The Moon Pearl

by Ruthanne Lum McCunn

  Nor did she want to become a nun. Not because she’d have to shave her head so much as she didn’t want to exchange the rule of husband and in-laws for the rule of an abbess. She wanted to rule herself.

  She and Mei Ju and Rooster had talked more than once of living together in a house where they ruled themselves. But they’d merely been dreaming out loud. Now, trying to figure out how to turn their dreamtalk into reality, Shadow reminded herself of Strongworm’s newly awakened dragon.

  The district had been suffering an unusually wet and stormy summer. So Strongworm’s Council of Elders had sought to appease the Sky Dragon by replacing the tattered ceremonial dragon with a new.

  The dragon’s brightly painted plaster-and-wood head was massive, the cloth body so long it could circle the temple courtyard three times over. And before the most senior member of the Council opened the dragon’s eyes by painting in jet black pupils, the creature lay motionless in the dirt, without life.

  Sighted, its whiskers and ears wriggled, its jaws gaped wide in vain attempts to seize the large, luminous moon pearl that hovered just above its head. Then its long, serpentine body writhed, shimmering silver and green and gold, rising higher and higher off the ground until it was dancing, kicking up clouds of dust that it rode in soaring leaps.

  However high the dragon jumped, though, the moon pearl continued to elude it; and rainstorms and big winds continued to menace the area.

  As yet another big wind threatened, all the able-bodied men in the village ran to bolster the dikes, every woman and most of the children rushed to gather as much mulberry as they could before the storm struck. Clouds, black with rain, already crowded the sky, and Mei Ju, sent by Grandmother to pick leaves in their family’s most distant field, worried whether she and her sister and cousins and aunts could bring in a sufficient supply of dry leaves to feed the family’s worms. Not only during the storm, but afterwards, while the sun was drying out the mulberry in the fields. For damp leaves didn’t store well. They moldered. And moisture on the leaves would bloat the worms and make them sick.

  Each autumn, her father and uncles cut their mulberry close to the ground, and each spring, suckers came up which grew to five, six feet by the end of the season. The shrubs were now just past Mei Ju’s waist, and despite her haste, the need to fill her baskets, she was careful to pick whole, undamaged leaves, to avoid those at the end of a branch so there’d be something left to draw the sap and force the plant into new leaf.

  Stooped over and intent on her task, she ignored the dimming light, the stiffening breeze that riffled the mulberry beyond the shrubs she was disturbing with her urgent plucking. But then the breeze sharpened into a brisk wind, and a wild gust sliced between the two rows of mulberry Mei Ju was picking, whipping her pants against her legs, tearing loose the ties to her widebrimmed straw hat, lifting it off her head.

  Reaching up to catch it, she felt the full force of another blast, doubled over, saw the basket she’d been filling tumble, spill, the leaves fly.

  “No,” Mei Ju yelped, abandoning her hat and throwing herself protectively over the basket.

  Grit, stirred up by the wind, flew into her mouth. She spat, heard Bak Ju yell, “Over here, Mei Ju!”

  “In the canal,” Ba added.

  Realizing her sister and father must have come for her in the family’s skiff, relief washed over Mei Ju, and with it, a surge of strength. Righting the basket, she shouted, “I’m coming!”

  When she attempted to stand, however, the wind knocked her down. Squatting, she used the mulberry shrubs as a windbreak and pushed the half-empty baskets toward the canal, her father and sister.

  Whorls of dirt burned Mei Ju’s eyes, burrowed into her nose, suffocating, compelling her to breathe through her mouth. Even with her teeth clenched, she swallowed throat-scratching dust. Yet she prayed it wouldn’t rain so the leaves would stay dry and there’d be no chance of their spoiling or causing sickness in the family’s worms. She even made a laborious detour to reclaim two of the baskets of leaves she’d picked earlier.

  As she neared the canal, lightning and thunder shattered the sky, pelting Mei Ju and the leaves with rain. Without her hat she was soon drenched. The already oversoaked soil puddled, turned into muck. Still she swiveled on her heels, twisting herself back and forth, pushing the half-empty basket, dragging the two that were full: once she reached her father’s skiff, the baskets would be sheltered, and the bottom leaves might be saved.

