Three souls, p.27
Three Souls, page 27
After lunch, the guests file out of the dining hall and into the forecourt. Out on the street, hired rickshaws and donkey carts wait to carry the bride’s family to the train station for the journey home. It’s been an abbreviated celebration, because the bride’s family must return to their home and business.
During the farewell rituals, the bride weeps sincerely, tears streaking her heavy rice-powder makeup. She falls on the slate flagstones and wraps her arms around her mother’s knees. Then she shuffles over to her father, who pats her on the head. The winemaker gives Baizhen’s thin shoulder blades a jovial thump.
“Son-in-law, I’ll bring more wine on our next visit. On the occasion of Meichiu’s first pregnancy.”
Baizhen lowers his head and smiles uneasily.
Relatives circle Meichiu for a final round of embraces, words of farewell, and promises to write every week. They depart in a flurry of waving hands. Then out on Jade Belt Road, it is quiet once more.
***
My house has a fresh coat of paint. The railings on the veranda and along the staircase are new. My bedchamber is almost bare of furniture: only an old trunk and an armoire remain. Some of my dowry furniture is in Meichiu’s bedroom, a small chamber that is nonetheless infinitely preferable to the one where I died. Weilan is out of the nursery now, her little bed moved to one of the second-floor rooms.
The bride spends the rest of the afternoon in her bedroom. With Dali’s help she changes out of her wedding finery, then sits on the bed while Dali unpacks her trunk.
“I’m your house servant and also part-time nanny to your stepdaughter,” Dali says, folding clothes into drawers. I can tell the servant is trying not to be too obvious about running her hand over the clothing to judge its quality. “Young Mistress will like Weilan, she’s very bright. She can read already.”
Meichiu doesn’t reply.
“The Mistress will show you the whole estate tomorrow. You’ll find this house very comfortable, Young Mistress. It’s the newest one on the property. There’s even a small library upstairs.”
Meichiu stands up. “Where’s the toilet?”
She hasn’t spoken in a normal voice before; I’ve only heard murmured replies and teary farewells. Beneath her weary tone, there’s a no-nonsense quality to her voice.
The wedding day ends with a light supper. Jia Po serves the newlyweds a soup of dates and lotus seeds. After they spoon up the hot, sweet liquid, Baizhen and Meichiu bow to Jia Po and Gong Gong. Then Meichiu follows Baizhen through the courtyard and up the shallow steps to the lower floor of the house.
I don’t follow. I return to the temple, welcoming the dim silence. But my sharpened hearing still detects a quick, stifled cry followed by a low moan.
***
The next morning, Jia Po takes the bride on a tour of the estate, through the courtyards, each of the houses, and the kitchen. It seems only a few short years ago that I went on this same walk, as apprehensive as Meichiu. I see what Meichiu must be seeing, water stains seeping down the walls, shutters that need replacing, unmistakable signs of encroaching poverty. I find myself hoping she can look past the shabbiness and appreciate the estate’s elegant proportions and thoughtful design. When she’s lived here longer she’ll see how the bamboos in the courtyard sway in the slightest breeze to make a hot day cooler, how the deep veranda roof provides comfortable shelter from the summer rains. How the lazy afternoon light shimmers over the rock garden, washing the tall stones with gold.
Meichiu quickly settles into the daily routine. She helps with housework, tidying the main house and sweeping cobwebs from the ceilings. She’s much stricter with Dali than I used to be, for I had known nothing about proper housekeeping.
“The new Young Mistress is very particular,” says Dali to Mrs. Kwan with grudging approval. “And she’s not above doing some of the work herself.”
“Our first Young Mistress was far too well-bred,” says Mrs. Kwan. “Too much education, all of it the wrong sort for a small household.”
Meichiu is deferential to Jia Po and shows her respect in ways that had never occurred to me: blowing on the surface of a hot cup of tea before serving it, kneeling to rub the old woman’s feet at the end of a long day.
