round little face, bright red cheeks, and an upturned lip like Hua Hua’s. He was pretty, with the look of good fortune. I felt moved to cherish and protect him, but when I took him from Hua Hua, he was a deadweight in my arms.

  3

  Hua Hua walked into the house with the baby, and the place instantly became pitiably cramped. My only furniture was a bed and a table covered with shells that Hua Hua couldn’t help frowning at. The bed was hard, with only a rough mat on it. Hua Hua stroked it and, fearing that baby would scratch himself, continued holding him.

  I sighed. “There isn’t anywhere for him to sleep.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll find some wood tomorrow and make him a little cot.” Hua Hua was determined not to despair.

  At this point, the baby woke and surveyed his surroundings, decided that they were strange, and began crying. “He’s hungry,” said Hua Hua. “I’ve weaned him. I’ll make him some rice soup.”

  I smiled bitterly. I hadn’t seen any rice since arriving on this godforsaken island, and told her so. She thought for a moment, then said, “Never mind, give me some water and — are there any coconuts?”

  “At the foot of the hill. It’s a long way.” As I spoke, I was already pushing the door open. I thought I heard Hua Hua shouting behind me, but ignored her. It was late night before I returned with a clutch of coconuts and a jackfruit. Hua Hua was asleep, the baby bound to her chest so he wouldn’t fall out of bed, her breath sluggish from his weight. She must have done this many times before. I looked closely at her face — knitted brows, her jaws working away. If she were dreaming, it must be a painful dream. For a moment, I felt close to her. She looked small and helpless in sleep, just as she did when I first met her, like a snowflake landing on my shoulder, weightless and silent, barely perceptible. Now the strength in her was frightening. It must have come from the child, who lay with his face pressed against her breasts, satiated, his pale powdery skin even finer in sleep, each little hair quivering in rhythm with his breath. His long lashes retained a drop of moisture; perhaps he had cried again before sleep.

  His innocence burned my eyes until I had to look away. I lit an oil lamp and sat at the table, running my hands over a shell, but my heart was too scattered to enter it. Growing impatient, I pressed harder until my fingertips bled, and then stood and paced the small room, sucking at my fingers.

  I must have woken the baby, who started howling again. Hua Hua woke too, staring at me — and what a sight I must have been, eyes full of red threads and fingers dripping blood. She must have been terrified. Yet she would have to get accustomed to this, for I frequently took on this appearance. The slightest disruption made me agitated and unable to concentrate on the shells, which was why I had come here, hidden away from other people and their noise.

  “Stop that racket,” I now shouted at her, and she ineffectually patted the child saying Baby, Baby. Still he shrieked, with more energy now, his face red and swollen. His piercing voice was alien to the peace I was used to. I felt it like a net drawing tight around me, and ran outside.

  After a long time, the crying quietened, and Hua Hua came out to join me. I was sitting on a tree stump, the seashell in my hand now stained completely crimson.

  “He’s hungry, that’s all.” Hua Hua explained quietly, standing behind me.

  Was she complaining that I had taken too long to come back? My voice was cold as I replied, “If you want to stay, you’ll have to get used to this.”

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bsp; She nodded, and knelt at my feet, taking my hands and wiping them clean with her sleeve. After so long alone on my farm, with no one to visit me, I’d forgotten what the concern of a fellow human being felt like. I shut my eyes and let her scent surround me like butterflies. I should have felt tenderness, or at least satisfaction.

  “The night air here is so clean,” she gently probed, sensing my mood had calmed.

  “Don’t go far from the house, there are wolves and wildcats and snakes.” She nodded again. I let out a breath and said to her, “The child is very good. This is just too sudden. I haven’t had a chance to adjust.”

  “I knew you’d like him. He’s usually quiet. You’ll see, when you get to know him.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m sure of it. This child is special. He makes me strong. When I felt like giving up hope, I told myself I had to find you, so we could be a family.” Her voice was soft and warm, but that night I found it terrifying.

