Master Wu's Bride

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Death did not get me last night, mistress,” she said. “And if he had showed up, I would only need to lay back and welcome him, thanks to you.” Then she pouted. “I am sorry I did not come to you this morning, but I was feeling poorly. Waiting for death is very wearisome, you know.”

  “When he comes,” Mo Li said, looking up from her rolling pins, “tell him to leave his hands off my pastries. They are all accounted for.”

  “You jest,” Snapdragon says. “But you do not have a coffin or a fine funeral shroud. You will need to fall into your stew to save your silly tongue.”

  “At least I have a stew to escape him.”

  Chi Lin did not referee this verbal combat, such as it was. It proved that all was normal in the hovel and might be for some time to come.

  The other concern was proving the roof. The new tiles and repaired portions appeared fine, but Gao Lin had said repeatedly that a roof cannot be deemed worthy until proved, and that could not happen until the first rainfall after the repairs. He also stated that, despite his fine workmanship, there would be leaks and more work. More work would mean more cost, so Chi Lin hoped there would only be a trickle here and there – nothing more than a patch needed to stop a runnel. So when the rain finally came, Chi Lin’s mind was set on capturing every little drip. She had five buckets at the ready at the hall’s far end.

  3

  Distant thunder and gentle rain. The thunder awoke Chi Lin, but the rain kept her in bed. She had goose bumps, a pleasant, soothing feeling, lulling her into a need to remain warm and comfortable under her bed clothing. Then she suddenly remembered the roof. She sat quickly at the edge, her feet bouncing to the carpet. Once in her shift, she listened for signed of dripping. She thought she heard a metallic sound from one of the buckets. Gao Lin must have preceded her and located seepage, setting the pail beneath the leak.

  Chi Lin found the spot, looking to the eaves. It was not severe, but it was seepage nonetheless. She heard knocking on the roof. Gao Lin was already mending the spot. A quick walk about the hall assessed the rest as dry. She grinned. The roof was proved. She was suddenly hungry, but the table was bare, Mo Li not having stirred yet. She could not blame her. Chi Lin would forgo her own chores this morning.

  As she gazed out the window, she spotted Lao Lao dancing in the rain. The old man whipped off his clothing and embraced the downpour, light as it was, for a gentle bathe. The act made her jealous. It would be a fine thing to emerge into the courtyard and let the cool drops kiss her body. Just the thought of it assuaged her hunger.

  Lao Lao was splashing about near the pool, his hair matted to his forehead. He closed his eyes, perhaps to ignore that he was being watched. But he showed no signs of embarrassment or remorse. Then Gao Lin climbed from the roof and applauded him. At first, Lao Lao stopped, looked to the young man, but then threw him a hand gesture and continued his lark. Gao Lin laughed, and then began to peel his own garments away. His dance was not as silly or rollicking as Lao Lao’s, but it was a sight to see.

  Chi Lin was caught by the image. She had spied this man when he washed, admiring his fine form — his glistening buttocks and his hedgerow groin. But it was always a quick flash, passing as fast as the water source. But now, with a steady cascade from Heaven, the sight was delectably slow and fully drawn. There was no peeking now, but a full stare at the wonders of a horse washed under a fountain — a fine specimen sparkling beneath the flow. She could not free her eyes from him, her own body tensing with delight. But then he threw his shambled clothing over his shoulders and headed for the hall. The display was over and she wanted it still.

  Gao Lin stood on the threshold drying his chest with his wet robes. He was covered now after a fashion, the former spectacle only guessed at in quick jerks below his hemline. Chi Lin came to him.

  “The roof is proved,” she said.

  “It is so,” he replied. “One spot had a cracked tile, but it is temporarily repaired. When the sun shines again, I shall make it permanent.” He stopped drying himself, a useless attempt with wet clothing. “I am afraid I found inspiration in the old man’s lark.”

  “All men are children,” she said. “You have earned your bath, Gao Lin.”

  “Have I?” he asked, letting the sopping robe fall, revealing himself again, this time brashly and without apology. “I would do better with a dry rag.”

