by Zhang Yueran
He stands before her, wanting to speak, his Adam’s apple juddering up and down. Looking straight into his eyes, she sees filaments of brightness, and decides he would be a warm refuge for her. In a low voice, she says, “Come here.”
He sits beside her, almost reaching to lift her into a more comfortable position, then thinking better of it. She regards him with sympathy. ‘You remind me of my little brother. The same features. How old are you?’
“Sixteen.”
“Ah, a little older than him.” She struggles for a moment with her bound wrists. He watches her suspiciously, and she smiles. “I only wanted to touch your face. I haven’t seen my brother in such a long time.”
With barely a pause, he loosens the rope so coil after coil slips off her hands. His breathing grows thick. When her hands pass over his face, she can feel the skin tremble. She holds him in both hands, fingers spread, gently moving over his well-defined jawline. Her gaze is so direct he must look away. Her index finger brushes lightly, lightly over his lips. She says, “Your brothers treated me dreadfully. Yet you never laid a finger on me. Aren’t I good enough for you?”
“It’s not like that.” He is a bowstring stretched tight.
“Then you pity me? You must have seen me hurting — I thought I would die from the pain.” Her voice grows small, the last syllables tangled in a groan. Luminous tears trickle from her eyes.
Ridhuan lifts her now and holds her to his chest, his hand sweeping up her tears. She cries even more sorrowfully, rubbing her face against his hand, murmuring, “They’re beasts. But you’re not, you’re better—“
He allows her to cry, absorbing her fountain of scalding tears, more than he’s seen before. None of them cry — not him, nor his brothers, nor their women. The whole tribe is hard as stone, and has no use for tears.
The girl is soft, lying against Ridhuan’s chest as if she has no bones, her tears stirring. Now she grips his shirt and murmurs in his ear, “Take me away from here, just the two of us. You like me, don’t you?”
He is stunned. His body rapidly separates from hers. The dream evaporates and he can see the trap he has been lured into. To forget himself so easily, at the embrace of a girl! As he walks away from her, she clutches his leg with both hands. Her fingers are spring rain on the plain of his skin. For a moment he cannot extricate himself, then his head clears. He kicks free and leaves the room. Stricken on the ground, Chun Chi hears his boots on the deck, stamping energetically.
The early dawn is when the sea is calmest, and also kindest. Waves rock the boat gently; breezes find their way into the room through a slightly open door. Time stretches like a silkworm’s thread, long and thin, moment after moment, for weaving, for tangling, slowing into the great line of time and blurring love and hate, intention and desire. The destination of this ship no longer matters to Chun Chi. She shuts her eyes, intending to sleep a little more. But will that hand return, passing through the many obstacles to clasp hers once again?
Chun Chi’s sleep is shallow, but she wills herself not to wake. Drowsing, she hears the two older men leave the hold; they are arguing about whether they need to head towards the coast to avoid the coming tsunami. They discuss it at length. Later, she feels the ship slow down and change direction. She prays: come quickly, wind and waves, and kill us all together. This is the best compensation she can imagine. Her wish is sincere, and allows her not to cry, not to struggle.
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.
He was only in charge of guarding the well. The legend was that Admiral Sanbao dug this well himself. Sanbao sounded like the name of their town, Sambaya, also the Javanese word for a tamarind tree with sparse leaves. He’d eaten tamarind all his life. Sambaya had Sanbao temple, and Sanbao temple had the Sanbao well, and he was in charge of watching the well.
Sanbao led the Chinese fleet here many years ago. He taught the native people how to plant crops, rear silkworms, bathe in spring water and turn wheat into noodles. Now, when an anchor from one of the treasure ships washed up on shore, the people displayed it in Sanbao Temple, and the golden statue of Sanbao himself loomed in the main hall.
His ancestors may have been in Sanbao’s retinue, or else they were local people who’d benefitted from his largess and stayed on to guard his temple. By the time he was born, the temple had proved too successful at granting prayers, and powerful people had taken it over. He was left with the well, which was said to have sweet water and to never run dry, even in a drought. The local people called it godwater, because it not only cured illness, but could reverse time and make the old young again.
