The Concubine's Daughter

by null

  “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:

  A very long time ago, when magic was everywhere and miracles were as many as there are stars in the sky, there was a Taoist princess, so radiantly beautiful that no ordinary man could look upon her without the risk of blindness, and because of this she flew the skies alone, adorned by nothing but cloud. Her name was Heng-O.

  There was a young wizard, possessed from birth with great powers. His name was Hou-Yih, and through his spells and alchemy, eating nothing but the nectar of flowers, he had found immortality. Because of this, he was doomed to walk the side paths of the air carrying an enchanted bow and a single silver arrow. The arrow shot from this golden bow would give the one it struck eternal life, and his loneliness would be over. His search for a companion led him on an endless quest through all the planes of the universe.

  One day he came upon an iridescent cloud in the middle of a rainbow and, believing it to be the wings of the immortal phoenix, drew back his bow and released the arrow. From the gossamer cloak of cloud fell Heng-O; the silver arrow had pierced her heart, and he caught her in his arms. The arrow of his great magic was withdrawn and they fell immediately in love. Such happin
ess had never been known even to those who shared paradise, but a storm came and separated them. Heng-O found sanctuary on the moon, while Hou-Yih was driven to the blazing reaches of the sun.

  There they have remained forever as Yin, the Lady of the Moon, and Yang, the Lord of the Sun—immortal rulers of the universe and its cosmic balance. Once each month they come together to make love among the stars. This is why the full moon blooms with such brilliance, never more radiant than in the autumn of the twelfth moon.

  “You see?” Pebble said. “Men are children of the sun, blinding, burning, and never still—bursting with their ripening seed. They spill it like a river and do not care where it flows. They do not think it will ever run dry, and when it does they cry tears of stone. But women are children of the moon … we are made from soft shadow and pale light—cool, patient, enduring. We are very different, but one is needed to balance the other as the center of the eight trigrams … the yin and the yang.”

  When the story was over, Li-Xia lay still, hoping that the glittering image would not fade too quickly. She took the orange-peel finger jade from its hiding place, to hold against her lips and say a prayer. With her fingers closed tightly around it, she thanked her mother for sending Little Pebble, who was teaching her to read.

  The celebration of the Autumn Moon Festival was a special day for the mui-mui, but particularly important to Li-Xia, now that she knew it was the birthday of Heng-O, the Moon Lady, who spread her silver mantle to comfort all her sisters in heaven and on earth. It fell on the eighth month, when the harvest moon was at its biggest and brightest, and Heng-O dressed in her fullest glory.

  There was no work that day, and each of the mui-mui was given mooncakes to eat, joss sticks to burn, and a paper lantern on the end of a bamboo stick, so that the Moon Lady could look down and miss no one in her blessing. The mooncake recipe was unchanged after a thousand years, each cake containing the solid yolk of a salted egg representing the full moon. When lit, each round lantern also resembled a yellow August moon. To Li-Xia, it was a time filled with promise. Heng-O was not blind and deaf and dumb like the wooden gods of the spirit room, who had punished her for seeking her mother. The Moon Lady was gracious and splendid in her robes of gold and silver, driving away all shadows and lighting every path.

  Darkness had settled on the river. The mui-mui took their paper lanterns into the groves to hang them among the mulberry trees, so that the seasons would be kind, the cocoons plentiful, and the silkworms fat and happy. Li-Xia and Pebble hung theirs in the Ghost Tree, and sat beneath it with a mooncake for the little girl Morning Star. They lit their joss sticks and said their prayers for her, letting them drift into the branches with the curling smoke, looking down on the river valley where the lanterns floated like fireflies.

  “This is the time when those who secretly hope to become a wife thread a needle with silk and pray to Heng-O to send them a husband. It is said that on this night each year, a cowherd crosses the sky to find his lost love. Those that thread the needle without difficulty may be looked upon by him with favor.” Pebble chuckled at the thought, splitting a ripe pomegranate and handing half to Li-Xia. They sat beneath the Ghost Tree until the last lantern had disappeared among the stars. Pebble did not laugh at Li-Xia’s dreams of pursuing her mother’s path.

  “Who is to say what happens when a spirit resides so close to heaven? That you may speak to your mother and she answers is a great thing. When I was younger I spoke to mine but there was no answer … so I became a dancer in my heart, an empress and an opera star, whatever I wished to be. You, my little Crabapple, are different. You are surely meant to be a scholar.”

  The Autumn Moon Festival was also a time for changes at Ten Willows, a time for good news and bad. Those who were no longer useful were told that they must leave, and those who had been noticed were told of their promotion. Ah-Jeh called Li-Xia to her office in the mill. It was the first time she had been inside, to gaze with awe upon the rows of wooden looms, each mounted with brightly colored spindles; the sau-hai were busy making rolls of silk as fine as the wing of a dragonfly. No chatter could be heard above the ceaseless clatter and clack of the shuttles.