  Chi Lin took a step toward him, her eyes coursing his entire body from shoulder to knee. She sighed, and yet trembled. It was not proper for her to enjoy such a sight, and yet it was not proper for him to stand naked before her. If the servants discovered them, she would be the talk of the house. But Lao Lao, the crazy old fool was like Old Man Cricket caring not for the beetles at play. It was but a little step for Chi Lin to undo her shift letting it fall beside his wet robes. She took that step. Her ghost husband might see her, but she would ask forgiveness later at the shrine. It was just clothing, was it not?

  “I shall not leave the hall today,” she whispered, grasping his hand.

  “No need,” he replied. “The roof is proved and Old Man Cricket seeks his cage.”

  She smiled and pulled him forward.

  And thus Chi Lin took Gao Lin to her bed with the soft sighs of the gentle rain in her mind. The wind lacking in the rain, now swept the sheets, as his passion, pent up, and then let loose as she let him find his way as he wanted and as she would have it. Nothing harnessed time, which was overdue in this case. Nothing made less of the fullness of the horse that washed under the fountain, sparkling to put the fires out. The partition that kept them apart — mistress and servant, came down in this moment, if only for a moment, and they would burn the evidence, near the far wall later. To do otherwise would have caused the servants to tell laundry tales, fleshing out the passionate moments that they could only have surmised if they had witnessed the stain.

  Distant thunder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reunion

  1

  The rain days were long and blissful, keeping Chi Lin away from her chores and Gao Lin off the roof. That they found each other fascinating was a secret joy to Chi Lin, but they both knew the boundary crossed was merely a foray. Care was taken, because Lao Lao lurked and Snapdragon showed up daily to untangle her mistress’s hair. Mo Li darted in and out with meals and wondered perhaps why it sometimes remained untouched, having, in truth, gone cold while Purple Sage whiled away her time in her bed and not necessarily alone.

  “None of this is proper,” she whispered to Gao Lin during an interval.

  “Life is not proper, mistress,” Gao Lin replied. “We maintain our faces to the world as the world expects, but the world also expects a secret behind every moonrise.”

  Chi Lin supposed he was correct, although she had never had many secrets herself, except that she could read and write. This liaison must remain a secret, for both their sakes. She was already the lowest wife on the ladder and could not imagine anything lower except to be chastised and thrown out to fend for herself in the town gutters. If that became the case, she would just swallow her earrings and be done with it. As for Gao Lin, he would be beaten with the bamboo pole until he could never be able to climb a roof again. So after a week of happy congress, it ended. There was no pleading or weeping. It had been what it had been and no more. Chi Lin thought it was perhaps a little more, for her at least. Gao Lin had a reputation for being free with his tea spout in other quarters of the house. Chi Lin was sure that she was no more than a release or perhaps a reward for good work completed. But he was a tender man — filled with humorous quips. Yet he knew his place and never made bold in his privileged position.

  The rain still accompanied the mornings when Gao Lin returned to his duties. Chi Lin, as a dutiful wife, called for a san-tze and went to the shrine. Mo Li was the only one available for this task and she made it clear that she was a cook and not a maid servant. Still, she held the san-tze high, keeping her mistress dry. The incense was hard to fire, but once lit, Chi Lin stared at Wu H
ung-lin’s effigy.

  “Husband,” she said. She wanted to say: “I cannot hide the truth from you because you see what others cannot see. But if you disapproved you would have shaken me out of bed and driven Gao Lin mad by degrees.” But Mo Li was present, so the truth would needed veiling. “Husband,” she said (instead). “Forgive my delay in coming to your shrine, but the dragon spits and would have us huddle beneath our counterpanes for warmth. But you can see me, I can tell, and if my conduct has offended you, you would not have drawn me out of my bed to your temple this day.”

  She waited. Mo Li yawned — a good sign that she had no notion of her mistress’ palaver. Chi Lin then reached for the red paper prayers and began burning them one by one.