And I can’t complain about how Meichiu treats Weilan. She doesn’t go out of her way to make a fuss over my daughter, but neither is she unkind. It’s as much as anyone could expect. Weilan avoids her stepmother, but I can’t tell whether it’s out of hostility or shyness.
***
Jia Po says there’s only enough dowry money for another ten years. How is everyone supposed to eat after that? I must find a way to tell Baizhen to contact Eldest Brother about my inheritance. Why hasn’t he written to Changyin?
He’s probably waiting until the situation gets desperate, my yin soul says. He’s respecting your wishes.
Find a way to talk to your husband, then. But stop wasting time, says my yang soul. He stands at the centre of the pavilion, his hands joined inside the cuffs of his jacket. He seems older and frailer somehow.
It’s more important to find a way to make amends, says my hun soul.
I’d rather find a way to talk to Baizhen, I snap. The most important thing is to ensure he makes good decisions for my daughter. There’s plenty of time for making amends, however I’m supposed to accomplish that.
My yin soul looks distressed and dried lemongrass fills the air. I don’t know exactly how much time you have, but it’s probably less than you think.
I think, my hun soul says, that if you manage to communicate with the living, it will lead you to an understanding of how to make amends.
20
It’s becoming clear that I can’t deny the pull of the afterlife, an elusive tugging so subtle it could be my imagination. But each day it grows stronger, the sensation of being stretched, each tendon of my ghost body elongated to the point of mild discomfort. At night, when the household is asleep and nothing distracts me, I am restless. I roam through the estate haunting family and servants alike, avoiding Meichiu’s room if Baizhen is there.
Watching Weilan sleep calms me. I can fall into a peaceful state when I’m beside her and feel as though I’m about to doze off myself, my mind passive, wandering pleasantly toward a void. The afterlife’s pull recedes when I’m with her, waiting for her eyelashes to still and her breathing to grow soft and regular.
“Small Bird,” I whisper. “Sesame Seed. My Only Heart.”
One day, Baizhen takes Weilan to the market square to see a troupe of travelling acrobats. This is the first time since my death that Weilan has gone out with her father, and she fairly skips along. They return just before suppertime, Weilan so tired and excited she can’t finish her meal. She chatters away while Dali bathes her in the wooden tub, washing the sticky remnants of candy and fruit juice from her small hands.
“There were acrobats, Dali, six of them.” She squints as she submits her small face to the soapy washcloth. “They climbed up on each other’s shoulders until they were a tower, three, then two, then the last one on top.”
“Close your eyes again, I’m going to pour water on your face.”
Weilan does as she’s told. “And there was a girl, about my age, she was so pretty. She was all in blue, a beautiful tunic and trousers, with pink ribbons in her hair. She climbed up and stood on the shoulders of the man at the top. Everyone was clapping and cheering.”
She sighs with happiness. Once she’s out of the tub and tucked into her blankets, she’s asleep before Dali even shuts the door.
The full moon shines through the window, its cold radiance softened by rice-paper shades. I sit beside Weilan, ready to settle down for the night. Something causes me to blink once, and then once more. Surrounding Weilan’s little head is a second, hazy outline against the pillow. This, I think, is a trick of the moonlight. Or my vision has blurred in this drowsy state.
Then my hun soul prods me.
Look, it says, pointing, and I do. The bed casts no second silhouette, nor does the wardrobe, which stands in sharp focus against the far wall.
That outline, that second silhouette is only around Weilan’s head, my yin soul exclaims. She is excited, hopping from foot to foot, her pigtails bouncing.
Take a closer look, my yang soul urges, almost as excited.
Tentatively, I reach out to touch the blurry shape above Weilan’s head, expecting my hand to pass through it, as it does with all things in the earthly world. Instead, my fingers make contact with the edge of the shape. It’s as insubstantial as a fine silk thread, but it’s there and I can feel it.
Startled, I snatch my hand away, but the edge of the shape clings to my fingers, sticky as a cobweb. As I draw back from the bed, the edge remains attached to my hand, stretching out the shape above Weilan’s head as I pull away. Its hazy outline balloons into a shimmering oval that hangs in the air just above the ground. Shadows move across the oval, figures from the other side.
