She swings the hoe over her head, the strong muscles of her shoulders and arms forged from years of work, clench. The tool comes down to split the sad earth with surprising force. She pictures Mei-Ju’s face in the brown of the soil. It is not simply the pain of always coming second to her sister, for she is not merely ‘second’―she is last. Her life is a race she can never win against Mei-Ju’s beauty.
Chen-Ju will marry a farm labourer, another peasant. Her industrious nature and tenacity will snare a husband, a man who wishes his helpmeet to work by his side, a woman who will bear sturdy children. She will never escape hard work, her face will never elevate her beyond the mud of the field.
“The Crown Prince was hurt?”
“Beaten, yes.” He fits the headdress carefully onto the perfectly formed head, secures it gently into the elaborate black coiffure. “Nothing I couldn’t fix.”
“The Empress must have been grateful.”
“Bring me those rings, the jade—and the bracelets. Yes, she has been my especial patron ever since.” He straightens, arches his back, sighing with relief as his vertebrae crack back into place. “When she gave me this latest commission, I considered myself most fortunate. Not that one—the one with the dragon swallowing its tail—bring that.”
“I hear your daughter is a great beauty, Wu Tsian.”
Mei-Ju’s father nods, his heart barely daring to hope. The harvest has not been good; he never thought to feel so hungry. He tries not to let his desperation show as he looks at the old man whose silver hair floats around his face in a haze.
“I am here to negotiate for her hand in marriage.” Wei’s eyes flit around the stark farm, recognising instantly, after a lifetime of judging people at a glance, that this man will be a happy to sell his glorious daughter. The old man nods, a gesture Wu Tsian misses. This family will not starve again, the clan who asked for a bride will pay well. Whatever they give these peasants will be nothing compared to the bounty they will gain from a marriage with the Crown Prince, but to this small, ragged herd it will mean life.
They discuss terms and Wu Tsian does not waver, does not hesitate when the old man lays out the conditions of Mei-Ju’s good fortune. When Wu Tsian consents, his heart aching at the thought of the price his daughter will bring, he invites the old man inside. Master Wei is gracious, he has been in worse places (was born in one), but not many. The girl comes when called, tottering, doll-like. His face breaks into a smile; he had not hoped for this. “Golden lotus feet! My friend, how wonderful.”
“We knew she would be beautiful, that an important man would want her, so we made sure she would be entirely so.” Wu Tsian turns to Mei-Ju, who looks on expectantly. “Mei-Ju, our prayers are answered. This man has asked for your hand in marriage—to the Crown Prince.”
Mei-Ju catches her breath; it is more than she could have hoped for. Her grandmother, the concubine, trained her how to behave. She simpers, is modest, but flicks her eyes up, floats glancing blows at the well-dressed man who has come to rescue her. He thinks, if he were younger, she would be a wonderful diversion; as it is he congratulates himself on his choice. The Empress and her son will be pleased, as will the family who are paying him to find a bride.
The door opens and Chen-Ju and her mother enter. Wu Tsian is so excited he can barely express their good fortune. His wife weeps for joy and announces Mei-Ju must pack. Her daughter gives a haughty look—what is there for her to take from this place? She will dress in Grandmother’s one remaining outfit.
“Everything she needs will be provided, wife of Wu Tsian,” Wei interrupts, thinking that families should not leave each other on bad terms. “Do not worry. All her needs will be met in the Palace.”
Mei-Ju’s heart thrills at the word ‘palace’. Chen-Ju’s face darkens, twists. Her salivary glands over-produce and she wants to spit in her sister’s face. But it will not do, she will be gone soon.
“We should leave now; it is a long way to Chang’an,” says the old man. Mei-Ju agrees. She disappears into the back room that acts as their only bedroom, gesturing for Chen-Ju to follow, to help her dress.
Chen-Ju does so with bad grace, she is not gentle. She tugs at her sister’s old dress, so worn it rips in places. Mei-Ju ignores it, stands still as Chen-Ju removes the silken robe from the carven chest. This Chen-Ju handles respectfully, grudgingly. It is one of the things (like her sister) she finds impossible to ruin, something always stops her, some kind of fear.