  “Your touch,” she said, “your gentle hand upon my breast would be a thrill awaited by a bride of seventeen from her wise lord. Your caresses in the depths of night would be the fire needed to make a wife fulfill her duties. Your subtle sigh through my hair would be like the winds of the xien from the isles of the blessed, to cradle my thigh about your loins.” She sighed. “What your ghost bride lacks, she can imagine now and know the kernel meant to bloom in the barren garden.”

  She looked to Mo Li again. The words were too arcane for the cook, who shifted the san-tze about as if it had grown heavy. Chi Lin was satisfied. Wu Hung-lin was not a cook. He was a ghost of quality and would know what his wife imparted over the burning red paper prayers.

  Chi Lin waited for a wind gust or an errant spark — anything to chastise her for her nights of passion with Gao Lin. None came, so she bowed to her husband and clapped three times. She glanced at Guan-yin and thought she saw a smile on the goddess’ lips. What did it mean? Was this supreme approval? Or was the fertile goddess clarifying the morning prayers with fecundity. Chi Lin was uneasy, but was filled also with a sense of well-being — a sugary charge from Guan-yin that something was apace, here in the presence of the Wu family ancestors and her ghost husband above all.

  Chi Lin stood, almost hitting her head on the san-tze.

  “You are correct, Mo Li. You are a cook and no hand maiden.”

  “A tree limb could hold this san-tze and needs no recipe to do it,” Mo Li grumbled. “I would like to see a tree limb cook the morning congee or steam buns.”

  Chi Lin grasped the san-tze, Mo Li relinquishing it happily.

  “Moon Cakes,” Chi Lin said. “It is the time for Moon Cakes. Go ahead and make your pastries. I will be the tree limb and keep myself dry.”

  Mo Li did not stand on ceremony, but bounced toward the courtyard gate. Chi Lin turned to the shrine, staring at the effigy.

  “Is there anything to forgive?” she asked her husband.

  Silence. She nodded to Guan-yin.

  “Is there anything to expect?”

  The incense sticks in the sand pot suddenly glowed. Chi Lin touched her belly. It was then that she knew. By the week’s end, Chi Lin would do more than guess. She would feel physically different, but would not voice the matter, because the rain had ceased and the Autumn Festival was upon the house.

  2

  The Second Son, Wu Liang-tze arrived on the first day after the rain. He sat astride his horse nearly tottering from the saddle. Chi Lin espied him from the Jade Heart Pavilion and, from his appearance, he had been drinking plum and rice wine on the short journey between his estate and his father’s. He needed considerable help to dismount, boisterously greeting his father, who accepted the jollity, it being the Autumn Festival. Three carry-chairs transported his wives, each surrounded by their children — so many that Chi Lin did not think to count them. They were noisy and scrappy, unruly even before their grandfather. Their amahs chastised them into a civilized bow to the head of the house, who raised his arms to gather them under his robes. As for the wives, they were a sour lot. Chi Lin pitied them being married to Wu Liang-tze, exposed to his wanton ways. When the Second Son finished his greeting to his father, he turned to the Old Lady of the House, bowing demurely as if she was the only chastisement in his life. She scarcely returned the compliment. Once Liang-tze disappeared into the ke-ting, seeking more plum wine, no doubt, the carry-chairs moved through the courtyard toward the guest pavilions — kept for such occasions. The children skipped behind them. Once the noise trailed away, Chi Lin found Willow.

  “Is it always so?” she asked.

  “Always.” Willow looked about assuring no one listened. “The Second Son will rove, so beware.”

  “He does not like me,” Chi Lin said. “He thinks me plain and has said so to my face.”

  “You should pray you stay ugly, because the more he drinks the prettier you may become.”

  Chi Lin laughed. Willow did not.

  “Orchid and Lotus would be more the draw,”

  “You would think it, but they are much like his own wives.” Willow looked again. “His wives are much put upon and he tires of them quickly. He has more than three, but nobody is sure just how many, the weddings happening at all times and in all seasons. But these three are the principle ones and the only ones arranged by the family. The Second Son spends much time at the pleasure house, or so I have been told.”

