The Concubine's Daughter

by null

  Only the swish of the ferry pole and the croak of a disturbed frog broke the silence as the plank boat glided smoothly through dark green foliage and wandering roots of mangrove trees, where heron and spoonbill waded in the shallows. Goats grazed the gently sloping grasslands where clusters of bamboo climbed the foothills. Above these forests of tung and teak trees, ancient spires of rock rose from the mists like forgotten pagodas.

  Ducks flurried from the water as the boatman put them ashore at a roughly cobbled jetty. Naked children squatted patiently over bamboo fishing rods while others searched for oysters among the mangrove roots.

  “Follow the goat track and you will find the hut of Old To,” the boatman said, glad to be rid of so strange a cargo. Then, emboldened by his departure, he raised his voice.

  “This is a place of wizardry and restless spirits,” he called across the water when safely out of reach. “And I have carried a witch bearing the spawn of alchemy.” The muddy children dropped their fishing lines, the coarse hoot of the boatman’s laughter chasing them like rabbits startled by a fox.

  The narrow track wound slowly upward through thickets of mimosa heavy with bees. A chorus of cicadas rose in the heat from groves of motionless bamboo, where bluecaps twittered a welcome. The sun was dipping into distant mountains as the Fish reached the hut set in the shade of fruit trees. Chickens pecked undisturbed among the neat furrows of a well-kept vegetable garden, and ducks cleaned their feathers beside a small pond fed by a spring. The energy that had brought her and her precious bundle safely along the China coast and through the gorges of the Yangtze Valley was slipping away, but her destination stood before her like the answer to a prayer.

  The hut faced the lake, its doors wide open and rush mats rolled up to catch the last glow of sunset. Bronze light fell upon the figure of a man bent over a large table set out on the rustic veranda, a long-handled brush poised to dip and sweep in the broad and flowing strokes of a master calligrapher. The Fish hesitated, unsure if this could truly be her cousin—the brave, half-naked boy who had pulled her from the churning waters of Tung-Ting so long ago the memory was lost in dreams. He was old enough, but even from the distance of a dozen steps and in half shadow, he was clearly no ordinary man.

  He was taller than most, upright as a youth, his movements fluid; he seemed surrounded by a mellow light as golden as the dying sun. He wore a simple ash-gray robe, bound at the waist with the faded saffron sash of a Taoist monk. His white hair was roughly plaited and loosely held with a thong, his long white beard fine as wild cotton and his face brown as a fig. Only when the Fish stepped closer, casting a long shadow across his threshold, did he pause to look up. When the face of serenity turned toward her, with eyes as blue as endless springtime, she knew she had found him.

  He did not recognize his distant cousin until she showed him the characters of their clan carved on the inside of the jade bangle that hung from her wrist. His calming presence acted like a soothing balm as he gently took the sling from her shoulders. “I had thought you’d gone to join our ancestors, that I was the last of our blood. Yet it is you, cousin Kwai. The gods that saved us as children have brought us together as the years grow shorter. Surely there must be purpose in such a wondrous thing.” His voice was as light and gentle as his smile.

  “I have traveled from Hong Kong, cousin, from the house of a good master. There is much that I must tell you. But first, I bring a life for you to save.”

  Gently, he opened the folds of cloth that surrounded the baby girl, examining her as if she were a wounded bird that had survived a storm. “You have brought her just in time. She would have been taken before another day.”

  Moments later, liquid he had prepared stood cooling in a clay crock. When it was ready, he fed it patiently into the baby’s mouth with a porcelain spoon. “Last night, I saw a sign—a shooting star over the lake. It was closer and brighter than any I have seen, blazing with a purple light.” He chuckled. “There is such an aura around this child.”

  “She was born in terror, many weeks too soon, on New Year’s Eve. So already she is one year old, one extra year of life.”

  Her cousin smiled as a tiny fist closed over his finger. He lifted it to test its strength. “Her before-sky chi is great and her spirit is strong. She clings to life like a warrior. This is no ordinary girl child.”

