by Paul Yee
When tools were put down, they vanished into thin air. The loggers thought animals were dragging them off but no tracks were left on the soft ground. Often an unknown voice whispered and chuckled around the men, as if laughing at them. And the air around Sky-Highs trunk stayed icy cold throughout the day, even when sunlight hit the ground.
Finally, when the loggers raised their axes, a Chinese man with a pale face appeared before them. When they tried to shove him aside, their thick hands passed right through his body.
* * *
To this day, the towering tree called Sky-High still stands. The wind rustles through its branches, and lines heard long ago drift to the ground:
“On northern mountains amidst white clouds,
Hermits come to seek their peace.
Climbing high to avoid all crowds,
Where hearts can soar with wild geese.
Sadness rises from a quiet dusk,
As autumn air turns clear and brisk.”
FOUR
The Memory Stone
TO CHINESE PEOPLE, jade is the most magical of stones. When adorning human skin, it absorbs the body’s oils and essences as well as the owner’s nature, whether the person is soft or hard, warm or cold. Its healing touch can cool a fever or calm a chill. It can also be ground into powder and swallowed as a tonic.
The Chinatown museum owns a jade pendant, centuries old, the shape and size of a large coin. Cloudy green in color, its surface is as clear and smooth as water, but one side has a hairline crack running from its edge to center. For collectors, however, this feature only increases the value.
Many stories accompany this stone, but the best known comes from the turn of the century and starts in South
China’s Pearl River region.
* * *
Willow, a young widow, lived in a busy town where three rivers became one on their way to the ocean. Many boats passed by, so Willow and her mother-in-law opened a guesthouse that provided clean beds and hearty meals. Many men requested Willow s hand in remarriage, but she remained devoted to the memory of her husband, a kind and gentle man.
Early one morning, a beggar pounded on the back door.
“Show some heart,” he shouted. “I’m going to Gold Mountain to get rich. You’ll soon be rewarded!”
Willow opened the door and her mouth dropped open. She saw a face almost identical to her husband’s. Her late spouse s piercing eyes and toothy smile had stayed fresh in her memory for a long time, and she never imagined seeing them again. Her hand almost reached out to touch the strangers face.
“Work for me,” she said, “and I will pay you the going wage. You’ll sleep in the stable and eat rice twice a day.”
He called himself Ox, from the hill country. A blacksmith who planned to work with horses, he loved all animals. He fed exhausted packhorses slowly, to prevent stomach pains. He changed the straw in the stables every day and scrubbed the mules clean. When he whistled, wild dogs came running; when he clucked his tongue, chickens flocked at his feet. When he filled the feeding trough in the pigpen, one little piglet always nibbled at his trouser. In the fall, when the fattened hog was dispatched to the butcher, Willow saw Ox’s lips tremble, and at that moment, she lost her heart to him.
At his departure, he said, “Wait for me, Willow, and I will return to wed you.”
“Many men want me and my guesthouse,” she said. “Why should I wait?”
“Because my feelings for you are the truest and the strongest.” From behind his back he brought out a small bamboo cage. “This little canary will sing to our love every day.”
Willow was startled. She had never owned a songbird, but the yellow-green creature had a clean sweet voice that instantly soothed her.
She fumbled for a return gift. Her apron pockets were empty, so from her neck she unfastened a jade pendant.
“Take this,” she said, “and I will wait for you. This stone has been handed down by men and women in my family over many generations. My father claims it guards my well-being, so if you change your mind about me, you must return it.”
Ox bent close and whispered, “You can trust me.”
Willow kept the birdcage by her bed and listened to the trilling early in the morning and late at night. Every day, she fed the bird grains and greens.
After many months, she released the bird from its cage to see what would happen. It fluttered to the ceiling and to the four corners of the room. It danced atop the cabinet and flew by the open window and the door. But it remained inside and always landed on Willow’s shoulder and hands. She stroked the tiny head and wings, and delighted at its soft feathers and gentle warmth.
She sent letters to Ox, but he replied infrequently, complaining about how hard it was to find work.
Then she awoke one day and found the cage empty and the bird gone. For days she searched the nearby forest and streets and waited fretfully, but the canary did not return. Her heart clenched like a fighters fist, and she could neither eat nor talk. For weeks she waited in vain for Ox’s letters, but they had stopped coming.
Her mother-in-law said, “Didn’t I warn you about Gold Mountain men? They leave you, and great distances cloud their memories. That man will never keep his promise. You should forget about him.”
Instead, Willow decided to travel to the New World. For the first time in her life, she journeyed down the river she saw daily. At the great ocean port of Hong Kong, frantic crowds pushed at her from all sides — on the docks, in the narrow streets, and even in the guarded lobby of her hotel. Never before had she seen so many people. Her room was tiny and dank, and she gladly boarded the steamship at sailing time. Traveling alone, she took a second-class cabin for privacy and safety.
For days all Willow saw were blue skies and a blue ocean. Seagulls with broad wingspans hovered close, cawing and dipping by her porthole, but soon they veered away. In her cabin, she tried on the Western hats and dresses she had purchased in Hong Kong. Ox had lived in the New World for so long that she thought he would probably prefer to see her dressed like a modern woman.
