House of Trembling Leaves, The

by Lees, Julian

  Moments later a parade of Woo women appeared in neatly ironed dresses and stiff smiles. The matriarch of the family stepped forward and greeted her with folded hands. ‘‘How is the child?’’ asked Lu See.

  ‘‘His condition has worsened,’’ replied Matriarch Woo solemnly.

  ‘‘May I see him?’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ asked the child’s mother, a young woman of about twenty-five, her voice crackly and breathless.

  ‘‘I want to help.’’

  ‘‘Unless you are a doctor I doubt you can help. And what is the point of calling a doctor if there is no medicine to be bought?’’ said one of the older aunties.

  ‘‘Besides,’’ offered another with an intense look, ‘‘all the doctors have run off to Kuala Lumpur where the money is better.’’

  Lu See squared her shoulders. ‘‘I may not be a doctor but I have a book of medicine with me.’’

  A pointed silence filled the room. The aunties exchanged reluctant noises. ‘‘Let me at least see him.’’

  ‘‘Very well,’’ said Matriarch Woo.

  They led Lu See up the stairs to a dim outpost of the sprawling house. In the child’s room Lu See pulled up a chair so that it was next to the bed. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead. He had a high spiking fever and no longer recognized his own family.

  ‘‘Where is the pain?’’ she asked the boy. ‘‘Is the pain sharp like a cut or dull like a bruise?’’

  When he didn’t reply his mother responded on his behalf. ‘‘In his stomach and he has been wetting his bed every hour. We gave him rancid brinjal and vinegar but his fever will not break.’’

  Lu See knelt at the child’s bedside and ran a cool, damp towel over his face. She placed her palm on the boy’s abdomen and ironed it gently with the flat of her hand. Then she touched the lower right side of his tummy and pressed down. The boy barely moved. Frowning, she could feel the abdomen was distended. ‘‘Not appendicitis, otherwise he would have jerked with pain.’’

  ‘‘His lips have turned white.’’

  ‘‘He’s dehydrated. Get him to drink more water.’’

  They applied a wet cloth to his mouth and dribbled water onto his tongue.

  With a quiet strength, Lu See stayed by his side for several minutes unsure what she could do. She studied the young boy’s pale face and the blades of his narrow shoulders and thought of Adrian. He would have looked like, as an eight year old. He would have looked just like this.

  Tenderly, she stroked his hair. She tried to recall what it was like to see Adrian’s face, what it was like to hold Adrian in her arms; when he was warm, when he was whole. But she couldn’t remember; the weight of grief had seen to that. She pinched her eyes shut and tried to squeeze the memories out. Her hands went to a piece of loose thread attached to her sleeve. And like a reflex her mind unspooled, taking her back to the hospital at Addenbrooke’s and its institution-green walls.

  A nurse wheeling a trolley of kidney dishes immediately abandoned what she was doing to help Lu See to a bench in a big empty corridor. ‘‘I want to see my husband,’’ she said, but the nurse gave her a sympathetic look that said, Now’s not the time; he’s lying on a marble slab.

  She sat on the plain wooden bench, shaking in her overcoat, the sleeves of her cardigan pulled down over the backs of her hands. Every so often she stared at the wall clock, but dark spots bobbed before her like black watermelon seeds. Only when the same nurse offered her a cup of tea did she notice that over an hour had gone by. She placed her hands on her tummy, her eight-week pregnant tummy. For the first time that day she realized the child would be fatherless.

  Only last night Adrian had pressed his face against her tummy. She vaguely remembered him kissing her belly button through her dress, tickling, making her laugh. And the more she giggled the more he tickled. Had that been yesterday or some other evening?

  Lu See felt a panic grow within her. She looked about and hoped the nurse with the white cape and red cross embroidered on her bosom would come and sit with her. But she didn’t.

  She waited; she thought about the future of her unborn child, and waited.

  Finally, the coroner appeared. He wanted her to come with him. He and a houseman led her into an old iron elevator that took her down to the windowless basement.

  The houseman flicked a basement switch. Overhead lights sparked on. She saw a raised table at the centre of the room with the contours of a body shrouded by a white sheet. The houseman stood by her side in case she collapsed.

  ‘‘All right,’’ the coroner said in a steady, composed tone. ‘‘When you’re ready.’’

