Green Phoenix

by Poon, Alice;

  Advance praise

  for The Green Phoenix

  “So much of imperial Chinese history is an enigma; a world we, as outsiders, are shut out off. Alice Poon’s novelised life of the Empress Dowager Xiaozhuang fictionally pulls back the curtain on Manchu court life and lets us step into a forbidden world.”

  — Paul French, author of Midnight in Peking

  “Alice Poon has written a masterpiece of Chinese history little known in the West. It’s a story of love, betrayal and loyalty, and shows how one woman inspired the reunification of China. For so long the West has fixated on the end of the Qing dynasty, but as Poon beautifully recreates in her book, the real heroine of the Qing is the Empress Dowager Xiaozhuang. Never before has this story been told in English, and it’s arguably the most important historical novel of early Qing Dynasty China.”

  — Susan Blumberg-Kason, author of Good Chinese Wife: A Love Affair with China Gone Wrong

  “The Green Phoenix illuminates the complex, sweeping history of the Qing rise to power with captivating scenes of intimacy, conflict, loss, and triumph. Through the story of Mongolian-born Empress Dowager Xiaozhuang, Alice Poon delivers a lush and deeply informed look at the multicultural origins of China’s last dynasty”

  —Elsa Hart, author of Jade Dragon Mountain and The White Mirror

  The Green Phoenix

  By Alice Poon

  ISBN-13: 978-988-8422-56-2

  © 2017 Alice Poon

  FICTION / Historical

  EB091

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in material form, by any means, whether graphic, electronic, mechanical or other, including photocopying or information storage, in whole or in part. May not be used to prepare other publications without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact info@earnshawbooks.com

  Published by Earnshaw Books Ltd. (Hong Kong)

  This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known

  historical people, events and locales that figure in the

  narrative, all names, characters, places and incidents

  are the products of the author’s imagination, or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current

  events, locales or living persons,

  is entirely coincidental.

  One

  Elation creeps up on her as the steppe looms out of the darkness. In an instant, she is treading on the velvety softness of the vibrant green grass. Its unique fragrance, carried by the wind, makes her heart croon as it used to. Verdant pastures ripple out around her in all directions to join hands with the dazzling blue sky. To her, the color and scent of grass are most redolent of Mother Nature and are the perfect balm for her heart and soul. In the next instant, she is the untamed child atop her white-maned Jirgal in a wild dash toward the horizon, her plaits flying happily after her. One moment they are scaling golden sand dune after sand dune; the next sailing across a sea of jade greens. They finally come to a stop in a valley filled with lavender lilies, and horse and child share a moment of warming ecstasy.

  “Am I really back home?” she moaned in a faint voice, stirring feebly in her sickbed. Then, in a nebulous haze, the scene shifted, and time glided forward to the year of her wedding…

  The bridal procession is led by a troupe of horseback guardsmen with Wukeshan at its head. Trailing behind are the flower-decorated bridal carriage drawn by two sturdy stallions draped in ceremonial red cloth and a string of ten camels carrying huge wooden chests containing the bridal dowry and provisions. Her beloved Jirgal carries the maid and trots gaily alongside the carriage, oblivious to the sadness that fills the vessel on wheels. Even in her desolation, she is grateful Sumalagu is with her, and does not mind the maid peeping in through the carriage window once in a while to check on her.

  The procession treks across a mosaic landscape of vastly divergent terrains. An expanse of barren sand hills meets with a wide stretch of river marshes rich in flora and fauna. Nor is it strange that a large patch of jade green grassland lies right next to a windswept stony desert with sporadic springs, which then gives way further along to yet another swathe of lush pastures. The humbling vastness of this changing landscape fills her with renewed respect and affection. She wants nothing but to sear the images onto her memory, so that this land will forever be a part of her.

  From time to time, the travelers make stops to take light snacks of dried apricots, roasted chestnuts and biscuits, with water to quench the thirst. In the evening, the riders try their best to find pastures near brooks or in sheltered dells to set up camp. Their animals are let free to graze while they cook over an open fire and replenish their water, if water is to be found.