When the boat docked, Willows legs and feet felt weak and unsteady as she laced her boots. She stumbled down the gangplank, heavy bags banging at her knees, only to end up spending hours with immigration officials and translators. She pleaded she was just a visitor and not a settler who should pay the head tax, a fee that only Chinese immigrants paid to settle in the country.
“I came to visit a friend.”
“I have a thriving business in China. Why would I abandon it?”
“My family is in China. Of course I want to go back.”
When they finally released her, she headed to Chinatown in a horse-drawn buggy. The roads were jammed with wagons and horses, great metal boxes grunting on steel tracks, and small carts with black rubber wheels that ran on their own power. In Chinatown, she recognized people who had passed through her inn long ago. Some had become plump and others thin, while some had grown mustaches. But nobody recalled her face, everyone wore Western clothes, and some even spoke English.
She stopped at a guesthouse to store her bags and comb her hair. In the mirror over the washstand, she saw deep lines around her eyes and wondered if Ox would notice.
Downstairs, she stopped at the front door to get her bearings. A shrill blast from the train station across the way startled her, and then the ferocious squeal of moving iron machinery filled the air. She clutched her hat and took a step back.
“How will I ever find Ox in such a noisy, crowded city?” she asked herself.
At that very moment, Ox strode by, looking healthy and contented in a Western suit and polished boots. A woman’s delicate hand was tucked into the crook of his arm. She was as plain as a doorknob, but Ox’s face glowed with pleasure.
The sighting plunged a blunt knife into Willows heart as years of love seeped away.
She
retreated into the hotel and gasped, “Who is that?”
“Why, that is Ox Woo and his new bride! Her father is a gambler who made a fortune at the racetracks. Those two were married six weeks ago.” The chatty innkeeper added, “Some people say she looks like a horse, too, but she does own a dozen racing steeds. She met her husband-to-be in the stables, where he was a hired hand cleaning the stalls.”
Willow turned and dashed up the stairs. She repacked her bags and returned to the ship terminal. She vowed to never love another man, even if that meant never bearing children. At home, she flung Ox’s bamboo birdcage into the stove, where it burst into crackling flames.
At this time, Ox noticed that a crack had suddenly appeared on one side of his jade pendant.
“What does this mean?” he roared, and his wife came running.
She looked closely and said, “Send it back to Willow. It is not yours to keep.”
“Nonsense,” he declared. “This marvelous stone belongs to our firstborn child.”
“No,” she cried, “it will bring bad luck.”
But Ox would not listen.
Soon, a daughter was born to them, named Blossom. Her features were very pleasing to the eye, and Ox gave her the jade pendant, which she wore all the time.
One day, when Blossom was five years old, Ox saddled up his favorite horse and took her riding. On the wooded trail, a bird suddenly darted from the bushes and spooked the horse. It reared up and threw off its riders. Ox hit his head on a sharp rock and died instantly, while Blossom became tangled in the reins and was dragged over the trail. She spent several months in a hospital, and when the doctors removed the bandages, a scar zigzagged across half her face. Her mother almost fainted, for its shape was identical to the crack on the jade. The doctors said nothing could be done, for the wound was deep. In her grief, Blossom’s mother took the jade pendant and hurled it into the ocean.
Under her mothers care, Blossom grew into a good-natured girl with many friends. Like her father, she was devoted to animals. She brought home birds with broken wings and tried to nurse them back to health. Stray dogs followed her, and she begged to keep them. When the neighbor’s cat had a litter of kittens, she pleaded for one. At school, she wrote stories about insects and whales.
But her mother fretted about the scar, worrying that no man would marry her. She took Blossom to doctors and surgeons all over North America, but they all agreed the damage was permanent.
When Blossom turned seventeen, the mother asked, “What do you want for your birthday dinner?”
“Bean-cake!”
“But that is so ordinary. How about roast chicken or barbecued duck?”
Blossom made a face. “You know I don’t like eating meat.”
The mother decided to stuff the soft bean-cake with fishpaste, so she sent the cook to the market to buy a fresh fish. She planned other dishes of eggs, nuts and vegetables and invited all of Blossom’s friends.
Then the cook came running from the kitchen, his hands wet and glistening. “Look what I found in the fish’s stomach!”
He held up the jade pendant that had been thrown into the ocean years ago. The mother recognized the jagged shape of the crack right away.
Late that night, she sat down with Blossom. “There is something in our possession that must be returned to its rightful owner. Are you ready for a trip to China?”
So Blossom boarded a steamship and journeyed to the town where three rivers met. She passed village after village with ancient houses of blackened brick and green-tiled roofs. Barefoot children on the riverbank waved at her.
Blossom had never set foot in China before, yet somehow the bend of the river, the leafy spread of the chestnut tree, the curve of the stone bridge all seemed familiar.
Finally she reached the guesthouse where her father had worked two decades earlier, and she asked for Willow.
At the door, the mother-in-law gasped and fell against the frame. Blossom thought perhaps she had never seen a woman from Gold Mountain, and certainly not one with such a vivid scar.