Slowly, she unrolls the robe and slips it over Mei-Ju’s head, her fingers fumbling with the band-knots. Chen-Ju steps away, raising her gaze to the glorious glowing yellow of her sister’s form. The silk, embroidered with lotus flowers, matches the gold wash of her skin. She is a Chrysanthemum Bride, surely her fortune is assured. Chen-Ju averts her eyes; they hurt. Something lands on the floor at her feet.
Mei-Ju’s mirror. Chen-Ju catches sight of her own face in its polished surface. She folds beside it and begins to weep.
“The family who bought her?”
“Had no daughter, merely an over-abundance of sons. But they wanted ties with the Empress. They knew I had been asked to find a bride for her son.”
“They paid much for a girl to pass off as their own niece from the provinces. Are you not afraid they will tell someone?”
“Who would admit to claiming a peasant as family? Who would admit to sullying their lineage?” the old man chuckles.
“They must be very ambitious.”
“Very. Always keep some form of insurance, when you deal with the very ambitious, Li. Remember that.”
“Yes, Master. When they finally met, Mei-Ju and the Crown Prince—did she like her husband?”
“Not really, no.”
Mei-Ju felt as though she had held her breath the whole way to Chang’an, and the trip from the outer provinces was very long. She rode in the cart alongside the old man, never questioning why she did not have a wedding procession. After a few days the yellow robe showed wear and she could smell the journey embedded into the thick weave. She would, she thought, burn it when she arrived, when she was showered with her bridal gifts, when she had better. Grandmother’s cast-offs were not worth keeping. Perhaps, though, she would send the old hair combs back to her sister.
Her mind flitted briefly, dismissively, over the rumours that had reached them in their care-worn village, of the Crown Prince’s disappearance, of the stirrings it had caused. He had been in hiding, obviously; now he had returned and she was to be his bride.
When they finally reached the Palace, the old man covered her face as they rattled through the main gates. She was taken into the Palace by secret ways. He left her with three serving women, who bathed her from head to foot, scouring her skin with brushes until she glowed, washing her hair, anointing her with oils and perfumes until she felt intoxicated with the scent of herself. Her wedding robes were rich, royal red, heavily embroidered, long sleeved, delicately made. Her hair was dressed, held in place with combs of jade and gold. They hung her about with jewellery that had adorned empresses for hundreds of years, and painted her face, until she looked like a doll. Her lotus feet were re-wrapped in clean swaddling, shod with new shoes finer than she had ever imagined.
She feels weighted down by her finery but she does not care; it is a burden she embraces, a weight she craves.
When the old man reappears she is ready, her excitement sitting in her throat like a ripe plum. He leads her to a large, richly appointed chamber. On a raised platform is a bed and on the bed lies a figure. She approaches slowly, her eyes downcast.
“Meet your husband, Mei-Ju.” Master Wei’s voice floats up to her as she mounts the platform.
The Crown Prince has a pale, waxy cast to his skin. He is a beautiful boy, not much older than she, and in full wedding robes, golden dragons rampant on the red cloth. His eyes are closed and his chest neither rises nor falls with the motion of breath. Now Mei-Ju realises that he lies not on a bed but on a bier. In spite of the embalmer’s excellent work,
there is something about him that speaks of decay; he smells stale and dusty beneath the heavy perfume.
Mei-Ju backs away, her tiny crushed feet aching, her heart swelling. She turns to the old man, who is now flanked by two large men.
“Minghun,” she breathes, her eyes filling.
“He has been dead for five years?”
“Yes, beaten to death by enemies of the Empress. I preserved him as well as I could during our time in exile, but the materials to hand were not the best. Still, it was all I could do.” The old man sighs, adjusts Mei-Ju’s jade combs. “When the Empress returned to power recently, this was the first task she gave me, to find him a bride for minghun. An afterlife marriage was all she desired for him―no parent wants their child to go into the darkness alone, unmarried.” His voice is soft, pained by the idea. “But Mei-Ju screamed. She screamed for a long time, and fought. In the end, though, she was too frail. We had to replace her robes, and fix her hair again, she was dishevelled by her struggles.”