  Hands reached down, took one of the full baskets.

  “Leave the half-empty one,” Ba ordered.

  Bak Ju seized a handle of the remaining full basket.

  “Hurry,” she urged.

  Reluctantly, Mei Ju released the half-empty basket, grabbed the handle opposite Bak Ju. Towing the basket between them, they scurried after their father, heedless of the mud splattering from his heels, their own.

  The boat pitched wildly in the roiling water. Together Mei Ju and her sister hoisted each basket up to Ba, who—crawling on his hands and knees—secured them under the awning. Then, one by one, he hauled Mei Ju and Bak Ju onto the deck, which was slick with rain, river water, crushed leaves, and—in what Mei Ju guessed was a desperate effort to balance the skiff—positioned them on opposite sides, ordering them to lie flat against the gunnels, to hang on tight.

  Clinging to the top of the gunnel, Mei Ju peered through the blinding rain at her father in the stern, struggling to maneuver the skiff despite the fierce winds, the torrents of floodwater cascading through broken dikes. How could he possibly keep them afloat, bring them home safe?

  All at once, the River Dragon lashed his tail, hurling the skiff into the air. The boat landed hard, knocking the breath out of Mei Ju. Bak Ju flew across the deck. Instantly Mei Ju tried to reach out and catch her. But before Mei Ju could pry loose a single finger from the gunnel, Bak Ju tumbled over the side, disappeared.

  She didn’t resurface either, at least not close enough that Mei Ju could see her. Nor did Mei Ju hear Bak Ju cry out. Or perhaps the water pounding against the hull, the rain beating against the awning and deck, and the screech and wail of the wind muffled her cries.

  Second Uncle said every family in Strongworm suffered losses. Theirs, though, was hit the hardest. Trees, uprooted by the big wind, fell across many of their dikes, which crumbled, flooding most of the family’s fields and fish ponds, destroying the greater part of their mulberry crop, letting many of the fish escape in the ponds’ overflow.

  Covered by the awning that curved across the middle of the family’s skiff, most of the leaves Bak Ju had picked and a third of Mei Ju’s remained dry and could be fed to the worms, otherwise they, too, might have been lost. But Mei Ju and Ba, out on the open deck, were chilled to the bone, and for days afterwards racked with intense fits of shivering, periods of scorching fever. Bak Ju’s body was never recovered.

  The village gossips laid the responsibility for the family’s misfortunes at Grandmother’s feet. Some said that Grandfather’s spirit, angry at his wife for treating his concubine too harshly, couldn’t rest although almost four years had passed since his death. Others claimed Heaven itself was avenging the concubine. But Mei Ju couldn’t see how any of her family’s losses could possibly benefit the concubine, how their distress could ease hers.

  Nor could Mei Ju understand why Grandfather’s spirit would take Bak Ju. While their mother was lamenting Grandfather, she’d begged over and over:

  “When you come at night, please come silently.

  Don’t touch your grandchildren with your hands.

  Just look at them.

  And when you go, please go silently.”

  Until his burial, Ma had set out food for Grandfather every time they sat down as a family to eat. And in the years since, she’d never once failed to place generous offerings before his spirit tablet on the altar the first and fifteenth day of each month. So even if Grandfather’s spirit was angry with Grandmother, why would he take Bak Ju?

  Then Grandmo
ther proclaimed Bak Ju had come to her in a dream and said, “I offered myself to the River Dragon as a sacrifice.”

  But Mei Ju, revisiting their final moments together on the deck of the family’s storm-tossed boat, saw only her failure to shout for help, to reach out and grab Bak Ju as she tumbled across the deck, fell into the dark, churning water.

  THREE

  1837–1838

  The Best Thing

  SHADOW had hoped to present her friends with the gift of a flawless plan for how they could refuse marriage and rule themselves. She was still trying to perfect it, however, when Mei Ju choked, “I thought we’d have at least two, maybe three, even four years left together, but Grandmother’s marrying me off this autumn to help make up our family’s losses from the big wind.”

  “The way Old Bloodsucker’s pressuring my family for money, you can be sure I’ll be married off by year’s end too,” Rooster responded gloomily.