She held out a silk pouch containing the jade.
“This belongs to Willow.”
The mother-in-law beckoned her to follow.
In her room, Willow knelt on the floor with her back straight and eyes closed, in front of an altar laden with flowers and fruit. The mother-in-law whispered to Blossom, “She finds peace in praying each day.” Then she went and slid the jade pendant into Willows calm hands.
Willows eyes flew open. “Who brought this?”
Blossom stepped forward. “I did.”
Willow spun around and the eyes of the two women sprang wide with amazement. Aside from the scar, Blossom looked exactly like the Willow of twenty years before. Their tapered chins, the full cheeks and the tiny mouths were identical.
Willow gripped her jade pendant tightly. The years of anger melted as she stroked Blossoms face.
“Here,” Willow said, handing her the pendant. “Rub this jade over your scar every day. You, your mother and I, we have all suffered enough.”
When Blossom took the jade, she was astounded to feel its warmth. The stone seemed to glow with new luster. Holding it to her face, she felt her cheek tingle.
Gradually her scar dissolved and she returned to the New World with Willow’s blessings. In time, she married and gave birth to many children.
As for Willow, she worked contentedly at her guesthouse for the rest of her life, knowing she had a daughter in Blossom. And it was one of Blossom’s grandchildren, a woman named Jade, who donated the pendant to the Chinatown museum. It sits in a glass case by a window, where visitors marvel at how natural light changes the look of the stone from hour to hour.
Blossom’s granddaughter left special instructions for the care of the pendant. Once a month, the stone is removed from the glass case. Under the watchful eyes of security guards, it is passed by hand from one visitor to another.
And as they grip it in their palms or press it to their cheeks, smiles fill their faces.
FIVE
Seawall Sightings
IN 1975, CITIZENS hardly noticed when bulldozers demolished the Immigration Building, known to the old-timer Chinese as Pig Pen. Its barred windows and high walls occupied downtown land adjacent to a seaside park, the harbor and railway lines. Over the years, thousands of Chinese immigrants had landed and undergone humiliating inspections there, until the gateway for newcomers shifted to the airport.
One foggy evening, shortly after the fall of Pig Pen, a cyclist raced along the nearby seawall, dodging puddles left by heavy rains. He leaned into a curve and inadvertently churned up a spray of water that drenched two Chinese pedestrians. He wheeled around to apologize, but to his surprise, nobody was there. He rode for a distance in both directions but didn’t spot a soul. They couldn’t have clambered up the muddy cliffs because of their formal dress — she in a long dress, he in a dark suit and polished shoes.
On another day, a retired businessman took a late afternoon stroll after a fierce windstorm. A loosened shoelace stopped him at a park bench, where he watched two young Chinese stroll by arm in arm — she in an evening gown and he in a formal tuxedo. The businessman preferred solitary walks, so he let them swing around the bend before following. On reaching the same corner, he saw a huge tree blocking the way. It had crashed down during the storm. On one side of the path rose a steep cliff; on the other was deep water. But the young couple had vanished.
Months later, the businessman’s granddaughter went to the federal archives in the nations capital to research the family’s history. She spent weeks searching through boxes of records from the Department of Immigration. One afternoon, she flipped open a thick file marked “Yung, Gim-lan — Attempted Illegal Entry.” Little did she know that this folder, yellowed and flaking after fifty years, contained the clues to her grandfather’s sighting that afternoon.
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br /> * * *
Choi Jee-yun was the only daughter of a wealthy merchant in Hong Kong. Although he had wanted a son, in 1912 China it was considered progressive to treat girls equal to boys. It was also viewed as modern to adopt Western ideas, so when she grew older, he let her ride an imported bicycle at home and attend a missionary school for girls. Jee-yun treasured going to classes, for her girl cousins were not allowed to attend school and never left the family compound.
Jee-yun scored high marks and the teachers encouraged her to advance to college for more education. Her father worried about the male students in those classes, but his reputation as a forward-thinking businessman was at stake, so he let her enroll. Secretly, he instructed a servant to watch her every move.
The servant brought back disturbing news. A young man named Yen Wah-lung was regularly walking Jee-yun home. When she stayed late at school, Wah-lung also remained behind. The two studied the same subjects, did homework together and attended concerts with other friends.
Jee-yun’s father withdrew his daughter from school, claiming a private tutor at home would benefit her more. He advised her not to attend concerts at night because the streets had become lawless and dangerous. The household servants were ordered not to admit male visitors and to inspect all packages addressed to her.
Of course Jee-yun and Wah-lung knew of her fathers opposition. Wah-lung’s father operated a candle stall in the old market and possessed limited education, while Jee-yun’s father befriended international bankers to expand his business empire. A cousin agreed to carry secret messages between the young lovers, and after months of painful separation, they decided to flee to the New World. Wah-lung would leave first, find a job and lay the foundations for a life together.
“I will set up an apartment for us,” he promised in his last letter before leaving. “It will have tall windows to let in sunlight, and all the furnishings will be of the highest quality. As soon as you join me, I will put on a new suit and you will slip into a long elegant gown and we will attend a symphony concert together.”