  I preferred the old, shy Hua Hua to this version, full of energy and hopefulness. Back then she was a faraway star, her beauty tentative. Perhaps my love for Chun Chi was the same, based on the great distance between us. Perhaps it was only an illusion that we were drawing any closer.

  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.

  All the village men were running pell-mell for the docks. When they saw him, they shouted at him to come be a pirate, and so he joined them. Their leaky boat was cobbled together from other vessels, and they were armed with stolen knives. A quick change of clothes, and they were fearsome pirates of the Malacca Straits.

  They didn’t find anyone to rob in the first few days. The Spanish and Dutch ships had guns and cannons, which even the sharpest knives would be no match for. It was a month before they encountered a boat from China. Apart from the sailors, there were also a few eunuchs on board, feeble and thin-voiced, and white-robed missionaries who kept making the sign of the cross as the pirates cut them down. He stayed back, unable to lift his weapon, perhaps because his ancestors had some mythic connection to China.

  In this way, they acquired a stately Chinese ship, chests of jade and agate, trunks of fine silk and pottery, and some rare medicinal herbs they had no idea how to use.

  The next day, he cleaned the Chinese ship, gently wiping each bloodstain from the deck. Picking the shards from the ground, he carefully pieced together three exquisite blue-and-white porcelain bowls.

  4

  The day after her arrival, Hua Hua prepared to give the wooden house a thorough cleaning. Using the coffee plants as an excuse, I went out and wandered around the farm until it started to rain, then sheltered in a cave. The rain grew heavier, like the tears of an old palace lady reminiscing about past glories. Hua Hua was probably in the jungle searching for fallen branches to build the baby’s cradle. She must be soaked. There was a little pavilion halfway along the path through the jungle — but how could she know this? She was probably running home along the steep road, even as the road washed the mud down in a yellow waterfall.

  I stuck my head out of the cave and imagined I could see her skinny form darting between the trees. She was born to suffer, and had grown used to it. Still, I felt a moment of sympathy before regaining my equanimity.

  It rained till evening, and somehow another day had passed. When I got back to the house, Hua Hua was building a little bed. Her hair was still wet, and even with a rug wrapped around her she was shivering. The child was lively, helpfully handing her a piece of wood when she needed it.

  She smiled when she saw me come in. There was a big bruise on her forehead. “I slipped on the road,” she explained. “The weather was so bad — I was delayed, and haven’t had time to cook.” Her face was pale with exhaustion, but when I sat down on the bed, she scurried over to remove my shoes.

  I shook my head to show I didn’t mind — I knew I should be kinder to her, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Treating her with tenderness would turn me into an ordinary, mild-mannered husband. I couldn’t allow her to move me.

  After Hua Hua and the child arrived, life became quieter. I left at dawn each day, sat amongst my coffee plants till sunset, and then reluctantly returned home. I built myself a stone table where the trees were thickest, and began polishing shells there. This went well in the mornings, but I had to stop at noon when the sun shot through the trees and dazzled me. Sometimes I forgot and kept working, until my eyes saw nothing but blurry white, as if I were blindfolded.

  One time, Hua Hua brought me some food only to find me slumped beside the stone table. She revived me with cold water and then sat looking at me with sorrow. Finally, she cried, “You torture yourself for her, and she doesn’t care for you at all.”

  Even in my dizzy state, this enraged me. “How I torture myself has nothing to do with you. If you regret coming to find me, feel free to go back any time.”

  She lowered her head and gently placed my lunch on the table. “I’ve never had any regrets.” And with that, she turned to go.

  I shouted after her, “And don’t ever bring me food again.”

  This was the last time either of us mentioned Chun Chi. She was like a secret garden, and now its gates were sealed — the only way I could be at peace, for I had long passed the stage when I could allow anyone else to step into this garden. It had to belong entirely to me.

  With Chun Chi locked alone in my heart, the secret garden became — like any other abandoned dwelling —prone to ghosts. In June, the dreams of Chun Chi began coming, night after night, so clearly that I could only see them as a signal.

