by null
They prayed to have this irksome business done with, yet knew too well it was just beginning. The bandaging of the fox fairy’s feet would continue for many months, until the supple bones were slowly bent or snapped, sinew and ligament drawn together ever tighter, until with infinite patience the heel would touch the toe and the bones would reset themselves to remain forever … such pretty golden lotus feet.
The torments of the process were well known to the three wives of Yik-Munn. This was not discussed; only the great benefits were considered. Lotus feet gave much pleasure and face to the lucky man who fondled them; the erotic tilt to his woman’s stance, the enticement of her tiny steps were pleasing to his eye and to those who envied him. Such a woman could be proud of this enhancement to her beauty in the interests of the man who possessed her. The saying “Lotus feet are lucky feet” was widely believed by those who did not have them.
For the first weeks Li-Xia was bound and gagged, released only to eat and wash and use the chamber pot. Both Number-One Wife and the great Goo-Mah loudly agreed; if she was not tamed and taught her place, all manner of disasters could beset the household.
They dared not let the girl die, to be haunted by her vengeful spirit—or face the wrath of Yik-Munn, so determined to sell her at the highest possible price. He had already been to see the wealthy silk merchant Ming-Chou, a prefect of Kwangtung province and a very important man. Half the price in silver had already been paid, and the family Munn would forever lose face if she were not delivered on her eighth birthday as pure and beautiful as promised.
Still unnerved by the destruction of the happiness tile, Yik-Munn had not been to see Li-Xia since the foot binding began. He had to admit that he was disturbed by the child’s presence. Leaving her to the women, he spent his time listening to gossip in the village tea house, walking his caged songbirds in the public park, playing checkers, or pushing hands in the way of tai chi chuan with old friends. His afternoon pipe became more frequent, and more hours were spent chasing the dragon than ever before. Often he stayed the night in the house of his mistress, who showed such compassion and understanding of his many difficulties, always waiting with tonic wine and his favorite pickles.
But nothing freed him from the spell the fox fairy had cast upon him. He played mah-jongg but lost heavily, and there was nothing his mistress could do to revive his passions. The women began to fear for his mind. So sure was he that unfriendly spirits were abroad on Great Pine, he left the running of the farm to his sons and control of the demon child to his wives. To escape their poisoned tongues, he went to live with his brother until he could be rid of this injustice forever.
CHAPTER 3
Lotus Feet
When the wives came to throw open the door and let in the light, Li-Xia was prepared for them and began squealing as soon as she heard the rattle of the latch, her squeal so loud and shrill it hurt her own ears. She quickly learned to flex her toes inside the binding, to use all her strength against the hands that held her—to fight so hard that they were careless, eager to be done with her. When they slammed the door behind them, she relaxed her feet inside their cruel trap, moving her toes slightly but constantly until they tingled.
Alone in the shed, with the patience of a spider spinning its web, Li-Xia had learned to free her hands and pick at the foot bindings to find their secret. After endless nights she had figured out how to unwind them and rub her feet until the blood returned and the pain eased, then to test them on the floor. This way she could find some sleep. When the first cock crowed, she bound them again but not so tightly.
The wives came only once a week to remove the bindings. They had learned to let the mixture in the herb pot cool a little and were less rough in their handling of her. Li-Xia pretended not to fear them, kicking and crying less, each time asking the same questions.
“Where is my mother?” And every time, Number Three would say the same thing: “She is at rest in the ginger field. You must try to forget her.”
“Nonsense.” Number One would snort impatiently. “Your mother seeks her lost ancestors. The gods do not see her, just as they will not see you because you are her daughter.”
“Where do the gods and the ancestors live?”
“In the spirit room,” Number Two would reply as sharply as she could.
Wives One and Two felt little guilt over the terrible death of Li-Xia’s mother. There was nothing they could have done to prevent it; the door to her room had been locked by Yik-Munn himself and only he held the key.
Of the three wives, Number Three was the kindest. It was a kindness more felt than shown, a silent pact that built with every visit, so strong between them that Li-Xia began to lose her dread of pain. The throwing open of the door—the gush of air and the blaze of light and sound—became less terrifying. It was clear by the touch and looks of Number Three that she knew the bandages had been loosened, but she spoke no word and made no sign to show it.
She had a name that was never used. Like any respectable man of substance, Yik-Munn referred to his wives by numbers, as he did his many sons. She was from a faraway place and looked different from the other wives. She did not have the broad, flat features of the Hakka peasant, but a smoother brow and a rounder chin and a strong mouth that almost never smiled.
Number Three had been the first to speak to Li-Xia without anger, and had whispered the secret of her name when she came to fill a basket with dried mushrooms.
“My name is Ah-Su. I am from the island of Hainan. Never call my name or speak of it, but keep it in your heart and know that I do not hurt you more than I must. I will help you.”
When she had gone, Li-Xia whispered Ah-Su’s name many times, then hid it away among the special secrets of her heart.