  The Fish nodded agreement. “Her mother was a fighter and her father fierce even among the Western barbarians. They found great love for each other … strong enough to face a world that sees only the sin of mixed blood. They did not care; they were protected by their pride and their courage. Only treachery could defeat them.”

  The Fish could no longer fight against exhaustion. Through the long days and sleepless nights of her journey, she had thought only of the baby, clinging to the distant hope that they would find her cousin safely and that he would welcome her. Now, having placed her burden in his gentle hands, stamina deserted her. Old To reached for her arm, placing the tips of his fingers lightly upon her slender wrists, reading the silent pulses that told him of her life-force.

  “You have done well, cousin; the chi of our clan still flows strongly within you. I will prepare food and a draught that will bring you comfort and rest. You have nothing more to fear.” He massaged her hands briskly. The Fish could feel his energy enter her, bringing new strength.

  He busied himself with lighting the lamps and preparing food. “I spoke of a shooting star that blazed across the sky the night before you came, bright as a splinter from the moon.” He traced the air with a wide sweep of his fingertip. “In that fragment of time, the lake shone like a beacon. It was a sign this child was meant to cross the lake and enter this house. We will call her Siu-Sing—Little Star. If she lives, she will one day light the heavens.”

  He placed a bowl of soup on the table. “You are entrusted with her heart and the guidance of her soul; I with her physical being and the ways of the spirit.”

  The Fish tasted the soup and nodded her approval. When she was finished, she withdrew a tightly wrapped bundle from the beaded sling. “We must find a place of safety for this. It holds the child’s future. Many things were stolen from me; an old woman traveling alone on the Yangtze is easy prey. But I have kept this bundle safe at the bottom of the sling.”

  She pushed aside the soup bowl with a chuckle. “No one would go near such a strange infant except the junk master’s daughter, who fed her milk in exchange for cash.”

  He took the bundle from her, pulled a heavy wooden chest from beneath his bed, and kneeled to slip the three brass pin locks securing its heavy lid. “I made this chest from the keel of a wreck seasoned by a hundred years at the bottom of the lake. It is harder than stone. No hammer could smash it and no axe could split it … it is safe as a monastery crypt.”

  One by one he twisted the pins until they clicked into place and were easily withdrawn. “The locks I made myself and are a puzzle to everyone but me.” He lifted the heavy lid to reveal an abundance of scrolls, bundles of papers, and small handmade books tightly packed.

  “This box contains the work of my life and the work of sages who have gone before me. It holds the world as it is seen by the immortals, although few would recognize its true value.” He laughed with pleasure at a secret shared. “The fools who tell stories in the village believe that the chest is filled with silver from selling the wild mandrake root some call ginseng.” He took the bundle from her and found a place for it deep among the papers. “Few come near this place and none dare enter uninvited.” He shook his head, smiling. “I think they are afraid of me … no reed-cutter would steal from a sorcerer’s crucible and no woodsman come too close to a maker of magic. So, I am left in peace and my house is safe.”

  Old To closed the chest and locked it, then led his cousin to a second cot, in the corner opposite his own. “Another sometimes sleeps here, a herd boy. He is young and strong as a mountain goat; he can spread his blanket in the herb shed.” When his cousin laid down, he gently
covered her with a quilt made from rabbit pelts.

  “Here by the lake, there is no need of clocks. The birds will wake you and the nightingale will sing you to sleep. Have no more fear for the little one. I will go to the camp below to find a milk-mother. Tomorrow I will carve a crib from the heart of a peach tree. It will bring me great joy.”

  Behind him, through a narrow gap in the mat wall, a human eye watched, unblinking. When Old To had replaced the chest and the old woman was silent, Ah-Keung, the herd boy, withdrew, unable to believe what he had seen and heard. His beloved si-fu—his great teacher—had given his place of shelter to a witch and an imp as pink as a piglet. Anger shook him as a dog shakes a rat; then shame and anger. Demons he had thought were gone forever taunted him with a shrillness only he could hear.

