The Concubine's Daughter (14 page)

With the riverboat well past, they continued along the towpath to a small house built of limestone close to the river. Its wooden jetty had rotted away and its sampan lay half sunk among the reeds, yet the little house seemed to possess a timeless pride. Countless seasons had stripped its once-fresh paint like dead skin. Some of the tiles of its roof were cracked and needed replacing, and its fence leaned from want of repair, the gate sagging upon rusted hinges. A narrow weir had been channeled into a pond beside the house, where a broken waterwheel had once churned among the water lilies. The walled garden enclosed a dozen mulberry trees and a meager patch of vegetables, overgrown with weeds. A few scrawny hens pecked among the fallen fruit beneath a neglected orchard. The pigsty and goat pen were broken and empty, the rice terrace dry and stony.

An old man sat outside the faded, once-red door, sipping tea and smoking a long-stemmed pipe. Pebble stopped to greet him and warn him of their approach. “Good morning, old lord, how are you today?” His wrinkled face screwed into a show of pleasure at the sound of her
voice as he shouted his reply: “Good morning, little sisters. I have been expecting you. It is good to hear your voice again.”

“We visit the old lord often to help harvest his cocoons and weed his vegetable plot.” Pebble said to Li-Xia. “We will be sad when he is gone and we can no longer listen to the bees in his garden and the doves on his roof or share his ginseng tea. He says that no one will buy his house because it is has too many ghosts, and it is old and needs money and hard work to make it new again. So we have patched the roof and mended the floor and blocked the broken windows and tried to fix the waterwheel. He cannot see very well, but he has the ears of a bat and his chi is still strong.”

Pebble continued with words of great respect. “His wife lies buried beside his daughter and two sons under the fig tree. We come on the day of Ching-Ming to help him honor his loved ones. He has no one left on this earth and has lost count of the years. So he has adopted us as his granddaughters, and to us he is Ah-Bart, our esteemed grandfather. He says that his ancestors are our ancestors, and that his house has known much happiness.” Pebble looked upon the peaceful little farm with deep affection. “Is it not truly the Heavenly House? It has thick walls and a good roof easily mended, with enough mulberry trees to fill many baskets to sell at the mill. Its garden can provide everything for the table, and when the mill wheel is turning, the water is pure and cold as mountain snow. Our grandfather is truly rich. He is at peace… . This is a place of true harmony, filled with a golden feng shui. He will not leave his house on the river until his ancestors demand it.”

Pebble opened the squeaky gate, her voice filled with cheer. “We bring the willow blossom, old lord, and flowers and wild strawberries and some mushrooms fresh from the fields. We also have brought a new willow broom to sweep away the cobwebs.”

The old man waved, inviting them to cross his gate and share his tea. He had been expecting them and had picked lychees and red apples and fetched a pot of tasty noodles from the kitchen. All of these were gathered together under the fig tree, where the four graves were resting. The
mung-cha-cha
set about clearing the little spot of fallen leaves and weeds,
while Pebble whisked away with the willow broom. When the graves were cleaned and swept, the headstones washed and scrubbed so that their names could be clearly read, the wildflowers and bunches of golden catkins were placed upon them, while Pebble fried the fish and braised the eels they had also brought with them. With the lighting of joss sticks and much hammering on an ancient plough shear, the ancestors were invited to share the feast of Ching-Ming.

Time had no meaning as the years passed. Li-Xia filled her baskets as fast and often as any of the
mui-mui
, and when the seasons changed she worked in the sheds, spreading the larvae on the rush mat trays with fast and clever fingers. When the silkworms hatched, she fed them ten times a day from the baskets of mulberry leaves fetched by Giant Yun.

The open air and comradeship of the mulberry groves brought her the most contentment—the chatter of the
mung-cha-cha
among the trees, the scolding of Little Pebble if fingers did not fly and the baskets were not filled fast enough.

A day came when the clear blue of the sky gave way to a towering thunderhead that challenged the sun. It caused a downpour that lasted no more than fifteen minutes but left the trees saturated, every cocoon sparkling like a single diamond. When the sun broke through, warm and fresh as only an afternoon in early autumn can be, the
mui-mui
shook the boughs so that the diamonds fell to earth. Wet cocoons were hard to handle, and it meant half an hour’s rest while the sun dried them out.

Pebble led Li-Xia through the sparkling groves to an ancient tree that stood alone on the highest point of the hill, bigger and shadier than all others, its gnarled roots thick with moss.
Like veins on the back of a witch’s hand,
Li-Xia thought as they approached.

“It is called the Ghost Tree,” Pebble told her, “The first one was planted by Ming-Chou’s great-grandfather. There was a girl whose
mui-mui
name was Morning Star, because she was as small and pretty as the tiny flower.” Pebble’s voice was filled with a sadness Li-Xia had never
heard before. “She was not strong enough and could not climb the ladder without fear. I tried to help her, but she grew sick and could not fill her baskets. Ah-Jeh beat her till she bled.” Pebble stopped and looked away, trying not to show her tears. “At night she could not sleep and kept her lamp lit … she passed the hours plaiting reeds. We did not know she was making a rope. When it was long enough and strong enough, she hung herself from this tree. It is why I wear her flowers in my hair—so that I will not forget her. I was her overseer. I should have seen the rope. I should have saved her.”