  After many days of tiresome journeying, early one morning, Wukeshan pokes his head inside the carriage to announce, with clear excitement in his voice: “Mukden is in sight, dear sister! We’ll reach the capital by sundown!”

  In recent months, Bumbutai had floated through life like a phantom, numb to feelings and desires. Why hadn’t Dorgon replied to her letter? Why had he left her Borjigit home the previous winter without saying farewell? Her maid’s repeated pleas had buzzed in her ears unheard: “You’re harming your beautiful eyes with this non-stop crying, my precious! Won’t you at least take some milk? You’ve not eaten for two whole days already. If you go on starving yourself like this, you’ll end up with a flat chest!”

  Then slowly, she had allowed Sumalagu to persuade her to prepare for her new life. She had written frequently to Aunt Jere to seek her guidance and advice on Jurchen lifestyle and etiquette. She had buried herself in Jurchen and Han Chinese folk literature, practiced Chinese calligraphy every day and learned to do needlework from Sumalagu.

  The maid took a good look at the bride. “You simply look ravishing!” she exclaimed.

  Bumbutai had chosen to wear her favorite dark blue brocaded fur-lined deel over a purple silk robe girdled with a sapphire sash. She knew well enough how the color of the deel set off the lustrous shine of her eyes beautifully. But she also believed Sumalagu was right in saying that people who happened to see those frosty eyes now would probably think they belonged to a seasoned young woman rather than an unworldly adolescent.

  Letting out a long sigh as she caught a glimpse of the outside view, she noticed Sumalagu was clasping her hands together in a silent prayer. She mutely thanked her maid for not nagging her when she had earlier insisted on donning Mongolian garb and wearing plaits for the journey. This was the last time she could do that.

  Aunt Jere’s letters prepared her well on what to expect at her wedding. Upon arrival at the Mukden Palaces, the bridal group would rest for a day and then would have to help with the decoration of the wedding hall and the sorting of wedding gifts. The ceremony would be held on the third day.

  “Your bridal garment is a wide-sleeved, high-neck and knee-length red silk robe embroidered in silver and gold peonies, to be worn over a full-length red satin skirt,” her letter said.

  “It is a Jurchen custom to wear undergarments. This is an open cross-collar pink silk shift paired with loose silk underpants. Your hair will be coiled into two knots at the nape of your neck, fastened by pearl hairpins, and topped by a bridal headdress made of pearls, pink gems and blue feather inlays framed in silver, all wired into the shape of a flowery coronet, with a veil of hanging bead strands. On each ear you will be wearing three earrings. Again, this is the custom for Jurchen brides. The amount of decorative jewelry in the headdress is a symbol of the social status of the wearer. A concubine’s jewelry is naturally less valuable than that
for the wife, and the quantity and type of gems also depend on how much she is favored by her new groom. In your case, I can tell you that your groom is quite smitten with you… Once in your new home, you will have to quickly learn how to walk in Jurchen high-heeled shoes…” Aunt Jere spared no details in her rambling letters.

  These trivial thoughts flicked through her mind and then slipped away like spilled water. The questions that had left her hanging in the air were stealing their way back now to taunt her. She had been so sure that Dorgon, the young and charming Jurchen Beile and half-brother of Aunt Jere’s husband, had special feelings for her, as she had for him. Was she mistaken after all? Or could it be that he already had a special someone?

  The late spring sun was in languish descent as the procession meandered through the outer town’s cobblestoned streets. Bumbutai looked out from her carriage to savor a view of the place.

  “This was once populated by Han Chinese,” Wukeshan explained to her. “After Nurhaci seized the town, the Han people were forcibly evicted.” The Jurchen nobility had taken up residence in the tidy rows of courtyard houses with gleaming ceramic-tiled roofs and terra cotta walls. Brightly lit lanterns painted in red and gold adorned the front porches. Some larger houses had a pair of sculpted stone lions guarding the main gate.

  “The homes look so imposing and different from our Mongolian gers,” Bumbutai said with awe.

  “Little sister, this is civilized culture. Once we get passed the gate to the inner town, we’ll find the Palaces of the Aisin Gioro clan. Those buildings should be even grander.” Wukeshan beamed good-naturedly.

  Her heart went out to the Hans who had been uprooted from their homes. How odd that her fate and theirs should be aligned! Wasn’t she being forcibly uprooted, just like them? But at least she didn’t have to suffer their woe of being enslaved to work the farms for the Jurchens, the invaders and new masters of the town.

  She had learned from books that the Jurchens were now a sedentary tribe that had adapted to crop farming a long time ago, although some still preferred livestock breeding like the Khorchin Mongols. Only a small number adhered to nomadic hunting and ice-fishing.

  “By Nurhaci’s orders, the Jurchens have just developed their new script based on the Mongolian writing system,” Wukeshan added. “For centuries, though, they have been practicing Han Confucian customs. Shamanism is traditionally their primary religion, but they are also well exposed to Buddhism and Taoism.” He pointed to a Buddhist temple at the far end of the street they were traveling on.

  “I am already familiar with the new Jurchen script, thanks to Suma,” she said pensively. “I hope someone will teach me Han history and the Four Books and Five Classics.”

  Jere was fond of Bumbutai and had especially assigned two Han maids-in-waiting to serve her. They were named Siu Mui and Siu Fa, twin sisters who had been sold as slaves to Hong Taiji’s household. Her temporary residence was set up inside the Library Hall, consisting of an antechamber and a large bed chamber, just off the main study hall.

  As her entourage arrived at the Hall entrance, the two maids bustled over to welcome her and ushered her to the bath area, which was adjoined to the bed chamber and partitioned off by an opaque, double-paneled, silk-mounted screen. Behind the screen a wooden tub of steaming hot water perfumed with rose petals was waiting for her.

  After taking a soothing bath, she met Aunt Jere in the antechamber. All smiles, the aunt handed her personal gifts from Hong Taiji, contained in a shimmering box made from seashells and lined in velvet. They included a pair of green jade tasseled hairpins, three pairs of emerald earrings and two bracelets made with emeralds and pearls. Jere told her, not without a trace of jealousy, that Hong Taiji had given her, the wife, the same amount of jewelry at her wedding, except that hers were made of rubies instead of emeralds. She also showed her the bejeweled bridal coronet, the lavish bridal dress and undergarments.

  “You can try the garments on tomorrow. They should fit perfectly. I made doubly sure the seamstress followed the measurements that your mother gave me during my home visit last winter,” Jere said sweetly. Fighting her fatigue, Bumbutai graciously repeated words of thanks to her aunt for overseeing the wedding preparations. As soon as Jere stepped out of the chambers, she retired straight to her bed without casting a second look at the bridal gear.

  After a good night’s rest, she spent the next day exploring the phalanxes of packed bookshelves that lined the walls of the study hall. “This is indeed a treasure trove of knowledge,” she sighed as she skimmed some of the Chinese classics. Her private viewing of the library refreshed her spirits like a shower of spring rain.

  At the break of dawn on the big day, Siu Mui and Siu Fa came in to help their mistress with the hair dressing. Sumalagu looked on in quiet bewilderment. She had never in her entire life seen anything as sophisticated as these bridal garments. She also saw that her mistress was not particularly pleased with such a complicated style of dress.

  The first thing that Bumbutai asked her friend and maid about was her pet mare.

  “Did they put Jirgal in a nice clean stable? Did they feed her fresh grass?”

  “Yes, Jirgal is comfortable and well-fed. Don’t worry about her, my precious. It’s your big day and you needn’t worry about lifting one little finger. Just look beautiful and leave the rest to us.”

  “Oh, Suma, I’m so glad you’re here with me. Otherwise, I think I would have died from homesickness already. Everything is so strange here.”

  “Venerable Mistress, if there is anything we could do to help you feel more comfortable, pray tell us,” Siu Mui said shyly, and Siu Fa nodded innocently in agreement. Bumbutai’s heart melted at these words, and she spoke to the maids in fluent Chinese:

  “How old are you two, Siu Mui, Siu Fa?”

  “We’re both twelve years old. Siu Fa came one hour after me,” Siu Mui replied courteously, slightly bemused that her mistress could speak Chinese so well.

  “Oh, then we’re all of the same age! What a coincidence!”

  “Venerable Mistress, we’re only maids and are not supposed to speak unless spoken to. But we want to say that we’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you. Please do not be angry at us for daring to say this.”

  “Siu Mui, Siu Fa, how can I be angry at you for saying such a sweet thing? You two girls are very pretty too. And how I admire your deft hands!” The twin maids giggled softly at hearing this and became much more relaxed. Siu Mui ventured further, while twisting a braid of hair into a coil:

  “What does the name Jirgal mean, Venerable Mistress? It sounds foreign to me.”

  “Oh, it means ‘happiness’. It’s quite a common Mongolian name. What do ‘Siu Mui’ and ‘Siu Fa’ mean?”

  “My name means ‘Little Plum Blossom’ in Chinese, and my sister’s name means ‘Little Flower’,” Siu Mui replied, as she was fastening one knot of hair with a pearl hairpin that Siu Fa had just handed her.

  “That’s what I thought. What pretty names!” she said with an absentminded smile, frowning at the bejeweled bridal coronet.

  Within a short while, the twin maids finished making the double hair buns and were adjusting the coronet. Then Sumalagu warned them of the approaching hour of the bridal sedan’s arrival, and bade them to hurry with the dressing of the bride.

  Bumbutai looked forlornly into the bronze mirror which the maids had just placed in front of her. She was on the verge of crying when she saw the gaudy and unnatural hairdo reflected in the mirror.

  At this instant, out of nowhere, a tall young man in metal armor suddenly bolted into the reflection. She flinched. Joy, anger and vexation all at once flushed over her. Their gazes locked steadfastly on each other in the mirror for a long time. Her heart pranced like an untamed horse on the loose. Seeing this, Sumalagu bade the twin maids leave and, with knitted brows, also stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

  Th
at winter night on the Mongolian steppe, Dorgon had handed Sumalagu his written reply to Bumbutai’s letter, suggesting that they make a betrothal vow to each other the next morning, at dawn. He said in the letter that he would be waiting for her under the tallest poplar tree by the river, along which they had strolled that morning. He waited there from dawn until noon. She never appeared. Completely crestfallen, he left the Borjigit compound without saying farewell to his hosts.

  “Congratulations, my dear sister,” he taunted in a barbed tone.

  “I have no idea why you chose this moment to appear, My Lord,” she retorted with an equally sour note.

  “Haven’t I the right to have a good look at my brother’s bride?”

  “My Lord, you are quite drunk.”

  “Yes, I do nothing but drink these days because I am heartbroken. But this is your big day. So it is an occasion to drink to, is it not?” He wobbled as he slurred out the words, his face a bilious green.

  “Suma, Siu Mui, Siu Fa, please come in and help the Beile to a chair. Suma, please bring him some ginseng tea.”

  “I’ve come to wish you happiness on your wedding day. What wrong have I done now?”

  He would not quiet down and struggled to stay upright. The three maids with a concerted effort bundled him out to the antechamber, where they sat him down in a chair. Sumalagu served him hot ginseng tea while the other two helped Bumbutai to dress. The bridal sedan was waiting at the Library Hall entrance.

  For the rest of the day, Bumbutai was so wrapped up in the wedding rituals that she hardly had a spare moment to reflect on Dorgon’s sudden appearance. When her curtained bridal sedan arrived at Hong Taiji’s Palace, the head palace maid approached the sedan, crouched down and gruffly bade her climb onto her back. A bride’s slippers must not touch the ground because dirt would taint her purity.

  With the bride on her back, the head maid stepped nimbly over a tin plate containing burning incense before entering the Palace via a side entrance. Rites forbade concubines from entering the household through the main entrance on the wedding day, a privilege reserved for the first wife. The incense was supposed to rid the bride of all evil spirits that might be accompanying her. It was no help that Jere had briefed her in advance about these strange rituals. Bumbutai felt humiliated and ill at ease. The head maid, with a surly face and bristling eyebrows, acted so roughly that it made her wince with each step.