  The Fish awakened to the stirring of birds in the bamboo. As her eyes grew accustomed to the half light, she saw that her cousin’s bed was empty, the baby sleeping soundly in a make shift cot. A figure was framed against the open doorway, making no sound as it bent to peer closely at the sleeping child. “Who is there … Cousin, is it you?” she asked aloud. When no answer came, she asked again, sitting up and rubbing her eyes from the deepest of sleeps. The figure straightened quickly, revealing itself to be a boy with a wide-brimmed hat of frayed straw in one hand and the long wooden staff of a herdsman in the other.

  “Forgive me, Ah-Paw, please do not be afraid. I come to pay my respects to the one who has taken my place in the house of Master To.” The voice was that of a boy soon to become a man. He had called her Elder Sister in a tone of cautious respect, but he made her strangely uneasy.

  “Do you have my cousin’s permission to steal into his house while his guests sleep? Get away from the child. Do not enter again unless he is here.”

  The boy bowed deeply, as to one of great importance, leaning on the staff with a flourish of his hat. “The milk, Ah-Paw. I have milked the goat as I do each morning. It stands on the table and there are eggs in the bowl, still warm from the nest.”

  Her eyes now accustomed to the half light, she could see the milk pail and wooden bowl clearly. “Tomorrow you can leave the milk and eggs outside. I will fetch them when they are needed.”

  “But, Ah-Paw, there are dogs from the reed-cutters’ camp, and their thieving children …”

  The Fish felt her impatience rising. “What is your name?” she asked. “My name is Ah-Keung. I am the disciple of Master To; he is my beloved si-fu.” He bowed. “I also find herbs in the far hills and herd goats for the reed-cutters.”

  “Thank you, Ah-Keung, for the milk and the eggs. Please leave now. I will speak of this to my cousin. Until I have, do not cross this door.” He bowed again, then turned and was gone.

  With the first flush of morning, Old To returned with a cluster of catfish strung from a reed threaded through their gills.. His cousin sat waiting for him, the baby in her arms. She wasted no time in telling him of the herd boy.

  He set down the fish on the cleaning board outside the door and began scaling them. “He is not to be blamed,” he said thoughtfully. “The boy gathers herbs and cuts firewood, milks the goat and sweeps the pathway to my door. For that he has a place to sleep and food to eat.” He seemed hesitant, as though this was difficult to talk about.

  “He was to be my last disciple,” he said finally, as he sliced the pink flesh into strips. “His family left him on the steps of the temple before he could walk. He was cursed with a twisted foot, so was of no use to them. The monks fed him and as he grew, he swept the courtyard and lit the joss sticks to earn his daily rice. If he left the temple, the children of the village taunted him cruelly, calling him the dog boy, as he dragged his useless foot. He begged to be taught the art of temple boxing, that he might defend his honor, but they would not allow it … perhaps because the boy was lame, perhaps because he was seen as unfit to become a warrior.”

  Crossing to the fireplace to stir the glowing coals, he started the fish sizzling briskly in a pan. “The abbot’s heart was not entirely of stone; he agreed to take the dog boy into the temple, but only to work in the kitchen. The boy heard of me while listening to the chatter of novice monks who like to speak of miracles.” Crackling from the stove filled the silence, as he turned the fish with chopsticks.

  “It was winter; most of the sampans were idle on their moorings and few fishermen ventured out, but the dog boy crossed the lake alone, swam the icy waters, and dragged his crippled leg through miles of freezing mud.” To paused as though to gather his thoughts. “I found him in the herb shed. At first I thought he was a wounded bird, a pelican trapped in the mud, but his spirit had defied death and he soon recovered.” He broke the catfish into pieces into wooden bowls and mixed it with rice and leaves of dark green spinach. “I did much to straighten his leg, but it is his determination that restored him. I do not even know his true age, but I think he was seven or eight when he came to me. I have trained him for five years. He has taught his twisted foot to obey him.”

  He set the steaming bowls upon the table. “There is courage and great resolve in his soul … but nothing of humility or compassion. It did not take me long to see the seeds of selfishness and impatience. The need for violence grows within him like a sickness. Determination has become blind ambition. These are forces that can never follow the Way of the Tao. This is why I have named him Ah-Keung—the Forceful One.”