The overseer tried to smile. “Do you see something strange about this tree?”

Li-Xia gazed into its widespread branches. “It is very old and very beautiful… . It seems as old and strong as a rock,” she replied, sharing a little of Pebble’s sadness.

“There are no cocoons. Since she died, no moth has settled in this tree and no silkworm spun its cocoon.” Pebble smiled again, still a little sadly. “Even the finches and squirrels no longer make their home here.”

She pinched the tears from her eyes and found her grin. “The
mui-mui
are afraid of this tree. They believe it shelters Morning Star’s soul and the souls of those who have died in these hills. It is where I sit to think my thoughts and talk to any god who will listen.”

Pebble spoke with deepest sadness as she ran her fingertips across the tree’s furrowed bark.

“This tree knows I was meant to be a dancer. Its branches hold the mysteries of time; its leaves are broken dreams, but it still lives, like the heart of a wise old man holding the hand of a lost child. I have shared its magic with no one until now. There can be no secrets between us beneath this tree.”

Pebble rubbed away the moss with the palm of her hand to reveal two perfectly carved Chinese characters. “You see, the mark of Little Pebble and Morning Star. I cut it a dozen years ago. Beside it I shall cut the name of Crabapple.” She took a knife from her hair and began to carve each stroke and curve with care.

“You can write my name?” Li asked in astonishment.

Pebble put a finger to her lips with exaggerated caution. “I can also read, but tell no one or I shall pay dearly for such a crime.” It was as if Li were seeing her friend the overseer for the first time.

Finishing the carving, Pebble brushed aside the shavings and stood back, inviting Li to see her work. “There—Pebble, Morning Star, and Crabapple; no storm will be great enough to part us. This Ghost Tree will never die.” She breathed deeply, stretching out her arms to the leafy ceiling above them. “Here we can be whatever we wish to be. Sometimes I am an empress … no one knows this but I, so there is no one to say that I am not. On other days, I am the star of the grandest opera on the great stage in Peking with the voice of a goddess … no one hears me sing but this tree.”

She bowed to Li-Xia with a wide sweep of her hat. “And you, my little Crabapple. What are you in your most secret heart?” Li-Xia answered without hesitation. “I am born to be a scholar, to have a great room filled with scrolls and papers and many books … all for me to understand and teach to others.” Pebble nodded her head and sat down, her back against the tree, her legs outstretched toward the sunlit valley spread before them like a padded quilt with crops of green, yellow, and every shade of brown, the silver sheen of the river winding through it. The earth seemed washed clean, and the smell of farmland reached them from afar.

“We are the same in here.” Pebble placed a hand over her heart. “We had no one but our own shadow; now we have each other.” She reached for the water gourd and drank deeply, and handed it to Li-Xia with a sigh of contentment. “See how rich we are, Crabapple? The whole of China is at our feet and the great Pearl River is our friend.”

That night, Li-Xia showed Little Pebble her precious book. It was the last of her secrets, known only to her heart. All others had been shared with Pebble and she had kept them safe.

“I am the only one who can read in this palace of fools,” Pebble whispered with a grin of rare delight. “Don’t let Ah-Jeh see your book or she will throw it in the pit and take the skin off your back. We are too stupid to read books. That is the law.” Little Pebble then grew troubled, speaking
without her lopsided grin. “I have learned to read, but I have paid the price. Before I came here, I stayed with an old man who said he was my uncle. I do not know if he was or not, but this does not matter. I swept his room, fetched his tea, and made his soup.” Pebble frowned and looked away. “He was not so old that he did not want me in his bed, but he taught me to read. I thought it was good business. But he grew tired of me and sold me to Ming-Chou because he needed opium.”

Pebble rolled to one side of her stretcher, lifting the edge of her sleeping mat to show that it was lined with old newspapers. “See? I have read them all a thousand times. There is nothing I don’t know about the world. What is your book about?”

Li-Xia hesitated, excited that her friend could read and embarrassed that she could not. “It’s about the moon … all about the moon.”

“What does it tell you about the moon? This is a very big subject—the moon has many faces.”

Unexpected tears made Li-Xia blink. “I cannot read the words properly … but I think I know what they say.”

Pebble did not laugh at her. “Sometimes this is the best way to read—it is called imagination, the silk that weaves our dreams. Because the words are written by another, and do not always say what we want of them, they give you a reason to think,” she said wisely. “Let me see this secret book of yours, and perhaps I will teach you to read it as it is written.”

These were the words Li-Xia had waited to hear for longer than she could remember. She offered the book to Pebble, who drew the lamp a little closer, turning its pages.

“You are very lucky to have found this book. It is an almanac, the lunar calendar … all the magic stories of Heng-O, our Seventh Sister the Moon. Your mother was indeed a scholar; there are many notes on the things that she believed. The images she has made by her own hand are the images of greatness and wisdom.”

Pebble looked from the open journal into Li-Xia’s anxious face. “You are surely blessed to carry such a mother in your heart wherever you go, and to know that whatever happens, she awaits you in the afterlife.”

From that moment Li-Xia began learning to read the words that told the thoughts of Pai-Ling. Every new character she mastered was another step along a promised pathway. Little Pebble was a patient teacher, eager to share the moon stories. One story she never tired of reading while Li traced every word with a careful fingertip was the story of Heng-O and Hou-Yih: