Master Wu's Bride

by Edward C. Patterson

  Three wives preceded Chi Lin, each a floral acquisition across the threshold. First there was Mei Lo, the Jasmine flower, who gave Wu Hung-lin two sons. She commanded the other wives under the stern guidance of Wu T’ai-po’s wife, the Old Lady of the House. Second was Ho Lien, the Lotus blossom, a dainty maid who Wu Hung-lin discovered in the tea house and brokered as a bride to satisfy his lusts. She gave him two daughters, which served no purpose beyond expense. The third wife was Lan Hua, the Orchid flower, a frail child, whose dowry could not be shunned at any cost. Always ill at ease in the house, Orchid rarely emerged from her quarters unless summoned by Wu Hung-lin, an effort which yielded but one child — a daughter, who just began to scurry under the household’s feet. Chi Lin was the fourth and, although she was not named for a flower, she bore the name Ma Lan, the Purple Sage because of the sad bouquet Wu T’ai-po had sent her — the bouquet she had left behind.

  Master Wu Hung-lin was an obedient son and a scholar in a house of gentrified merchants. His commands, although subservient to his father’s and a shadow to the Old Lady’s, held sway in the household. He had great expectations for this household. He would inherit the granted monopoly certificate as would his first son. He had expected to father many more sons, and thus he commissioned the marriage broker to find him a fourth wife, one which the fa-shr found worthy to bear sons — a pretty woman with unbound feet, who possessed intelligence. Master Wu had two dull but pretty wives to suit his fancy, and his first wife was formidable enough, but could only discuss local gossip and the price of scallions in the marketplace. No. Wu Hung-lin would have himself a wife who could play a round of Xiang-ch’i and gracefully lose the match. Lotus could play the p’i-pa and, when coaxed, Orchid could sing. Jasmine was a nag at times, but she could be relied upon to curb his sons of base manners. But to have an intelligent woman, who also knew her place, would be delightful. This woman, the daughter of a retired official, came to his attention through Magistrate Po T’ai-kuan, who knew the man and had seen the daughter. The marriage broker was set upon the match. The bride price was not exorbitant and the dowry was fair, although paled compared with Orchid’s. So, at forty-three sui, Wu Hung-lin was to marry again.

  No one knew how the demon crossed the threshold, but it did. An evil mist crept through the portal and past the dagger-mirrors and kitchen gods. It crept silently through the six courtyards until it found Master Wu Hung-lin’s quarters. There it hovered, an invisible cloud sucking the air from the room. He awoke sweating, hardly able to breathe. Then a rash developed followed by a fever. By the time the physicians arrived, his face was covered with pustules, his body convulsing. By the time the doctors applied their balms, the fa-shr were called to exorcise the demon. Wu T’ai-po donned a mask and came to his son’s bed. The Old Lady caressed her son, cradling him as only a mother could. Jasmine, Lotus and Orchid were called to pray to Guan-yin for their husband’s recovery. His sons, Lin-kua and Chou-fa, burned prayer paper at the ancestral shrine. But the demon prevailed.

  Master Wu Hung-lin breathed his last, never making it to year forty-four. It was then that Wu T’ai-po sent a message to the Ya-men that the wedding would proceed for the bride and dowry’s sake. No sense breaking the contract or risking the bride’s position in her own ancestral shrine. An unmarried woman lived a hard life and died an outcast. So Wu T’ai-po made the arrangements and sent Chi Lin the purple bouquet — the Purple Sage.