  Shadow, no less upset than her friends, blurted, “You don’t have to marry. Nor do I. We can make vows of spinsterhood just like nuns. Instead of shaving our heads or living in a cloister or on charity, though, we can comb our hair in a bun so everyone knows we’re not girls under our parents’ rule but women, and we can rent a room here in Strongworm and support ourselves through reeling and embroidery. That way, we won’t have to answer to anyone except ourselves.”

  Mei Ju and Rooster, like herself, were seated cross-legged on their bed, and as Shadow spoke, they leaned toward her just as they had the morning she’d revealed her knowledge of book learning, her plan to teach them. Indeed, their faces were so close to hers that Shadow could feel their sharp puffs of breath, their awe; then their frustration when the nightwatch passed, calling out the hour, beating his brass gong, forcing her to stop because she couldn’t be heard above his clamor.

  As the gong’s last reverberations faded, Mei Ju murmured dreamily, “If only we could.”

  Rooster’s deep-set eyes shone with desire, but her shoulders drooped with defeat. “If is right. None of our fathers would ever give us permission. Not even yours, Shadow.”

  Shadow grinned. “We won’t ask. We’ll force their hands.”

  “You mean threaten suicide unless they let us do what we want?” Mei Ju sighed. “That might work for you, but it won’t for Rooster or me.”

  Rooster, who’d been studying Shadow through narrowed eyes, rubbed her chin. “I do believe our wily fox might have some other ruse in mind.”

  “I do.” Shadow’s grin stretched wider. “We can make our vows of spinsterhood in secret and before Heaven. Then no one can stop us, and our families will be forced to honor our choices.”

  “Ho yeh, wonderful!” Mei Ju praised, holding out both her fists with their thumbs up. “Even my grandmother wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of Heaven by overriding such vows.”

  Turning so she faced their altar, Rooster raised herself onto her knees and reverently knocked her forehead against their bedmat. “Thank you, Goddess, for answering my prayers.”

  She swiveled back. “Nuns make their vows to Gwoon Yum. Although we won’t be charity spinsters, so can we.”

  Shadow shook her head. “No, we can’t risk being seen at the temple. And it wouldn’t be fair to involve the other girls in this house by making our vows up here in secret. But we can go to the altar for Seh Gung, the Community Grandfather. It’s shielded from the road by the banyan trees, and we can further lessen our chances of being seen by going in the final hour before dawn, leaving here a little after the nightwatch has passed.”

  “Seh Gung lost the roof over his head from making a vow too,” Mei Ju observed.

  “Didn’t you hear me say we’ll rent …” Aghast, Shadow slapped both her hands over her mouth. How could they keep their intentions secret if they went around Strongworm asking about rooms for rent?

  “Hmmmm, our fox isn’t as wily as I thought.” Taking Shadow’s hands in hers, Rooster turned the palms up and examined them as if she were a seer. “But there’s no need for despair. These lines here show there will be a roof over our heads. Not much of one, mind, since it’s straw. The walls are bad too. They’re mud and have more cracks than an old tortoise shell. There’s not much in the way of furnishings either. A narrow bench. An ancient scarred table. A few rough boards on two sawhorses… .”

  “No,” Mei Ju broke in. “Not the rain shelter.”

  Rooster wagged a finger at Mei Ju. “Don’t you start with the no’s.”

  Shadow, as repelled by Rooster’s proposal as Mei Ju, swiftly swallowed the protest she’d been about to make. “We shouldn’t have to stay in the hut long. A few days at most.”

  “We can also carry Gwoon Yum to Seh Gung’s altar and make vows to them both,” Rooster said.

  A bubble of laughter rose in Shadow’s throat. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She stretched her arms and arched her back. “We’ve still got many more details to work out, but now we have three heads instead of one.”

  “And a couple more months,” Mei Ju said. “No one marries during the silk season.”

  Rooster shook her head. “We could be forced into a betrothal any day, and once betrothed, we’d be good as married. We wouldn’t be able to make vows of spinsterhood.”

  “Ai,” Shadow groaned. “I didn’t think of that either.”

  “We could watch for matchmakers going in and out of our houses,” Mei Ju suggested.