She found strength in the secrecy and the silence of her solitude. She remembered the cold wet feel of the mustard field beneath her toes and how butterflies had drifted from the ginger blossom at her passing. Soon she could pass through the curtain of pain into the perfumed shroud of white, where she could see her mother cloaked in silver by the moon. Sometimes, as she drifted into sleep, she heard a comforting voice that pushed back the shadows: You are not alone. Ah-Su is my friend and will watch over you if she can. She will not let them take away your right to walk alone. Without your precious feet, you will always belong to others and never journey through life on your own.
My heart beats with your heart. Your pain is my pain and your happiness will always be my happiness. We will journey together and share all things.
Although this comfort came only in thoughts and dreams, Li-Xia found herself believing that one day her mother would open the door to take her by the hand. Together they would run far away from Yik-Munn and his wives and the great pine that towered like a watchful giant.
Sometimes, when other eyes were turned away, Number Three would kiss Li-Xia lightly on the head, or squeeze her hand with a swiftly stolen smile. Their secret passed between them like a precious coin, hidden in the palm of her tightly closed fist, glimpsed and then gone but firmly held.
It was Ah-Su who wound the bandages, pushing a finger down so that they were not bound quite as tightly when she pulled it out. She would do this while joining the impatient chatter of the other wives.
“Stay still. You wriggle like a worm under the hoe. A fat hen ready for market could not squawk so loudly. It will be easier if you stay still and keep quiet.” It became clear that Number Three could manage Li-Xia with very little fuss. One and Two would stand aside, leaving her to deal with the little demon alone, until after a while they did not even wait until the binding was finished to leave; it had all become too irksome.
One day, Ah-Su opened the shed door quietly and alone in the very early morning. Through the open door the fields were thickly layered with mist, the ducks were still silent, and the cockerels had not yet crowed. She brought warm goat’s milk and a pickled hundred-year egg with a steamed bun filled with minced pork. Under her arm she carried a large bundle of rolled-up clot
hing fastened with a strap.
“These things belong to your mother. You must keep them safe. Hide them well, but if they are found, tell no one that it was I who gave them to you or I will not be allowed to see you.”
Ah-Su knelt and held Li-Xia’s face in her gentle hands.
“Her name is Pai-Ling. She comes from Shanghai and is very clever—a great scholar who studied the moon and learned to read the secrets of the stars. In this bundle you will find books and papers that she has written and drawings she has made with her own hand. But she has lotus feet, and that is why she cannot come to you. Perhaps she hides somewhere in the ginger field; it is a beautiful place, always fragrant and ever peaceful. She wears a gown of white and breathes the sweetness of ginger blossoms. You need not be sad.”
“Will I find her there?”
Ah-Su lowered her eyes and shook her head.
“I don’t know. Perhaps she will stay there forever; perhaps sometimes she will visit her mother the moon, but she is very brave and very happy. She has told me that you are as precious to her as a thousand pieces of gold, and that you must always remember this and be strong, as she is strong.”
“Number-One Auntie says she is sometimes in the spirit room—the place where all ancestors gather, behind the big wooden door. Will I find her there?”
Ah-Su smiled sadly and placed her arm around Li-Xia’s shoulders as she sought an answer.
“Perhaps sometimes she may be summoned there. It is better you do not seek her; just know she watches over you.”
Then Ah-Su was gone and the door closed before more could be said.
Li-Xia removed the strap, unrolling the clothing to find many paper pages stitched together into books hidden inside. They were more carefully wrapped in a robe of fine yellow silk. She unfolded the other garments one by one. They were not pretty clothes—brown, dark green, or black, the colors of unhappiness. She could smell traces of her mother—an elusive hint of rosemary oil and powdered spice. She buried her face in each garment, imagining her mother’s skin in the heat of summer and bitten by winter winds. But the soft yellow silk in their center nestled like a secret heart, stronger and happier than its drab surroundings, and its scent was of jonquils in springtime.
She held it close, until through her sadness the calming voice told her not to cry, but to be strong and make her ancestors proud. As if to confirm her mother’s nearness, something dropped from the folds of silk to glow like a jewel in her lap.
Light from the window fell upon a finger jade of great beauty—milky white with streaks of orange. No bigger than the smallest mouse, it was carved in the shape of a moon bear. Years of contact with her mother’s hand had made it silken smooth and a pleasure to touch.
Her joy at the unexpected gift made her search more thoroughly for other hidden treasures. Eagerly, patiently, she felt among the folds of a padded jacket and discovered something hard and square stitched deep in its lining. She unpicked the stitches, revealing a small book, its many pages covered with the strokes and circles, dashes and dots, squiggles and squares of Chinese writing; row after row, each character so small and perfect it made a tiny picture of its own.
It was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen.
After endless days and nights measured by light through the window, Li-Xia could rub her feet and stand up, until enough circulation had returned for her to take a step, and then another, and another. Each night she walked a little farther, first only one length of her bed space, then twice and three times, until she could walk around it ten times … then twenty times … and, with great patience, one hundred times.