  2

  Chi Lin stepped over the threshold into the ke-ting to endure her Ghost Wedding. The groom would be there in spirit. She was happy his corpse was absent because she heard that in some cases families only regarded the ceremony sanctioned if the groom attended in the flesh — rotting stinking flesh. She had never seen Master Wu, but preferred to wed his effigy since she was compelled to seal the marriage bonds. As she crossed the threshold, she was overtaken by heavy jasmine aromas meant to purify the ke-ting. Haze veiled the few attendees, mostly fa-shr chanting prayers, sounding more funereal than celebratory. On a table sat a portrait of her husband — a fine painting destined for ash. White ribbons framed it. To Chi Lin’s eyes Master Wu was comely and would have made a pleasant, but old, bed partner. But she would never know. A cockerel was caged bedside the effigy — a white cockerel. It was drugged or it would have been pecking for freedom. A flame and wok would soon liberate it.

  Paper pastries, shoes and a red silk bed were among the wedding presents set before the table. The priest presided, but in the shadows an old man sat beside an old woman.

  “Daughter,” the man croaked. “It is with mixed blessings we meet, but be assured you will be treated as my son’s wife for as long as you breathe the Wu house’s air.”

  Chi Lin was unsure of the meaning because, as the wife of a dead man, she would be denied his touch in bed and giving birth. Her purpose here, besides dowry and her own position in his ancestral temple, escaped her. Still she bowed, her hands deep beneath her crimson robe sleeves.

  “You come of your free will,” Wu T’ai-po stated.

  “I do,” Chi Lin replied.

  “It is a good thing for your family that you do. Guan-yin smiles upon you today.”

  Chi Lin doubted that. She had prayed for two weeks and still she was here, voluntarily bound by the opinion that if she had not donned the bride’s gown and come, she would lose her standing in family and community.

  The Old Lady stood. She was stern, like a wood block left out in the rain. She marched to the Cockerel.

  “My son awaits his bride,” she snapped.

  Chi Lin bowed. Her master may have been a ghost and his father, her benefactor, but this woman promised to be her whip if she did not please her. The Old Lady rattled the cage, the bird jumping beyond its dosage.

  A plate of rice cakes and a cup sat beside the portrait. The priest, continuing his prayers, broke the rice cakes into crumbs, feeding them to the bird. Some crumbs were reserved, the Old Lady sweeping them into her brittle fingers.

  “For you,” she said to Chi Lin.

  Chi Lin revealed her hands, taking the crumbs. They were dry on her lips and tasted awful. She had difficulty swallowing and suppressed a cough. Heaven watched, after all.

  The priest lifted the cup, splashing the milky rice wine at the cockerel. The bird was not prepared for the bath and crowed — a morning call in the afternoon. As anticipated, the Old Lady took the cup, swished it, and then handed it to Chi Lin. She stared at this woman and imagined the commands that would come from this old festering head. Chi Lin was leaving a life of study and observation replaced now with her mother-in-law’s unpredictable whims. If the Old Lady appeared easy or kind, Chi Lin would have dismissed concerns. But the Lady of the House had a cat’s leer. With gnarled hands, she extended the cup.

  “Drink,” she commanded.

  Chi Lin hesitated, drawing a leer from both the woman and the priest.

  “Drink.”

  “No second thoughts, my daughter,” Wu T’ai-po carped from his shadowy perch.

  This was not a question, but a command. So Chi Lin took the cup and drank, but not too deeply.

  3

  The rest of the ceremony was swift and predictable. Chi Lin’s hand was tied to the cage by a red silk cloth while the priest chanted the final rite. Drinking from the cup she became Master Wu’s fourth wife, Purple Sage, the Ghost Bride. Where there should have been congratulations, there were death prayers. Where a feast would be attended by lusty friends of the groom, there were cold vegetables set out for the priests, which Chi Lin was invited to sample. Where the wedding presents would be shown to the household with pride, instead the effigy painting, the paper apparel and the silk bed were solemnly marched to the Wu ancestral hall, where Wu Hung-lin’s two sons ceremonially burned each item and chanted prayers as the smoke brought the gifts to their father on high. The sons were coached carefully by their mother Jasmine since neither boy was old enough to know these things — Lin-kua being twelve and Chou-fa eleven. Upon seeing the new wife, they bowed, cal
led her Auntie and went about their business. Jasmine, Lotus and Orchid smiled wanly, but did not offer congratulations. The only consolation was that this new wife would not contribute to the baby pool, and thus was a side dish to the household’s main course.