  They ate in silence for a moment, only the calling of birds and the distant voices of reed-cutters drifting from the foreshores. “So you see, I am to blame. I taught him to defend himself, so that he could find his own way. I did not see that this would never be enough for him, or that he would grow to trust me as a son trusts his father … or that he would seek no other place but here with me.”

  Old To shrugged his shoulders. “I chose the wrong disciple. Perhaps with time he will grow brains—learning to become a man is more difficult for some than for others.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Under a Pear Tree

  As soon as she found the marvel of her own two feet, Siu-Sing began the time of discovery. Every sight and sound and smell seemed to become a part of her—the sky floating on the vastness of the lake, the bump of boats across water, the smell of drying herbs and wood smoke. Birds and small animals became her friends, the marsh a waving jungle of reeds, the groves of bamboo a never-ending pattern of scattered sunlight. Far away, misty mountains touched the sky. The world was filled with wonder, and every day brought new adventures.

  One morning by the lake began like any other—the grassy slopes swept by gentle breezes, the cicadas busy in the fruit trees. Siu-sing had washed her face in the water jar, eaten breakfast at the table under the pear tree. Old To had left before dawn and climbed the wooded slopes above the hut, and the Fish was cleaning the congee pot and scouring the fish pan.

  Siu-sing’s feet led her toward the herb shed. She had been told to stay away from there, but was curious about the secrets that lay inside. Although the bamboo mats in the windows were rolled up, they were too high for her to look through. She could see many strange and shadowy things hanging from racks of bamboo poles.

  The herb-shed door was usually closed, and she could not reach the heavy wooden latch. Today it was ajar, with just enough room to squeeze through. Inside was dark and cool, filled with earthy smells and the fidgeting of swallows in the roof. It was a place of great mystery. Hanks of drying plants and flowers hung in rows overhead; pots and urns filled with tree bark, seeds, roots, and mushrooms lined the walls.

  Ah-Keung the herd boy rose slowly from his shadowy corner when Siu-Sing stepped through the door. She did not see him until his voice broke the spell of discovery.

  “Good morning, Little Sister; welcome to my house.” He laughed softly at her jump of surprise as she moved quickly back to the door. He stepped into the flood of light, holding out a clump of seed pods, inviting her to sniff their fragrance. When she bent closer, he stroked her hair and pinched her cheek.

  She
backed away at the touch of his hand.

  “Don’t run away so soon. Did you not come to visit me?” He squatted beside her, his eyes blacker and deeper than the darkest corner she had ever looked into. The cicadas seemed to stop singing at the sound of his voice. There was a smell about him that she did not know was the smell of many goats.

  She tried again to turn away, but he held his closed hand out to her. “I have a gift for you, here in my hand. Can you guess what it is?” She shook her head; his voice was so friendly that she hesitated.

  “Take it … it is yours to play with.” He held his hand closer, smiling at her.

  His teeth are not clean, she thought, and his hand is dirty. But slowly, uncertainly, she offered her open hand.

  The spider he dropped into it was as big as her palm, fat and hairy, its long legs tickling as it ran quickly up her arm and into her hair. She felt its sticky feet scrambling to escape, rummaging deeper into her hair. Her screams rebounded from every darkened corner of the shed.

  He grabbed her arm, anxious to stop her squealing, clawing the spider from her hair. “Don’t cry, don’t cry.” He sniggered. “It will not bite you—see, I have killed it.” He opened his closed fist to show her its mangled remains.”

  Suddenly, the door was thrown wide and the Fish was there beside her, lifting and holding her tightly, her voice shrill with rage. “If you have harmed this child, your master will hear of it.”

  Ah-Keung raised his hands to fend off her fury. “Forgive me, Ah-Paw, I did not wish to frighten her. When she entered the shed, I was asleep. The light was poor; I thought it was a boy from the reed-cutters’ camp, sent to steal ginseng. When I saw it was the Little Star, I tried to warn her. There are things that bite and sting in the herb shed; I have killed scorpions and snakes more than once. A little girl should not be allowed to wander unattended into a place like this.”