My souls murmur in wonder, in hope.
Is this another portal to the afterlife? my yin soul asks, eager but fearful. A scent like fermented rice.
It can’t be. You haven’t made amends yet, says my yang soul. This gives us pause.
What’s the worst that could happen? I say, finally. I’m already dead.
And I step through the shimmering oval.
Immediately, a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach tells me my souls haven’t followed. I’m alone, but I must go on.
***
The scene before me is disappointingly familiar. It’s the courtyard of our house, the rock garden at one end, the bamboo grove shading the other, the moon gate separating our garden from the main courtyard. I hear giggling from the bamboo grove and turn to see three children race out toward the rock garden, Weilan in the lead.
I recognize the other two, a boy and a girl, both in rags. For a while they had wandered about on Jade Belt Road. It troubled Weilan’s tender heart to see them. Once I gave her a coin to offer to the little girl. The child had snatched it away and put it in her mouth, her face hostile. After a few months, we no longer saw the two little beggars, but we never knew what had become of them.
What are they doing in our garden? What kind of place is this?
An instant later Weilan stands on the path among the rocks, and the urchins are gone. Baizhen is beside her now. I call out, but they neither hear nor see me. He takes her hand and together they drift, rather than walk, through the moon gate. I hurry to follow.
Beyond the moon gate is a busy street that resembles Minor Street, but not quite. The trees are taller, the canal wider, the ancient arched bridges steeper. Baizhen and Weilan cross the canal. Coloured paper lanterns hang from the sycamore trees and a festive feeling is in the air. The street is busy with pedestrians but when I look closely I cannot recognize any of them: their faces are blurs.
We enter the market square to the shouts of stall keepers and the nasal, high-pitched wailing of the folk-opera singers. Baizhen pushes his way through a crowd gathered around a small outdoor stage. Acrobats in bright blue tunics, lithe and muscular, walk through the air as though balanced on invisible stair treads.
This is no afterlife. I’m in Weilan’s dream.
Three muscular male acrobats lock arms and stand as immovable as blocks of granite while two others leap up onto their shoulders. One more man climbs to the top of the pyramid. Then a little girl dances her way up to stand on his shoulders. It’s Weilan. She smiles and waves to the crowd, the sequins on her blue tunic winking back sunlight.
Then she leaps off the pyramid and swims through the air toward her father, wafting down as gently as a leaf to settle in his arms. She laughs at his delight and her own prowess.
“How did you learn to do that, Little One?” he exclaims.
“Oh, I’ve been practising with the acrobats,” she says, nonchalant but proud.
“I wish your mother could’ve seen you.”
Immediately, Weilan’s face loses its animation.
A misty figure at the edge of the crowd catches my eye, coming into focus as it walks toward my daughter. As it draws closer, I realize it looks like me. It’s even wearing my favourite green velvet skirt. My daughter has conjured me in her sleep.
“But she did see me!” Weilan cries out, running toward the figure. “Mama, were you watching?”
Without hesitation, I step into my dream image. My body tingles, stings, and suddenly the uneven paving stones of the market square are beneath my feet, my shoulders bumping against other people as I push through the crowd. The tingling stops and I kneel down to throw my arms around my daughter. Finally I can hug Weilan’s small body. I nearly weep with joy at the softness of her cheek against mine, knowing that she can feel my arms around her thin shoulders. She presses against me, squirming with delight.
“Oh, Mama! I knew you would come back to me!”
But her emotions are so intense, her happiness so powerful, the flimsy threads enclosing her dream snap apart.
She wakes up.
I am jolted out of the dream and find myself back in Weilan’s bedroom, still kneeling on the floor, arms outstretched.
Weilan jumps out of bed, and then runs out the door into the grey morning light. She sprints to the little library, calling for me. She runs along the veranda and down the stairs screaming, “Mama! Mama!” as she pushes through the door of my empty bedroom.