“You covered the bruises well,” observes Li, eying the skin around the girl’s lips.
“Yes. She would not take the poison willingly, my men had to hold her mouth open, pour it in, stroke her throat like a cat to make her swallow it down.” He points to the places where bruises lurk under the thick makeup. “There is something in the poison that seems to restore the flesh after death; the marks were very much lessened after she had breathed her last. I don’t know why. Perhaps you will find out, when you take my place.”
“Ah.”
“Come. It’s time for her wedding. The families will arrive soon.”
“Did her own family know?” Side by side they stand, surveying their work, the bride and groom in rich red, youth suspended, lying on their joint bier.
“Oh yes; well, the father did. Perhaps he told his wife. The girl’s sacrifice has made their lives better. They will want for nothing. One life for the benefit of many.” The old man nods. “I think it was an easy choice. Come.”
Chen-Ju keeps the mirror for a month, until the day Mei-Ju’s face appears in it. Chen-Ju is transfixed by her sister’s wild hair, red-rimmed, weeping eyes, her mouth in a constant ‘o’ of despair.
It is the day of Chen-Ju’s wedding to a local farmer—the family’s improved fortunes have hooked her a higher rank of husband. She has the mirror propped on a chest as she brushes her dull hair, pinches her pale cheeks for some colour, smoothes down her unadorned scarlet dress, when Mei-Ju fills the silvered surface like smoke.
Chen-Ju watches for a while, then wraps the thing in a piece of old cloth. She sneaks out of her parents’ house, makes her way to a field and buries the mirror and her screaming sister as deeply as she can. Chen-Ju’s heart lifts; she does not bear the burden of beauty and for once she is grateful.
* * *
Frozen
They found a child last winter, frozen on a bench outside the community centre.
His mother, who was inside playing bingo and drinking tea, had left him to wait on the bench in spite of the freezing temperatures. It was her habit, to let him sit outside whichever venue she was patronising at the time, be it community centre, pub, Indian takeaway. She, I understand, lamented the loss of the social security income he had brought her; she’d have to find another way of financing her fags and lager.
The bench faces the sea, which at that time of year is grey and glassy—although not quite frozen. I think it a pretty sad view for someone to die with; cold grey water being the last image etched on your eyeballs. It doesn’t strike me as a gentle death; nor even a hard death ... just a depressing one, a slipping away into a nothingness kind of death. It seems unfair for a young one to die so.
I used to sit on that bench quite a lot, before winter came and it got too cold. It’s nice in summer but I didn’t think I’d be able to feel the same way about it after the child. People lose their kids in all sorts of ways; it’s the careless ones that make me angry.
It was a lovely summery day; I wasn’t planning on going there that afternoon but my feet had a mind of their own, or my mind was out-to-lunch; any road, I found myself on the boardwalk, rocking from my toes to my heels and back again on the planking, which is fractured and split like earth that’s gone too long without water. Being there was better than going home.
The bench seemed different. It took me a while but eventually I worked out that it was because it looked kind of blurred; maybe not so much blurred as—well, you know when you look into a mirror that’s cracked and you get two broken images? Like that—like the air had cracked and someone had done a really crap job of papering over the split; as if there was a thin gap that you could see through if you stared really, really hard. I walked around the bench, rubbed my eyes and squinted, but it stayed the same. Then I asked a passer-by if he could see it, and that was a bad idea because didn’t I get a look and a half?
From under the boardwalk I could hear the slap and wash of the sea, rubbing itself up against the pylons like some cheap tart. I walked away and didn’t look behind me, didn’t give that bench and its broken space a second glance.
But I went back the next day.