He watched the godwater with great care, not letting leaves fall into it nor birds foul it. In stormy weather he was particularly vigilant as the temple had suffered mudslides before, finally taking to sleeping by the well, pressed against its cold stone wall. He grew sway-backed from this, but never drank any of the godwater himself.
He missed the old days, when godwater was dispensed to the ill and injured. They offered incense at the temple, then queued at the well with their containers as he ladled godwater into each one. When they had recovered, they always came back to the temple to express their gratitude, and never forgot to bring him something good to eat. Later, it was decided that the godwater would no longer be freely available. Instead, the officials in charge sold it at high prices to rich merchants and ministers. He was often forced to watch impoverished people begging for godwater, and having to refuse them. He tried once to secretly supply them, but was caught and punished.
He was at his lowest ebb when the Portuguese attacked. Debris from the cannons polluted the well. They took over Sanbao Temple, including the well. They kept him on to watch the well, but warned him that the godwater could only be given to them, the Portuguese. Then they built a cathedral, forcing the local people to go there to worship their Holy Mother, and Sanbao Temple grew neglected and thick with weeds.
The people revolted several times, taking back Sanbao temple for a short while, but ultimately were defeated. After the last time, his heart grey with despair, he leapt into the well. Several days later, a Portuguese man found a single black hair in his godwater, and had the well dredged. When they found his drowned corpse, they sealed it with a boulder. He had, in the end, prevented the Portuguese from possessing Sanbao well.
A great many years later, they opened the well again and found the water bright and sweet as honey, although some people detected a brackish taste to it. They said, this well must be connected to the ocean. The spirit trapped within must have tunnelled his way out to sea, and from there found his way home.
10
The island is utterly deserted. It doesn’t even have a name, yet its beauty is startling. Here, nature imposes an order greater than any inhabited place, its wildlife peaceable and friendly. In the day, few animals emerge to make trouble. Even the trees grow straight and well-proportioned, with few unruly branches.
The boy called Ridhuan and his brothers seem very familiar with this place. The map of stars guide them to shore, from where they follow a neat little path halfway up a mountain. They are far from the ground now, but may not be safe from the tsunami yet. Without too much effort, they find a deep cave. Its opening is narrow and choked with weeds, but they push aside the tangled vegetation and squeeze in to find a wide cavity. Soon, the dozen or so trunks of jewels and gold from the ship have been carried up.
It is pitch black in the cave until the brothers gather wood and light a fire. Even with light, Chun Chi cannot understand her surroundings. She lacks the energy to make sense of what is happening to her. Uneasy flames leap from the bonfire. Chun Chi shuts exhausted eyes; now she can hear only rough male breathing from all around her, as strong and coarse as their beards. This brings her to full wakefulness. Her mother is dead. She is in a cave with three pirates, hiding
from a tsunami. That is what is happening to her.
Chun Chi leans against the furthest wall of the cave, her arms and legs bound. Ridhuan looks at her hesitantly, but still walks over and, not giving her a chance to speak, lifts her bodily and carries her over to the fire. Perhaps he noticed that her hair and clothes were still wet from the rain, sticking damply to her face and body, causing her to shiver. It is December, the long tropical monsoon season, when each rainstorm lasts several days, and chills and damp creep into your bones, bringing illness. Chun Chi’s hands and feet are like ice, but her face is warm and the rest of her body free of sensation. Only after some time in front of the fire does she regain some feeling. She probably has a fever, but her head is exceptionally clear. From across the flames, she watches Ridhuan heft a rock behind her so she has something to lean on.
Once again, his softness makes her hope he will be her route to freedom, but he continues to avoid her eyes. She searches for his gaze with such energy, she thinks her wounds might re-open. Her clothes are torn, her skin gaping with wounds. She wants him to see this, however hard he might find it. When his pained look finally comes to her, she feels a glow of satisfaction.