  From the beginning, Chi Lin felt like an outsider. Her father-in-law inspected her, grinning and nodding as if he would like to try her out. But he was a safe bet, old and bound by strict rules. The Old Lady ignored her at first, but then ordered three servants to escort her to an inner court — a barren pavilion within a moderate size courtyard. As Chi Lin walked over the sunless cobblestones, the Old Lady was carried beside her. Then they halted before the room.

  “This will be your place for now,” she snapped. “There is much to do and you shall do it. What you do not know, I shall instruct you. Remain here until you are summoned. You will find it pleasant enough, I am sure. You can improve it when you earn your place.”

  Chi Lin bowed. Questions bubbled to her mouth, but before she could express a single one, the Old Lady snapped her fan and the servants whisked the chair back through the gate, lost within the Wu estate.

  Chi Lin sighed. She did not even have someone to help her out of the red gown. She slowly approached the verandah of the pavilion, climbed the stairs only to sit on a stone bench before the threshold waiting to muster the energy she needed to enter. She looked to the sky — gray sky now, pillaged by the occasional black cloud from the salt pots. Her hand sought the pond — an imaginary pool, which would have calmed her spirit, but her hand struck cold stone and nothing more.

  “Remain here until summoned,” she murmured.

  Chi Lin could not summon her own legs to lift her off the bench to explore the room. She was never so lonely in life. She longed for her sister’s nagging and her brother reciting the classics. Where were her father’s patient supplications to Heaven and his wink to his daughter’s beauty now? She wondered whether she would ever see her family again. Then, across the threshold scurried a curious creature — a short man dressed in gray, barefoot, with his eyes downcast to the cobblestones. He approached her quickly, bowed, and then crossed the threshold. She turned to the darkness inside the room. Suddenly, a lantern glowed within and she had light — light from a silent servant, who clattered about her quarters.

  Chi Lin was no longer alone.

  Chapter Four

  The Hall of the Silver Silence

  1

  Chi Lin’s first encounter with her new home was not happy. Nor was it curious, because there was not enough light inside the hall to fully show her the place. A small rope lamp was lit near a cabinet bed, which may have been best in quality in days past, but was surely threadbare, cloaked in tatters and draped in worn gauze. The barefoot man shuffled nearby trying to light a brazier. He paused, looking up at Chi Lin.

  She was startled at his appearance. Old and squint-eyed, the servant twitched in his pause before continuing his attempts to light the fire. He briefly stopped to point at a low chest near the bed. Chi Lin approached it. Dusk’s grey light streamed though a window illuminating another corner while her eyes adjusted. Soon the place was sufficiently revealed to depress her. It was a sad place, dust laden and fading. The walls were papered with wisteria flowers, but the buds had long been smudged with age. The plastered characters of past events were torn, crimson now violet, yellow now puce. The hall was redolent of sour grass and mold.

  “See what the beauty has left you,” croaked the old servant, still pointing at the chest.

  “What beauty?” Chi Lin asked, cautiously

  “The second wife,” the servant replied.

  “But the second wife lives.”

  “Not young Master Wu’s second wife,” the servant laughed. “Old Master Wu’s second wife. She was called Peony.”

  “Where does she live now?” Chi Lin asked.

  “Dead,” the servant said. “We had hoped new life would come into the Hall of Silver Silence, but when young Master Wu died we knew that it would remain as it is.” The servant turned toward Chi Lin, cocking his head. “My old woman said, Lao Lao, when the new one comes, she will make do with what is there and no more.”

  “Lao Lao?”

  “Lao Lao.” The servant laughed, stood, and then bowed. “I am Lao Lao, mistress. Me and my old woman are your servants. We come attached to the Hall of Silver Silence. We are as fast here as the carpet and the bed. But look, look. See what the beauty has left you.”