  At Mei Ju’s easy solution, Shadow brightened. “Sudden bouts of house cleaning and the appearance of special treats are hints a matchmaker’s been sent for too.”

  “You know how careful parents are to hide those sorts of things from their daughters’ notice. Why take that kind of a chance?” Rooster demanded.

  “Since my family won’t have my bride price to help them, I’d like to finish out the silk season so they’ll at least get the benefit of my wages from reeling,” Mei Ju admitted.

  With Elder Sister-in-law unable to reel because of her big belly, Shadow’s father needed her as well. “If I leave home before the end of the season, Baba will have to sell this final generation of worms as cocoons instead of skeins of silk, and he’s counting on the extra profit to help make up our losses from the big wind.”

  “Are we trying to save our families or ourselves?” Rooster exploded.

  Mei Ju flinched. Shadow sucked in her breath, pointed warningly at the ladder leading to the girls asleep below.

  More softly yet no less intense, Rooster continued, “Shadow, I’ll wager your mother’s embroidery sales this winter will make up most if not all of your family’s shortfall. Mei Ju, the biggest bride price added to your wages for a full season couldn’t cover what your family’s lost. Likewise, I could let Old Bloodsucker squeeze me dry, and it wouldn’t lessen my father’s debts. Not the way Old Bloodsucker keeps piling on interest. So the best thing we can do for all three of our families is include lucky words in our vows for Heaven to shower them with blessings. And the best thing we can do for us is make those vows without delay.”

  “Wah,” Shadow gasped admiringly. “If your brother’s brain is anything like yours, he really will become a laureate.”

  Since her sister’s death, Mei Ju’s first thought on waking was of their years before the girls’ house, when they’d shared a bed with their grandmother.

  Their mother and aunts rose at dawn so that as soon as Grandmother cleared her throat, signaling she was awake, they’d be ready with her tea, a basin of hot water for washing. And at Grandmother’s first cough, Bak Ju would sing out, “Good morning, Grandmother. Did you sleep well?” Grandmother, spitting nightphlegm into the spittoon beside the bed, would respond with a nod, an affectionate pat, and Bak Ju would leap out of bed to open the door for Ma and Second and Third Aunt.

  Bak Ju would also help them pour Grandmother’s tea, rinse her washcloth, ease her into her outer pants and jacket, comb her hair into a neat bun; slide her black headband around her forehead, over her ears, and under the bun; set her shoes where she c
ould step right into them. But Mei Ju would stay curled in the far corner of the bed, praying she’d escape notice by pretending sleep. The few times she’d attempted to join in, Grandmother had faulted her for not wringing out the washcloth sufficiently, carelessly dragging the clothes on the floor, setting the shoes too far or too close to the bed.

  Throughout the day, Ma and Second and Third Aunt—although busy with chores, looking out for the children who were still too young to care for themselves—continued to serve Grandmother as well as Grandfather and their own husbands. Watching them, Mei Ju understood her mother and aunts were living out the maxim, “A good daughter-in-law is never thirsty, never hungry, never sleepy, never tired, and never in need of going to the toilet.” What she couldn’t figure out was how they succeeded in doing all. Or how Bak Ju always managed to be by their sides, ready with a bowl or spoon or cloth that was needed.

  When Mei Ju asked her sister, Bak Ju told her, “The trick is to anticipate.” And Mei Ju tried. But absorbed in a piece of sewing or feeding their chickens and pig in the courtyard, she didn’t hear her father and uncles coming home from the fields, so how could she bring them water for washing? Running after their little brother and cousins, making sure they didn’t fall into the river or some other mischief, it didn’t occur to her, as it did to Bak Ju, that they could also look for and harvest the tender bamboo shoots Grandmother favored.

  Over and over, Mei Ju punished herself with the thought that if she had mastered the trick of anticipating, she might have saved her sister by recognizing Bak Ju’s intention to sacrifice herself and convincing her not to, or by reaching out to catch her as she’d hurtled off their father’s skiff. Now, her head and heart burning from Rooster’s fiery “Are we trying to save our families or ourselves?,” Mei Ju resolved not to repeat her sister’s mistake, her own.