In the darkness of the cave, only a few tongues of flame rise and fall, warming her face. They have brought half a deer carcass from the boat and are slicing off slivers to be roasted on skewers. Ridhuan brings over some cooked meat, but Chun Chi holds her head still, so he will be forced to deliver it to her mouth, feeding her one small piece at a time. She has captured the boy’s sympathetic heart, she thinks, and now must see how far she can push him. Sure enough, he picks up his curved knife and cuts the meat into bite-sized pieces. As she chews, she watches him, her eyes as fierce as an army at siege.
Now she examines the possibilities: if the boy and his brothers quarrel, then they might fight, and both sides will be injured. Obviously that would be a magnificent sight, but wouldn’t bring her any closer to escape.
With the next mouthful of deer meat, she bites Ridhuan’s finger, not using any force, just holding it between her lips, the tip of her tongue grazing it, teasing him. He lifts her head and looks at her with something between patience and resignation.
“Let go,” he says softly, but with a stern expression.
She hates him again that instant, and bites hard. Blood oozes between her teeth. When she looks up again, his eyes are unchanged.
Ridhuan’s brothers notice, and one of them says scornfully, “Don’t show them kindness, boy, the bitches are never grateful. You’ve got to treat them rough.”
As if returning to himself, he hits her hard with his other hand. He is a pirate, after all, his nature is violent. Chun Chi’s mouth fills with blood, which she swallows.
11
After the meal, the older men sit lazily by the fire, slow and drowsy, yet unwilling to sleep. One of them pulls himself to his feet and walks over to Chun Chi.
She knows what he wants, and watches for Ridhuan’s reaction. He must know she is appealing to him with her eyes, but continues to look down, calmly gnawing at a large bone. A minute later, he throws this down and says, as if to himself, “Collecting firewood,” and stoops to crawl from the cave. She watches him go, not looking back once. Something in her heart is extinguished.
Her body becomes light and thin, like a piece of cloth. The man’s needle pierces her easily, forming a knot so she is caught fast. The thread shuttles back and forth over her body, no rhythm to it, the stitches jumbled and ugly, like the absurdity of life. Men are so weak, they always run out of thread too soon. He pulls his needle out — is this his handiwork? He appears not to notice the dismissive smile on her face.
The second man follows in the tracks of his older brother, the same motions, as if he has no ideas of his own. Even when he seems most dashing and energetic, it is all counterfeit. As she compares them, Chun Chi suddenly sees that they are both as comical as clowns, and pities them from the bottom of her heart. But the next thought worries her: what about Ridhuan? Would his needlework be any better?
And now she feels an abrupt longing for Ridhuan to come close to her. She explains it to herself: she must wish this to control him, to subdue him. Her body lies flat on the ground, covered in crooked seams, waiting for him.
When sufficient time has passed, Ridhuan comes back inside to find his brothers satisfied, asleep. The ground around the girl is littered with gnawed deer bones, the aftermath of a feast. The boy gathers dry grass from the corners of the cave and covers Chun Chi’s nakedness. He does not touch her. Does he despise her seamed body?
Ridhuan sits on the opposite side of the fire, facing her. She can see no desire in his face. How will she control him now? Her body is boiling, as if the fire is consuming her. Can she destroy the shame that the needles have inflicted on her? Perhaps only by reducing her body to ash.
Their minds both pre-occupied, Ridhuan and Chun Chi wake after sleeping only a short time. They lie with their eyes open, listening to the men snore, for who knows how long. Ridhuan rolls over. Has he fallen asleep? “I have something to say,” she murmurs.
He does not stir. “Say it.”
“I wanted to ask you—“She stops, weeping.
“What?” Her tears always affect him.
“If you were me, would you still want to live?”
He does not answer.
“I don’t know why I’m not seeking death. Why prolong this meaningless life?”
He remains silent. This sensitive boy, his sap still green; his dangerous depths can only be seen when he is not speaking.