  Chi Lin, puzzled by this curious servant, complied. She went to the chest, a cloth covered container closed with ivory fasteners. It was easy to unfasten the buttons through the loops, but the cover was stuck, most likely having been closed for a very long time. But Chi Lin managed, raising considerable dust in the effort. She was struck by the tantalizing aroma of camphor, and then realized the box contained neat stacks of apparel — robes, undergarments, vests and caps.

  “These are for me?” she asked Lao Lao.

  “For you, the wardrobe of the second wife.”

  “But will they fit?”

  Lao Lao cocked his head again, examining Chi Lin’s frame.

  “It is hard to say until you remove your bridal vestments, but you appear to be the same in stature.”

  Suddenly, the bride’s clothing was oppressive — more so than before. She longed to shed them.

  “Is your old woman about, Lao Lao?”

  “She is, but will not come today.” Lao Lao paused, rubbing his hands. “She is worse on some days than on others. Today she remains on her mat.”

  Chi Lin was sad for this woman she had not met, but wondered how a servant so unwell could remain in service. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I can help,” Lao Lao said.

  “You are a man and not my husband.”

  “Your husband is a ghost. He will be of no use except to watch over you in the night. And I am an old man and have seen many things — many things indeed, none of which can stir me now. I am as safe as a child.”

  “But would it be fitting, Lao Lao?”

  “Who is to say and who is to see. You will not see the Old Lady of the House in this place, and Master T’ai-po is saddened by this pavilion. Too many memories. It is less fitting for a father-in-law to come to his daughter-in-law’s dwelling than an old fart of a servant to play the help maiden to the mistress of the Silver Silence.”

  Lao Lao laughed, but then bowed. Chi Lin sighed, but began to disrobe.

  “Choose for me something suitable for bed,” she said.

  “These are fine garments, mistress,” he said. “The sleeping attire is already laid out at bedside.”

  She looked and it was true. A faded blue silk shirt and short-skirt were neatly folded beneath the overhang. She supposed they belonged to the second wife also.

  “Also hers?” she asked.

  “Everything in this place, mistress, belonged to Peony — Mistress Hung Hua,” he replied. “The other wives would not touch them — ghost clothing that they are. But a ghost bride is welcomed to them.”

  Chi Lin felt angry at this. Was she to be relegated to the realm of the dead? Would she live her days in this house as a rejected specter?

  She let the bridal robe drop and stepped over the heap. She did not care now who saw her, her shift also dropping. She heard Lao Lao gathering the fallen garments, but she did not see whether he properly cared for them. She did not care. As far as she was concerned he could burn them in the brazier. She would never wear them again. She tossed the veil, which had been tacked over her shoulders, to the floor. The mice could gnaw at it for all she cared. She reached for the sleeping garments — rich and fine beneath her hand — a crimson rose embroidered along the hem. The silk slipped on with ease. It was a perfect fit.

  “I shall inspect the contents of the box tomorrow, Lao Lao,” she said. “Secure it, if you please.”

  Lao Lao rattled to the box, closed the lid, and then secured the bone ties.

  “It will be good to see these garments walk again
, mistress,” he said. “My old woman had maintained them well — skilled as she was with the needle and thread.”

  “And now?”

  “Now is the time that winter touches our hands and heads. She is as white as I have become. And she is blind. I often ask her to use the bell when she comes and goes, but she is afraid the Old Lady of the House will be distressed and turn her out to beg.”

  “That would be cruel,” Chin Lin said, sitting at the edge of the bed.

  “It may happen yet. You may want to send her away. You may want to send me away also.”

  “Why would I do that when you are the only voice I may hear in the world of ghosts, as you tell me?”

  “My old woman’s cooking is not good any more, as you will taste; and when she does attend you, she might step on your toes.”

  “I am more tolerant than most people, Lao Lao. This place distresses me, but do you see me making a fuss?”