The silken thread, p.7
The Silken Thread, page 7
‘I thought you said you are not a child,’ I joke.
Little Dipper sits up looking guilty. ‘Sorry, Moonie. I forgot my manners. But it is as . . .’
‘As if we have known each other all our lives.’ He nods slowly as I finish his sentence. We both look at each other. There is no backwards time or forwards time, only this special other time.
The Floppy-saving magpie carols outside.
‘How I wish I did have this bed all to myself,’ I say. ‘But I sleep with my older sister, Stella. And my seven-year-old brother sleeps there on the floor on that mattress. Although most nights, he crawls in between us. We are crammed in like dumplings in a frying pan.’
‘I saw your sister the first time I came,’ he says. ‘She was sitting on the bed with you and was angry about something. And your mama and baba? Where do they sleep?’
‘In the room in the front of the house with Baby John . . .’ I feel a lump rise in my throat. ‘Mama is not well and was sent away. Baba will not tell us where she is . . . I was making a special birthday dress for her when you appeared. It is going to bring her home. It has to bring her home.’ This all bursts out of me like pelting rain from a dark cloud. Little Dipper sits down beside me on the bed. He puts his warm hand on mine. He squeezes it but doesn’t say a word.
‘I am glad you are not a ghost,’ I say, wiping away the tears.
‘I think I know what brings me here,’ he says. ‘Little Tian.’
‘Your little sister?’ I ask.
‘She was six when she died two years ago.’ A shadow falls over his face. ‘Little Tian was cheeky and funny and silly. A month after we buried her, she came to me as a ghost and gave me this.’
Little Dipper takes from his pocket a golden cocoon and holds it up to the light. ‘This is a silkworm cocoon. But it is not like any cocoon I have seen before. The ghost of Little Tian gave it to me and said that it came from Canmu, Silkmother, the Goddess of Silk.’
I touch the loose strand that has come unravelled. ‘Every time you leave, there is a silken thread left floating in the air. I thought it was spider silk, but it looks just like this. Do you think it is this thread that connects our two worlds?’
‘I do,’ he whispers as if we are inside a secret.
‘We have both lost someone we love,’ I say. ‘Our sadness is what has brought us together.’
We sit cross-legged facing each other on the bed. Little Dipper takes an exercise book and pencil from his satchel and hands them to me.
‘Whenever you visit, I can teach you a little more English,’ I say.
A big smile crosses Little Dipper’s face.
‘And you could come to school with me. Nobody can see you, so you could do whatever you wanted.’ I giggle at the thought of him playing a joke on Jack Plunkett.
‘Nobody can see me?’ he says.
‘That is why I thought you were a ghost. That first time you came, you were completely invisible to Stella. Now, what do you want to say to your teacher?’
Little Dipper taps his teeth with the end of his pencil. ‘To Teacher Sun. Learning English has been my dream since I was in Fourth Grade —’
‘Wait, slow down,’ I say.
‘Your writing is beautiful, so even and neat,’ he says, watching me.
‘I am often in Miss Carroll’s honour book for my writing. All right, next?’ I say.
‘Please forgive me for being late. It will never happen again. Your ever-faithful student, Little Dipper.’
‘Good. It is short and simple,’ I say when I finish the letter. ‘Now, while I get us something to eat, you copy it on this good paper that has no lines.’
By the time I get back with morning tea, he has copied the letter six times.
‘Not bad,’ I say.
He looks pleased with himself.
‘This is the letter you should give to your teacher,’ I say, picking the best copy.
He folds it carefully, puts it in between the pages of his exercise book and then into his satchel.
I give him a glass of lemonade.
He takes a sip and his face screws up.
‘Do you not like it?’ I ask.
‘It is sour and sweet all at the same time,’ he says.
‘Have you never tasted a lemon before?’
He shakes his head. ‘I have only heard of this fruit. And what is inside those dumplings?’
‘They are not dumplings but German biscuits. Mr Otto, the baker across the road made them,’ I say.