I could only see a quarter of him the second day, like a sliver of moon as it passes through its cycle. I sat across from the bench, perched on the railings of the boardwalk, feeling the sun lightly toasting the exposed skin of my legs and arms, so white and pasty from winter hibernation. I bought a purple icy-pole from the man with the little ice-cream wagon who stands at the entrance to the boardwalk and watches all the young girls when he thinks their parents aren’t looking.
On the bench was a section of a child: just an arm, shoulder, slice of torso and then the leg; as if someone had left part of a display room dummy sitting there for a joke, only no one else could see it. The bit wore a winter school uniform, that dark navy wool that gets faded back when you’re poor. And the little limbs shivered but I couldn’t tell if it was from cold, or fear brought on by a lack of understanding, or just because of the cracked mirror effect of the air around the bench. Maybe it was all three.
I guessed he was coming back, but he didn’t know it; didn’t know why. Bits of him were creeping back and maybe he was afraid coz he thought he’d gone somewhere for good, but now—now he was coming back here. It’s hard on kids: they go back to places where they’ve been happy or because they’ve got nowhere else to go; they don’t understand that sometimes you have to go back to places to fix things, even if you don’t know how.
I sat for the rest of the afternoon and watched but no more of him came through. I guess some of that has to happen at night, moonlight being so powerful and all. I thought about staying but didn’t fancy missing dinner for something that might not be visible. Anyway, I had something else to do.
The pub was full that night.
There was a little group in the corner, mostly men, rough hewn, clustered around a woman. She was the one I was interested in; shiny in a frayed kind of way, hair the colour of a too-new coin; everything about her was kind of frantic: loud laugh, sweeping gestures, but her eyes were dead. Maybe they were like that when she got them.
She seemed to be having a good time, this woman who’d let her child freeze, this woman who laughed up into the faces of the men around her, promising everything and nothing. Or she was trying to convince herself and everyone else that she was having a good time. I wondered how heavily he weighed on her soul, that frozen little child. Would she see him if she went to the bench on the boardwalk? Just that poor sliver of him?
I followed her home. She took one of the men, the biggest of them. He held her upright as she staggered in her white patent heels along the cobbled streets. I didn’t approach—didn’t like my chances with that bearded monolith. I could smell his sweat and testosterone halfway down the street. I only wanted to observe. I wondered if she was hollow inside—if I tapped on her chest would I hear an echo? Would the sound travel across an empty space? When they stumbled into her shabby little cottage I turned for home.
In my shabby little cottage there was a room with a crib.
When I got home, I started to clean it out. Brushed the cobwebs from the corners, chased the spiders from their homes, wiped down the walls and found that, yes, you really could wipe just about anything off gloss paint with a damp cloth.
We had painted the walls blue, Swoozie and me, and the crib white. There was a rocking chair, too, white with an embroidered cushion my mum sent. I stencilled toy soldiers and trains on one wall, a feature wall just like my sister suggested. The curtains were blue, too, with little bears on the fabric floating against the window. It wasn’t much but we did it with love.
Pity Swoozie lost the baby. Pity I lost Swoozie.
By the fourth day, he’d come through.
It was dusk when I got there but I could see him quite clearly. Hear him, too, as he cried, such a sad little noise. People walked past but no one saw him, apart from me.
I walked up to him and smiled. There was a beat while he considered me, then smiled back. I think he saw in my face that I’d been waiting for him for a long time. I held out my hand and he took it, only all I could feel was cold, icy cold, no real flesh, nothing solid.
Where are we going?
Going to see your mummy, first off. Then we’ll go home.
I don’t want to go to her.
I know, but there’s something you’ve got to do.
What?
You’ll know when you get there.
It didn’t take very long.
I led him to the cottage and he pushed open the door. I didn’t go in, just sat outside on the step, massaging my hand to try to get some warmth back into it. The woman was pretty quiet, only a couple of screams, nothing to bother the neighbours—in that area, people are so used to yelling and screaming that no one raises an eyebrow anymore.
The Girl With No Hands and Other Tales Page 5