  “You are almost twelve years old, Li-Xia. You have worked well and do not waste time with foolishness, or hide from the overseer or play stupid games among the trees. It is time for you to take your place in the spinning shed. You have grown strong and tall for your age and earned your place in Ten Willows. You will move your bed tomorrow. If you do this work well, you may be chosen to carry the lantern. If not, the next step could be to the weaving mill—you may be offered the comb and the mirror of sau-hai.” The voice of the superintendent was brisk but not unkind, and her eyes held no threat.

  “Thank you, Ah-Jeh. It is an honor to be thought worthy of such great opportunity … but …” Li-Xia tried to find the words she wanted to say.

  “There are no ‘buts’ in this matter. The new moon has brought you a change in fortune.” Ah-Jeh’s rage was never far away. “Do you dare to question what the moon and stars bequeath to you?”

  “If I am expected to share the master’s bed, he will not find me pleasing.” As they always were at times of great importance, her words were out before Li-Xia could stop them. She was not even sure where they came from.

  The superintendent’s face darkened like a cloud crossing the sun. “This is not for you to question. The master will do with you as he pleases. If he does not find you worthy of his attentions, then I will do with you as I please.” Ah-Jeh’s manner calmed quickly; her scarlet mouth curved into a slow smile. “Perhaps I will offer you the comb and the mirror … we shall see.”

  “I am not sure I deserve the honor of such great blessings.”

  The smile was slow to fade, but the light in Ah-Jeh’s treacly eyes seemed to freeze with its passing as she spoke through clenched teeth. “Do not make the same mistakes that Little Pebble made. It is the greatest good fortune to be of special service to your master or to be considered by the sisterhood of sau-hai. You will do best to forget Pebble and her collection of idiots; they cannot help you. Save your trust for those who can.”

  The superintendent controlled her anger, reaching out to take Li-Xia’s hand. “Let me see these hummingbird hands and butterfly fingers.” She lifted both hands, circling the palms with her strong thumbs, taking each finger in turn with the lightest touch. “Have you not learned that life in the groves is short?” she asked more reasonably. “That when you can no longer deliver your baskets fast enough and full enough, there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but to beg in the streets, or to peddle yourself for a bowl of rice? Even the monasteries are filled with those who would wash the feet of monks before they will choose to die alone. There is no room in the world of Ten Willows for those who can no longer pluck the cocoon and tend the silkworm, and Pebble is soon to be among them.”

  Ah-Jeh fondled Li-Xia’s hands with her short, fat fingers. “You have cared for them well. They are not yet torn and you have no calluses … even your fingernails are clean.” The superintendent allowed Li to withdraw her hands. “Let there be no further talk. You will move in the morning.”

  That night, when the evening rice was over, Li-Xia found Little Pebble at the river’s edge, watching the moon’s bright dazzle dance upon the water. She was fishing for eels. Pebble listened to every word Ah-Jeh had spoken, then said in a voice too tired for anger, “There is nothing you can do. Go with her and do as you are told. It is not so bad to be a weaver. Better than to follow me …” She was quiet, stringing the eels on a loop of split bamboo. “I do not have a moon mother to guide me. In truth, I have no voice but that of a moorhen calling her chicks”—she found her dancer’s grin—“while you are to be a scholar of great fame and fortune … Giant Yun has decreed this.”

  Suddenly, she embraced Li-Xia and held her close, her cheek hot with tears. “You must forget the Pebble who will never be a diamond. I shall miss you at the Ghost Tree, but I am glad for you. There are
better things in life than gathering cocoons. Sometimes pride asks too high a price of us. Look at me and know you make the right choice.”

  Li-Xia was troubled by Pebble’s words, seeking to make her smile again.

  “I will never forget you. If I become a scholar, I shall return to Ten Willows and and set you free.”

  “You are brave and strong enough to make your own way, my little Crabapple, but please, I beg of you, if you are told to carry the lantern to the Heavenly House, you must do it. Forget pride and dignity; these can wait. Ming is old and lazy, his chi is weak and his energy short.” She gave a small laugh. “He is a drinker of hot rice wine; see that his cup is always full. Dance for him, sing to him… . Use your hands … even your mouth if you must. He will be easily spent and soon put to sleep.”

  She grinned her encouragement. “If that is not enough for him, cry and scream as loud as you can, make such noise that his nerves will not allow him to proceed. Tell him he is too strong for you … his ivory staff so big it will split your jade gate in two. If you make him feel that he is young again, and that you fear but admire his manhood, he will be content… . If you are lucky he will tire of you in a week.” Pebble paused, slowly shaking her head. “But do not run… . Do. Not. Run.

  “If you are asked to choose the comb and the mirror, think hard about your choices, for they are very few. Whatever awaits you, do not anger Superintendent Ah-Jeh, or you will come to know true evil.”

  Li-Xia left the bamboo huts behind her and entered the honeysuckle gate of the mill compound. She was shown her bed space in a house made of bricks, with doors and shuttered windows that opened and closed. The house was set back from the riverfront, its thick walls distancing the call of frogs, the ripple of eels at night, and the gentle whispering of willows. It was lit with gas lamps that hissed like snakes and glared so white they hurt her eyes.