  She nodded.

  He pulled the white sheet from Adrian’s motionless frame, exposing his wan chest and small pink nipples, his arms arranged by his sides. The first thing she noticed was the bones protruding through his upper chest. His clavicle and ribs had splintered and pushed through the skin.

  Lu See started gasping for air.

  Adrian’s eyes were closed and the overhead lights turned his cheeks the blued white of an iceberg. He was as pale as a wax model. The back of his head looked warped, caved in almost; it was where he must have struck the ground, she thought.

  ‘‘Is this Adrian Woo?’’ asked the coroner.

  She looked at him. His lips were dry and cracked, flecked with blood. The hair he was always so proud of looked sleep-tangled. She nodded.

  Tremulously, Lu See touched him. She wanted to feel his warmth. There was none. He was a piece of marble, nothing but a cold shell. She leaned closer. His smell still floated on his skin. ‘‘Come back, Adrian,’’ she whispered inaudibly, lovingly smoothing his hair. She pressed her open mouth onto his flesh. ‘‘Please come back to me.’’

  The coroner pulled the sheet over Adrian.

  ‘‘Please don’t cover him up.’’

  She crumpled over her husband, her arms around him, embracing him. She wanted to cry out again and again but her throat was closed.

  Her eyes remained riveted to the white sheet covering him as she was led away. It was as though her feet had been snatched from under her.

  She was falling.

  Some time later, Lu See found herself back in the big empty hospital corridor, on the same wooden bench. She cocooned herself in her arms and waited.

  Her hands began to tremble. She felt stripped bare, like a tree ripped of its leaves. An hour passed, followed by another. Then the administrative nurse appeared with a bespectacled man from the hospital’s accounts department. He carried a clipboard. Handing her Adrian’s wristwatch, wedding ring and house keys, he wanted to know if she wanted them to make arrangements and pick out a casket. In hushed tones he asked her what was to be done with the remains.

  The remains. The word burned like a flame in her chest – a moment of sickly realization.

  She stared at the wristwatch and the gold band in her hand. The wristwatch had stopped ticking. Lu See retched once; then twice. Whirling round she was sick on the floor, her insides gushing out like bilge water squeezed from a sponge.

  Lu See flipped through the pages of her father’s old leather bound tome. Adrian had mentioned something years ago about Arrowroot.

  ‘‘I think he may have a urinary infection,’’ she said to Matriarch Woo.

  ‘‘What can we do?’’ the mother despaired.

  Lu See searched through the index, flicked from one silverfished page to another, found the section headed Maranta arundinacea. ‘‘It says here that Arrowroot plant is abundant in certain parts of Asia and produces soft, oval-shaped leaves up to ten inches long. Look, here’s a picture. The Malay word for it is Koova. Fun koat in Cantonese. White flowers. Currant-like berries. Apparently it grows inland, in well-drained soil.’’ Moments later the entire household staff went into the forest armed with lamps and candles in search of the tree.

  At long last they returned with a basketful of rhizomes. Lu See instructed them to grind the rootstalks into a powder and mix it with boiled wate
r to make a thin gruel. Propping his head up, Lu See dribbled spoonfuls from a bowl into the boy’s mouth.

  An hour went by. Fresh candles replaced the guttered ones. Lu See kept vigil over the boy.

  ‘‘His fever is breaking,’’ announced the child’s mother.

  Lu See approached him and felt for the radial artery on his wrist. ‘‘His pulse is stronger.’’ She saw the sweat gleaming like copper off his forehead. ‘‘Perspiring will help cool him down. Just make sure he drinks plenty of water.’’

  ‘‘He is sleeping soundly now,’’ observed Matriarch Woo. ‘‘I think the medication has worked.’’

  ‘‘Then I shall leave you,’’ said Lu See, folding her hands in farewell.

  As she left the room Matriarch Woo called after her. The old lady took Lu See’s arms in hers. ‘‘For years I have hated you for returning without my son. For years I blamed you for his death. For years I have ignored my own granddaughter … and for that I feel regret.’’

  Lu See studied her face, which still carried the haunted struggles of a mother who’d lost her son.