Little Dipper takes a bite. ‘Mmm, ginger,’ he says. ‘But I expected it to be salty, not sweet. You know what, Moonie?’
‘What,’ I say.
‘Everything is strange and exciting in Moonie’s world.’
‘And now I want to hear all about your world,’ I say.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Little Dipper
The Impossible Promise
‘Tell me about your family,’ Moonie says, licking biscuit crumbs off her fingers.
I frown in disgust.
‘What is wrong?’ she asks, looking concerned.
‘In China, nobody licks their fingers. Not even the Emperor would have done such a thing!’ I say.
‘Oh, is that all! What is the problem with licking your fingers?’
‘Do you not think about germs?’ I say.
Moonie holds a finger up close to her face which makes her go cross-eyed. Then, grinning, she says, ‘I cannot see any germs. Not a one. It is one of the best parts about eating, especially when you eat a chicken drumstick. You should try it.’
I shake my head at her. How different habits can be in other parts of the world, I think. What is right in one country may be wrong in another. This is something history and geography books can never teach you.
‘You were telling me about your family,’ says Moonie, about to lick another finger, but instead she brushes the crumbs off onto the tray.
‘You are a fast learner,’ I say, grinning.
She grins back.
‘Well, there are six of us. Mama, Baba, three brothers and me. First Brother is married and has a house of his own so there is a little more space to spread out now.’
‘I can not believe you all live in a one-room house,’ says Moonie. ‘What if you want to be by yourself?’
‘Oh, there is plenty of space outside for that. If I want to be alone, I can go to the animal shed which is next to the house. That is where LongMa and all the animals sleep at night. LongMa is our water buffalo.’
‘You have a water buffalo?’ Moonie says. ‘I have only seen pictures of them in books.’
‘LongMa works very hard on the farm, lifting and carrying and pulling things. But she is also my best friend. Every night, I ride her to the Marshlands to graze on the reeds and grasses. What she likes best is to wallow in the mud.’
‘It sounds idyllic,’ she says dreamily. ‘Like something out of a book.’
‘It is beautiful,’ I say. ‘In spring, flocks of waterbirds fly from other parts of the world. That is when the Marshlands can get very busy and very noisy. I love going there.’
‘Tell me more about your world, Little Dipper.’ She looks at me and rests her hand under her chin. Moonie has the kindest, deepest brown eyes.
‘My job is to look after the silkworms. Have you ever heard of silk material?’ I say.
‘Of course I have. It is only the most expensive, most beautiful fabric ever made!’ she says. ‘Greta Garbo must have hundreds of silk dresses she is so rich.’
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Never mind. Go on, Little Dipper.’
‘Well, it starts with a tiny egg that grows bigger and bigger, until a caterpillar is hatched. The caterpillar eats and eats, living on leaves from the mulberry tree, and when it is full size, it spins a cocoon of silk around itself. This silk thread is what silk cloth is made from.’
She stares at me in disbelief. ‘Silk is made by an insect? I never knew that.’
‘People have farmed silkworms for thousands of years,’ I say. ‘My job every day is to pick mulberry leaves morning and night. I have to clean out the silkworm trays and when the caterpillars have spun their cocoons, I take them in big sacks on LongMa’s back to the Silk Factory in Silk Town where they weave it into cloth.
‘I wonder if the silken thread could work in the other direction,’ I say. ‘I want you to come to my world to meet Little Tian and LongMa and all the animals.’
‘I would love that,’ says Moonie. She touches the Peter Pan and Wendy book. ‘Peter and Wendy, the two characters in the story, visit each other’s worlds. Maybe later it can be like that with us too.’
‘Pe-ter . . . Wen-dy,’ I repeat. The words feel strange in my mouth. ‘Maybe it just takes practice, like a lot of things. Will you read it to me?’
‘For certain I will, but it will have to be the next time you come. My family will be home from church soon so there is no time now.’