Baizhen stumbles out of Meichiu’s room, groggy and alarmed.
“Little One, what is it? Why are you out of bed?”
“It’s Mama! She’s back! I saw her!” Weilan runs toward the main courtyard.
In no time at all, she’s woken up the entire household. She calls for me and looks in the kitchen, the reception hall, her grandfather’s study. She’s hysterical when Baizhen catches up with her.
“Where’s Mama?” she sobs into his shoulder. “Where is she?”
“Mama’s gone, Small Bird. She’s not here.”
“No! No!” Her shrieks pierce my heart. “She was here with us just now, watching me perform with the acrobats!”
“You were dreaming,” he says, lifting her off the cold floor. “I dream about her too, but it’s not real.”
“No! She was real. I could feel her!” She beats her fists in frustration against Baizhen’s chest as he carries her back toward the main courtyard.
“What’s going on? Baizhen, why is your daughter screaming?” Jia Po comes out of her house, a blanket draped over her shoulders, grey hair in a loose braid.
“She had a bad dream, Mother.”
“It wasn’t a dream!” My daughter’s face reddens in frustration. “Mama came back. I saw her.”
Jia Po’s papery skin turns slightly paler.
“Baizhen, take her back to bed. I’ll send Mrs. Kwan over with date syrup to calm her nerves. She must make offerings to her mother later.”
***
When I was alive, my dreams were so vivid they remained with me for days. In one of my dreams about Hanchin, we were together at a train station; he was dressed in a tweed suit and a heavy coat. He pulled me into his arms as snow fell around us, a Russian winter. He smelled of sandalwood. It felt so real. I woke up wildly happy, believing the dream was a message, a premonition, before common sense intervened.
But common sense isn’t always much help for a little girl who has lost her mother. My actions were thoughtless; her grief had been renewed, as fresh now as it was on the day of my burial.
Just before supper that day, Baizhen takes Weilan to the family temple. They light incense in front of my name tablet and fill a dish with dried red plums. Weilan appears calm. Only the reddened rims of her eyes betray the turmoil of emotion she’s lived through today.
***
I’ll never interfere with her dreams again, never even enter them. It’s better for her to forget all about me than to spend any more of her childhood grieving.
The real question is, of what use is this ability to enter others’ dreams? Something spicy scorches my lips. My yang soul is excited by this development. They all are. They circle, red sparks like fireflies dancing around the altar.
You must find out more, says my yin soul. Can you enter anyone’s dreams? Can you make yourself seen and heard in any dream?
I’m not barging into anyone else’s dreams. Look what happened with Weilan, the damage I caused.
It seems to me that until you enter a dream-person, you have no effect at all, my hun soul says thoughtfully.
You must try again, urges my yin soul. Not Weilan’s dreams. But there must be a reason ghosts can enter dreams. A scent like peppercorns. Or white freesias.
***
The next night, I go into the servants’ quarters, an area I rarely entered while living. Two long brick buildings face each other across a wide stone walkway. The buildings are separated from the kitchen by a courtyard, where Old Kwan grows vegetables and the ginger, garlic, and green onions a cook always needs. The area is ruled by an ancient rooster, and a dozen hens peck assiduously at the ground, looking for insects between the newly planted rows.
Old Kwan had told me that when Baizhen’s grandfather was still alive, fourteen servants had lived in these quarters. Now only one of the buildings is in use, and its roof sags so much the two middle rooms are open to wind and rain. Old Kwan and Mrs. Kwan live in the two best rooms, closest to the courtyard, using one as a bedroom and the other as a sitting room. Dali occupies a single chamber at the far end. The second building contains a jumble of broken pottery and some old furniture, meant to be repaired someday but more likely to end up chopped for firewood.
Dali’s bed is made of carved elm. Once a finely crafted piece of furniture, it has lost its legs and now rests on a low platform of bricks. A cheap mirror lies face down on a table by the window, along with a wooden comb, a jar of cold cream, and a dish of hairpins.