  ‘‘Thank you, Lu See,’’ she said. They looked deep into one another’s eyes – Adrian’s mother smiled a sad smile. ‘‘I wish,’’ she said in a soft voice. ‘‘I wish there was some way, some key into the past to change things, but there isn’t.’’

  ‘‘All my memories of him are sealed in one place …’’ her voice trailed off. ‘‘Like a shrine.’’

  ‘‘Thank you for healing the child. I can see now why my Adrian married you.’’

  Lu See dipped her head and kissed the old lady’s hand. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she slipped off Adrian’s old wristwatch and left it on the hall table before retreating into the shadows of the night.

  With the help of a military chaplain, Uncle Big Jowl obtained the use of an army lorry and three shovel-wielding coolies.

  He drove the lorry to the periphery of the jungle and instructed the coolies to start digging at a spot marked with a gravestone.

  Lu See and Mabel knelt close by in the undergrowth, shaded from the sun. ‘‘Is this where the treasure is?’’ Mabel asked, trying not to sound excited.

  ‘‘Yes, just be patient,’’ replied Lu See. Her face was scarlet with anticipated triumph.

  One of the coolies held back the encroaching elephant grass as the other two stuck their shovels into the earth. Ten minutes later they stopped working.

  ‘‘Have they found it?’’ cried Mabel, running up to peer into the excavated ditch.

  Among the coarse earth and broken weed stalks, wedged into the soil, was a large wooden box.

  ‘‘What’s this?’’ Lu See demanded. ‘‘This wasn’t here before. We put down canvas.’’ She looked at Uncle Big Jowl, trying to make sense of it. ‘‘I don’t understand. We didn’t bury this, we buried pipes,’’ she told the coolies. ‘‘Copper pipes. I wrapped them myself in oiled canvases.’’

  ‘‘No pipes here,’’ proclaimed the head coolie. ‘‘You want us to bring it up?’’

  The coolies lifted the box out of the hole and placed it on solid ground. The box was about three-feet long by two-feet wide. It was coated in a green moss.

  Everyone stared at it.

  Uncle Big Jowl crouched down and placed his hand on the lid.

  ‘‘Careful!’’ warned a coolie. ‘‘The Japanese might be responsible for this. It may be booby-trapped!’’ But Uncle Big Jowl didn’t withdraw his hand. Rather, he positioned his other hand on the far end of the lid and dug his fingers into the grooves, easing it off its hinges.

  ‘‘What do you see?’’ asked Mabel, almost hopping now with excitement. ‘‘What’s inside?’’

  Uncle Big Jowl removed the canvas covering.

  Lu See stared in horror. She shrieked and shielded her daughter’s face with her arm.

  Coffin flies flew up from the putrefying skull.

  Worms had eaten away the animal’s eyes. Its face was pulled back in a grimace. Only bone and tufts of black curly wool remained.

  It was the severed head of a sheep.

  9

  It was the ninth week of Sum Sum’s apprenticeship. At precisely 5 a.m. she woke for the daily morning prayers. The cold bit into her toes and feet as she shuffled into the hall and joined the murmuring mouths. It was her job to light the endless rows of yak-butter candles in the prayer hall. With a long taper she bent forward time and again, reciting the Kyema Kyhud, stumbling over the words which were punctuated with ringing bells and cymbals and deep horn blasts. One after the other the tiny flames illuminated the massive gold statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, draped in saffron and yellow cloths.

  The lamps gradually brought the image to life – Buddha seated on a lotus pedestal constructed from inlaid gold leaf panels with the upper section of the throne reinforced with vertical vajra sceptres

  When the final lamp was lit, Sum Sum knelt on her novice carpet and quietly, unhurriedly looked about for Tormam.

  Tormam still slept beside her in the dormitory. She had the somewhat easier duty of replenishing the Seven Bowls of Water on all of the altars. Sum Sum gave the young, shy-faced girl a wink as she took her position beside her on the novice rug as all around her the shaven heads bobbed in prayer, up and down, up and down, like windup toys.

  Later, the new companions sat next to each other, in the breakfast hall. Bowls of tsampa lined the long wooden tables. Everybody ate with their fingers.

  ‘‘Listen, we have been here for weeks, lah, and still nobody had told us where we can have baths. Do you know where we can go to wash?’’ asked Sum Sum, worrying the mala beads on her wrist.