She hid the bundle in a secret place where the wives would have to search to find it. There was little chance of this; they were so anxious to leave her each time, they did not look around, nor did they notice that the fox fairy’s feet were not as deformed as they should be. Believing their charge was not able to stand and certainly not to walk—and if she crawled, where could she go?—they no longer bothered to lock the door.
When Li-Xia could walk around her room many times, she unlatched the door, stepped into the night, and, quietly as a fox, entered the darkened kitchen. Crossing the stone floor, the flagstones cold beneath her bare feet, she walked through the passageway that led to the spirit room, until she stood before its great wooden door. This was the place she had heard was occupied by the gods, and where the ancestors dwelled. A fearsome door guardian on either side stared down at her, daring her to enter uninvited.
She did not look at them as, in breathless silence, she lifted the heavy latch and opened the door just wide enough to slip inside. A single red candle burned in a pool of wax upon the altar. “Mah-Mah,” she whispered, and waited. When the shadows did not answer, she called again, a little louder, “Mah-Mah … Mah-Mah … are you in here?”
Trapped smoke made her want to cough and blurred her vision. She rubbed her eyes, and as if by magic, the gods appeared before her in the dull red light from coils of joss sticks burning overhead. First she saw Kuan-Yin, the beautiful goddess of mercy, clasping the vase of compassion, her feet upon a lotus flower. Around her were the eight immortals, fearless guardians of her realm. They glowered at Li-Xia with bulging eyes and bared teeth.
She could see that they were made of wood and painted many colors beneath their coats of sooty dust. The corners were empty, but in the flickering light, stern faces of people long dead looked down at her.
As her eyes became adjusted to the light, they fell upon something more—items of great beauty and in all the colors of the rainbow: a mansion house, a beautiful carriage, many servants, and stacks of paper money. These were the things that were sent to heaven with special prayers to comfort those who had gone away.
First, she took the paper money and the red candle and, with a prayer heard only by herself, burned the heaven banknotes one by one. When they were gone in a tree of sparks, she set fire to the mansion, stepping back from its blaze to watch the paper walls and windows flare and crumble into ash. Onto this she added the carriage, and then the servants, one by one. When the last black crisp had settled in the censer and she was sure no one lived in the spirit room, she blew out the candle and quietly left the sleeping house … out through the passageway, to where the mustard field was white with rising mist.
The earth was cold and wet. Her toes squished deliciously in the mud, and she wriggled them for many moments, then started to walk. There was only one purpose to her journey—to place one foot before the other, taking her away from the dark room and the smell of incense and the gods that could not see her, did not hear her, and would not tell her where her mother was. And from the women who brought her cold rice and hurt her feet.
Yik-Munn returned to the farm when he heard of the fox fairy’s escape. Sending his sons to search the fields, he entered the spirit room to beg forgiveness for allowing the fox fairy to run away—to find it bare of the offerings he had so prudently set aside for the passing of the great Goo-Mah. He fell to his knees.
It must not be known in the village that the fox fairy was loose and had defied the guardians of the spirit room, or his face would also be as paper, burned to ashes and blown by a thousand winds. A man who could not control his own family was also a man who could not satisfy his mistress or live in his own house without enraging his ancestors. He dared not lose this child and must not beat her as he should. Instead, he beat his wives until they kowtowed for his mercy.
The sons of Yik-Munn trod the furrows, cursing every step until they found her, gone to ground like a fox in the middle of the field.
Having heard of this terrible thing, Goo-Mah had the fox fairy brought before her, mud-caked and shivering.
“You were bad to run from those who feed you. Again, you have made the ancestors angry. You shame the house that gives you shelter, you insult the proud name of this family, and you break the heart of your poor father.”
She sat up in her bed, her wig heavy with ornaments, unsteady in her anger.
> Li-Xia tried to keep her voice respectful, but felt no regret.
“My mother is not in the spirit room but lost in the ginger field. I must find her.”
Goo-Mah flapped her hand as though brushing away a bothersome fly.
“You are an ungrateful little witch. The wives come to bind your feet so that you may one day dance upon the golden lotus—to prosper as I have prospered, to have power as I have power. Do you thank them? You do not; you run from them like a cunning fox.”
“Forgive me, Great-Auntie. I do not want a fine gentleman who wants me only for my broken feet. I do not want to be like you. I do not want feet that smell like donkey dung.”
Goo-Mah sat forward from her pillows with such a spurt of fury, the heavy wig slipped and fell, rolling to the floor like a severed head. A large brown cockroach, fat with eggs, scuttled from its stiff, matted coils. The gold bracelets and jade bangles clattered on her arms as she tried to salvage her wig, her head as hairless as a newborn bird.
“Take her away!” she shrieked. “Get her out of my sight! To have lotus feet is an honor she no longer deserves. Lock her up and tell my brother to get rid of her. Who knows what this will bring? She is useless as her ungrateful mother, unworthy of this house.”
Her screeching followed Yik-Munn’s sons as they dragged Li-Xia down the stairs. They did not know that Great-Aunt had choked on her own bile and fallen back in all her finery, her frenzied heart finally stopped like an ancient clock.