“Come here,” she asks, openly begging. He finally rises and goes to her. “Why are you avoiding me? Why don’t you dare to want me? Are you afraid that if you desire me, you’ll fall in love with me?” She lifts her face to him, washed with tears. Her habitual stiffness is sometimes inappropriate, even comical, but also moving.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’d never love a Chinese woman.”
“But what if I wasn’t? What if I was one of yours, could you love me then? Would you help me to leave this place?”
“That’s a meaningless question. You are Chinese. That’s how it’s been from the minute I set eyes on you.”
“I wish I’d never met you.” Chun Chi shakes her head. Her eyes close. Her heart is cold, and she must forget this boy, his warm hand in his, the sweaty, alluring smell of a man. She must extinguish the sparks of flame that linger like stars on her body.
She should have known all along. This can only end in disaster, in mutual destruction. How could it be otherwise? Only a fevered mind could have come up with this illusion, that a pirate might have feelings for her, that he might defy his big brothers for her sake. She laughs bitterly, like a madwoman beyond shame.
As Ridhuan watches, urine dribbles from her body, a little stream that flows through the dried grass to his feet, wetting his boots. Steam rises from it, a sharp smell, full of life and energy, as if the girl has just expelled the last scrap of heat from her body.
12
Chun Chi’s fever gets worse. With hope gone, her body is unable to resist the illness. Her senses are overwhelmed by scorching pain, no room for thought or sadness.
She feels coolness on her forehead and slowly opens her eyes. Ridhuan sits beside her, dabbing at her with a wet cloth. It must be night again, dark is all around her, only the subdued flames of a small fire.
Ridhuan holds a small, sharp knife. He severs the rope that binds her. Her limbs are numb, her face scalding. Although her vision is clouded, the determination in his face is clear. He has finally made a choice. Chun Chi can tell that he is unsettled. She turns and sees his brothers, sleeping as if drugged. Ridhuan has filled a sack with gold and jewels.
Their only escape can be by sea. The island is small and has no other caves or crevices they can hide in. Chun Chi and Ridhuan run through the jungle. The monsoon has finally stopped, leaving swampy puddles. They tread on rotting leaves, splashing mud high in the air. The boy has boots, but Chun Ch
i does not. She tries to step in his footprints, where the ground is firmer. Her legs are still stiff and each step requires great effort, although she quickly gains strength and even takes pleasure in their mad dash, this sudden freedom, never mind that clumps of mud are staining her calf or that her skirt is in shreds.
The path through the jungle has almost been washed away. At time it seems that they must have taken a wrong turn, and are trapped in a maze, doomed to run through mud forever. This may be what Chun Chi is hoping for: to continue until utter exhaustion takes over, until her last breath slips from her body. When a shoe slips into the mud, she doesn’t call Ridhuan to stop. The boy is putting all his energy into fleeing the danger behind them, every muscle, nerve and cell straining to snatch the happiness that will be theirs.
She doesn’t interrupt him because she wants to see him exhausted. Mud quickly coats her bare foot, making it harder to step into his footprints. Her chest feels tight, as if her overheated body might fly apart. Suddenly dizzy, she falls to the ground. Rain, shock, shame, happiness, pain, hope — she has been through too much.
The cloth sack seems heavier and heavier. Ridhuan switches it between left and right shoulders, but still he struggles. Looking at the setting sun, he guesses that the effects of the sleeping draught will be wearing off, and his brothers will be waking soon. His kindness is weakness — if only he had been harder-hearted and poisoned them dead.
As he rebukes himself, the hand holding Chun Chi’s is pulled down. Turning back, he sees the girl has slipped like a feather from his grip. The soles of her muddy feet are bleeding, cut by twigs. He tears strips from his shirt as a makeshift bandage. Murky water drips from her hair and clothes as she lies obediently in his arms, a clay doll waiting to be thrust into the kiln.
Ridhuan supports her weight as they stumble on. The sack of valuables is too much of a burden now, and he lets it fall, shrugging. “We have no money now,” he tells Chun Chi. “Even if we escape, we’ll starve to death. Are you afraid?”