  ‘‘Tormam paused from chewing her barley balls. ‘‘Wash?’’

  ‘‘Shush!’’ someone warned and all the initiates, some of whom were no more than fifteen years old, dipped their heads.

  After breakfast as they lit incense and spun the prayer wheel, Sum Sum asked again. Tormam gave her the same blank look and reply. ‘‘Wash?’’

  ‘‘Rey.’’ Sum Sum made gestures with her hands as if rinsing her armpits and back.

  ‘‘I do not understand?’’

  ‘‘In your village don’t you have a stream or an outhouse?’’

  ‘‘I’m from a family of nomads. We did our business in the open. To clean ourselves we rinsed our faces in yak milk. I was never allowed to wash my hair. My mother said it would freeze on my head.’’

  Sum Sum raised her eyebrows theatrically. ‘‘You mean to tell me you have never had a bath, lah?’’

  Tormam looked at her blankly.

  They grew silent, contemplating their barley balls.

  ‘‘What are we going to do about this?’’

  ‘‘About what?’’ said Tormam, nonplussed.

  ‘‘This … this no-bathing scenario,’’ Sum Sum replied, not sure what to call it.

  ‘‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Look, Sengemo, finish up your breakfast. It is almost lessons time.’’

  The following morning at precisely 5 a.m. Sum Sum nudged Tormam awake with her elbow. She’d spent half the night staring out of the dormitory window, gazing at the fingernail sliver of moon, dreaming up an idea; all around her the other novices slept, open-mouthed, filling the dormitory with the sounds of snoring. Aiyo! Like sleeping with a band of piglets.

  ‘‘I’ve got it,’’ she said, watching Tormam wipe the sleep from her eyes.

  ‘‘Well don’t give it to me, whatever it is. I am too tired.’’

  ‘‘No, listen. I have a plan, lah.’’ She peeped over her shoulder to assure nobody else was listening.

  ‘‘A plan?’’ Tormam said, her tone nonchalant – until she saw the expression on Sum Sum’s face.

  They dressed and made their way to the prayer hall, thirty women in a crocodile line, bare feet padding across the floor. Scarves of incense perfumed the air. ‘‘This plan of yours, what – ’’

  ‘‘SSHHH!’’ quietened prayer hall manager Jampa.

  Seve
ral pairs of buttocks clenched tightly together.

  In a hushed voice: ‘‘What is this plan?’’ asked Tormam self-consciously. When she spoke she always looked as though she had made a mistake and hadn’t really meant to say anything at all.

  Leaning towards her, Sum Sum whispered fiercely, ‘‘The plan is for you to experience heaven.’’

  ‘‘You are going to kill me and send me to Nirvana?’’

  ‘‘Not that sort of heaven.’’

  ‘‘The scriptures say there is only one type.’’

  ‘‘Aiyoo! Did your mother drop you on your head as a baby? No, I am going to collect water from the river and heat it up and you are going to sit in it.’’

  Tormam’s eyes blinked at this. ‘‘You are going to boil me alive.’’

  Sum Sum gave a sigh. ‘‘Yes, in hot water.’’

  In the prayer hall Tormam arranged herself on a novice rug. ‘‘And this is a good thing.’’

  Sum Sum lit a row of yak-butter candles with a long taper. ‘‘Keep your voice down. Yes, it is a good thing.’’

  ‘‘You have either become enlightened overnight, Sengemo, or you have been chewing Chinese opiates.’’

  ‘‘Trust me.’’

  The village of Cloudy Treetops was named after the trees that sat in near constant cloud at the top of the hill. In spring, with the snows melted, goat herders gathered here for the new succulent grass, while the novice nuns pounded laundry on the washing stones along the banks of the nearby stream. Beyond this, dwarfed by the landscape around it, was the Sera Valley, where the American plane had crash-landed.

  Sum Sum squinted into the distance, searching for any signs of the abandoned aircraft; the fuselage of the crashed C-87 was no longer visible. It had been dismantled, stripped clean piece by piece, by villagers and nomads alike; the cargo of guns and military equipment pilfered to be sold across the border. There was nothing to show that it had ever been there bar some broken glass and the tatty scuff of earth where the tyres had skidded on landing. It was as if a hole had opened in the ground and swallowed it up.