Before I realise what is coming out of my mouth I say, ‘Next time I will bring you some silk so you can make a birthday dress for your mama.’ Instantly, I regret these words. How in the world am I going to get silk cloth? It costs a fortune in China too.
‘You would do that? Really?’ she says, her eyes round with delight. ‘If I make a silk dress for Ma Mi, I know it will bring her home. I just know it will.’
Now it is too late to admit the truth and tell her how impossible it will be.
There is a series of short sharp knocks on the front door downstairs.
‘Wait here, I will be back,’ says Moonie.
She slides off the bed and begins singing a happy song as she leaves the room. I think about Teacher Sun and the letter in my satchel. I wonder how many hours have passed, or maybe it has been days since I was with LongMa at night in the Marshlands. Time in both our worlds is not like real time.
I have to go. I cannot wait for Moonie. But how am I going to do that?
If I think about my family, maybe this will take me home.
I think about the last time we all worked together. It was the middle of the night and we were helping Baba make his famous pickled vegetables. His suan cai is the most popular at the market and the recipe is secret. That is why we work at night, so neighbours cannot see how it is done. Baba puts layers of fresh cabbage leaves on the bottom of a stoneware jar and covers it with salt. Then First Brother steps into the jar with bare feet and stamps it down. More layers of vegetable and salt, then it is Second Brother’s turn to do the stamping. When it comes to Third Brother, because he is chubby, he can only fit one leg into the jar.
Suddenly I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I look up, expecting Moonie. Her older sister comes into the room instead. Luckily, she cannot see me, otherwise she surely would have screamed at seeing a strange boy on her bed.
They do not look like sisters. Stella’s hair is straight, while Moonie’s hair is long and slightly wavy. Stella keeps looking towards the door, cocking her head to listen to the voices down below. She looks worried.
I bring myself back to picturing us all making pickled cabbage. I must get back to Chongming Island. I hold the special cocoon, the gift from Silkmother.
And just like that, I am in the Marshlands with LongMa.
At breakfast the next morning, Mama says, ‘How was your lesson last night?’
I feel my face burn with guilt. I look down at my bowl of steamy hot dou jiang soya bean milk not wanting to face Mama with a lie.
Everyone is there, all my brothers and Baba. They lift their heads to listen.
‘I learned the alphabet. There are twenty-six symbols that you string together in different combinations to make words . . .’ Moonie told me this, not Teacher Sun.
‘Did you deal with that ghost?’ says Nai Nai, noisily drinking her doh jiang with gusto.
‘He liked the smelly doufu the best,’ I say. ‘As long as I have it, he will not bother me or LongMa again.’
‘Hmm,’ grunts Nai Nai. ‘He was always greedy in life. Death has not changed him.’
‘I think it has, Nai Nai,’ I say. ‘He told me he was so greedy for fish that is why he drowned.’
She slaps her thigh. ‘Ha, the old codger has learned a thing or two, even if it is too late.’
‘Did you see the Will o’ the Wisp?’ asks Third Brother.
I shake my head.
‘Did you give Teacher Sun the red envelope?’ says Baba as he picks up a wedge of scallion pancake from the centre of the table and dips it in rice vinegar.
‘Yes, Baba,’ I say. I feel my body go hot from lying. ‘Do you want to see what I did in class?’
I get up from the table, take out the letter I wrote to Teacher Sun and hand it to Baba. He looks at it then hands it to Mama, who passes it to Second Brother.
Mama rubs me on the back. ‘We are very proud of you, son,’ she says.
If they only knew what the letter really said, they would be ashamed, not proud. But tonight, I am going to fix everything.
As Third Brother and I wash the breakfast dishes in a tub in the yard, I imagine what is going to happen. After reading the letter of apology, Teacher Sun will welcome me into her house. I will give her two red envelopes of money, one for last night and one for tonight, and my English lessons will begin in earnest. I smile in anticipation.
Then I feel a little hand tickling the back of my neck. ‘Ge Ge, you know it is wrong,’ says Little Tian.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Moonie
The Stranger at the Door
I tell Little Dipper to wait while I go down to answer the door. The thought that he might bring some silk for Ma Mi’s birthday dress makes me want to sing at the top of my voice. I jump down the last three steps and run to the door, opening it with a big smile on my face.
A lady stands with her back to me, looking at De Di’s camellias. Some are as big as Baby John’s face.
‘Hello,’ I say, as the lady leans over to smell one of the flowers. She must be one of the many people begging for food.
‘Camellias don’t have a scent, not like roses that look pretty and have a beautiful perfume too. Wait while I get you some food,’ I say.
The lady turns and I see that her clothes are not worn and threadbare at all. She is very well dressed, wearing a rust-brown coat belted at the waist and a lemon-yellow scarf made of what looks like silk tied around her neck. Her hat, which sits at a slight angle, has an oval brooch pinned to its side made from a cluster of baby pearls with a tiny feather poking out the middle. And on her feet are the whitest high heel shoes I have ever seen. How does she keep them so clean? This lady has definitely not come begging for food.
‘I am here to see your father,’ she says in Cantonese. Her high heels go dock dock dock as she steps up onto the front verandah and comes towards me.
‘De Di’s not back from church yet,’ I say.
She looks at her watch. ‘He is expecting me, but I am early so I will wait,’ she says. And without saying another word, she picks up a small suitcase which I hadn’t noticed before and pushes past me into the house.
I’m so surprised, I stand there like a stuffed animal in a museum that has just realised they are dead.
‘Close your mouth. You look like a saw guaa stupid melon with it hanging open like that,’ the lady says.
I shut it quickly.
She glances into the Good Room and, taking off her hat and gloves, makes herself comfortable on the Good Couch.
Who is this lady who acts like the Dowager Empress of China? She has dramatically pencilled eyebrows, and lips that are too thin painted with bright red lipstick so it looks like she has a slash across the bottom of her face. But what I notice the most about her is the perfume. Pee-ew. It’s like she’s brought a thick cloud of it into the house. Ma Mi would hate it. I want to leave the front door open to air the place out. Instead, I am polite because that’s how I’ve been brought up. ‘Would you like some tea?’ I say.
With her index finger she wipes dust off the side table. ‘What is your name?’
‘Moonie,’ I say.
‘What sort of name is that?’ she scoffs.
‘Ma Mi and De Di did not give me an English name like my brothers and sister have. My Chinese name is Moot Lee, which means jasmine flower. It was too hard for Westerners to pronounce, so Moonie is the closest sound,’ I say.
‘Moot Lee, get me a glass of water while I wait for your father,’ she commands in her Empress Dowager voice.
I gladly leave the room and go down the hall to the kitchen. My stomach feels hollow, as if it knows something bad is coming before my head does.
As I go back with a glass of water, De Di opens the front door. Thank goodness. I don’t want to talk to this lady any longer. And Little Dipper is probably wondering why I’m taking so long.
‘Ah, Miss Yip,’ says De Di.
Has he met her before? The bright red slash under Miss Yip’s nose turns up at the edges. It’s fake though, because it doesn’t reach her eyes.
De Di points to me. ‘This is my second oldest, Moonie,’ he says.
‘Moot Lee and I have already met,’ she says without looking at me.
‘Miss Yip has been kind enough to come and take care of everything in the house,’ he says.
I look down at her small brown suitcase and shrink back in horror. Oh no. This is the lady De Di has employed to look after us while Ma Mi’s away. And she is going to live with us.
‘Miss Yip, you may use this room as your bedroom,’ De Di says.
‘No, De Di!’ I want to scream, but I hold the words in.
‘Call me Liza,’ she says. ‘May I call you George?’
‘Of course. And please, treat this house like it is your own. From now on you are in charge,’ De Di says.
‘I have homework to do,’ I say, through gritted teeth. I quickly hand Miss Yip the glass of water then run upstairs, muttering, ‘No, no, no, no,’ under my breath.
I almost bump into Stella, who is on the landing.