  Dreams are the only means we have of erasing time. In my sleep, I met Chun Chi in her twenties, combing her hair as she leaned against a ship’s railing. She had only just got it straight when the sea wind tangled it again, but she seemed not to mind, starting over. Time solidified around her until the moment was a clear chunk of amber. Then it broke — the comb fell from her hand into the sea, too far for her to reach. She held onto the railing with one hand and lowered herself down, feet precariously braced against a stanchion. When she touched the water, a satisfied smile crossed her face, and her feet slowly lifted from the boat. Her upright, thin body seemed to open like a fan in mid-air, the splash as she hit the water finally shattering my dream.

  My first thought on waking was that something must have happened to Chun Chi — but she’d seemed so calm, even happy, in the dream, that I couldn’t be sure what it really meant. The same images plagued me all that week, becoming clearer each day, so I felt I was drawing closer to the truth.

  A few days later, I was at the docks to meet the song-girls for my usual delivery, when news came that they’d found a wreck. Without thinking, I ran to see.

  The ship had been on its way from China when it sank in the tsunami more than twenty years ago. The ragged carved flowers around the window, the snapped mast and shattered deck — I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and stared, transfixed. This brown-black husk of a vessel, trailing the remnants of an old tragedy, was the one I had seen every night in my dreams. The same railing that Chun Chi leaned against, combing her hair. The same deck that she fell off.

  Beside the wreck, people were haggling over the salvage — a few jewels, some jade, the few intact pieces of pottery. Both natives and Dutch colonists were astounded by the fine handiwork. Even though I had no intention of buying, I wandered over to look, and there I saw the shells. Seven of them, huge specimens, bigger than anyone had ever seen. They said when the ship came up, they were sitting there on the deck.

  I knew from my books that these were extremely rare —Dragon Palace shells, beautifully-proportioned cone shapes, milky white with slanting pink stripes, their openings like new moons. They must be full of memories to have such a rich colour.

  My vision drifted over each one, starting at the dull red base and circ
ling up, like climbing a gleaming pagoda. Each layer, each ridge must have its own story. I knew that my eyes were flushed with red at this moment. This was what lay behind the curtain of my dream. Chun Chi’s missing memories lay in these seven shells. They gave off a familiar scent, hers. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine that I had returned home.

  Excitement came mingled with bitterness. The end of my quest lay before me, but still out of reach. I watched as a golden-haired woman bought them. She was young, but her pockets ran deep. Apart from the shells, she also bought a jade bracelet and two porcelain vases. The crowd parted for her and she swept through them, her maids following behind with her purchases. People whispered as she left that she must be a noblewoman. I followed close behind her and saw her go into the Dutch quarter, up to the doors of a grand stone mansion.

  Returning home, I sat all night at my table, turning matters over in my mind. The next day, I put on my most presentable clothes and paid a visit to the Dutch woman.

  I waited a long time in the hall before she condescended to come down. She moved lazily, this girl of little more than twenty years. She wore an Indian sari the colour of apricots, vivid against her snow-white skin. Her beauty seemed to set her above the earth. I dared not meet her startling green eyes, and looked at the floor.

  She ate her breakfast as she spoke to me: semolina bread rolls and a pink-flowered white cup letting off the thick aroma of coffee. One sniff told me that this was the very best, far superior to anything I could produce on my poor farm.

  I spoke in broken Malay which her servant interpreted. The response came quickly: “Miss Bessie wishes to bring the shells back to Holland, where skilled craftsmen will transform them into decorative lamps. They are not for sale.”

  This was expected, but I felt a spasm of pain. Only begging was left to me. I told her a story: My late father had been a seashell collector. His last wish had been for my mother to continue his work, and this she had done, adding to a fine collection. Now she was ill too, confined to her bed. If I could bring these fine Dragon Palace shells to her, surely the sight of such wondrous specimens would revive her.