  Who told her that could be of little doubt. This would be the plain talk of the Old Lady of the House. A mother knows her own. Chi Lin caught the cold greeting between mother and son. Despite Willow’s warning, Chi Lin dismissed the threat. She was more concerned about lingering thoughts of her possible condition, which she almost broached with Willow, but decided it spoke to directly to family honor. Willow had become a friend, but not so close that she would not hint of things to her mistress.

  Three days after Wu Liang-tze’s arrival, Wu San-ehr arrived. The Third Son was taller than his brother and sat astride a war horse. He was accompanied by a retinue of aides — soldiers wearing the Imperial insignia, carrying the banner of Prince Chu Di, the Emperor’s fourth son. Wu San-ehr was a Lieutenant, directly attending the Prince and the strongest link the Wu family had to Imperial favor. San-ehr was broad in shoulder and stood proudly — almost imperially, a trait prized by his lord. There was no sign of drink about him, or so Chi Lin thought. His hands gripped the reins tightly. He needed no help to dismount.

  Wu San-ehr had two wives, both carried behind him, each smiling to the journeymen and servants in welcome. Four children abided, quietly and reverentially beside their amahs. They were sons — four wonderful contributions to the Wu legacy. While Wu Liang-tze had a distant resemblance to his brother, Wu Hung-lin, Wu San-ehr was a younger copy. It took Chi Lin’s breath away. It was the closest she had been to seeing her own husband apart from the effigy.

  The Master of the House strode into the courtyard, Liang-tze beside him.

  “Is this my son, Wu San-ehr, before me?” he asked. “Is this the boy who left my gates in service to His Majesty, may He live ten thousand years.”

  Wu San-ehr grinned, and then took a knee.

  “Father,” he said, choked. “I have returned to this house as your humble child, bringing you daughters-in-law who serve you well. Sons! Behold my sons.”

  Before Wu T’ai-po could acknowledge them, the Old Lady of the House emerged, raising her arms.

  “Come to your grandmother, sons of Wu San-ehr,” she said.

  The boys came forward, taking a knee beside their father.

  “Indeed, they are well disciplined,” T’ai-po said approvingly, looking askance at Wu Liang-tze, who grunted.

  “My children are the sons of a warrior, who finds discipline the only way to show respect in this world.”

  “Respect?” Liang-tze said. “Remember your place, little brother. There are warriors who see many battles and there are those who ride for the courtesy of princes.”

  “I know my place, brother,” Wu San-ehr replied. “And it is here, standing before my betters, asking for courtesy at this reunion time that my place is known best.”

  “You have my respect,” Wu T’ai-po said, raising his son to his feet and embracing him. “Come share
a cup with me . . . and your brother, while your mother dotes on your sons. I am sure a little doting will not ruin their fine discipline. After all, there will be games later and they may find a way to play with their cousins.”

  “Surely,” Wu San-ehr said. “Surely.”

  There was little more to be said. The brothers retreated into the ke-ting. The Old Lady of the House presented the sons with new shoes. And the retinue escorted the wives through the gateway to the guest quarters.

  “He is so different,” Chi Lin said to Willow.

  “He is the favorite and, now that Hung-lin is at the Yellow Springs, the Third Son would abide here if it were not for his commitment to Prince Chu Di.”

  “It is a shame that he will leave. It is . . .”

  Suddenly, she felt strange — a rumble in her head, and then her belly.

  “What is the matter, mistress?” Willow asked.

  Chi Lin was not sure, but still would not chance speculation.

  “I felt a momentary qualm, that is all — one of Mo Li’s ingredients, no doubt.”

  “Please take care. You would not wish to be ill for the festivities.”

  Chi Lin smiled wanly. Whatever it was, it had passed.

  “I look forward to the festivities.”

  3

  Fireworks. The Master of the House did not stint on the display. He hired the Yan-cheng town entertainers to put on a full display on the first evening for the family and invited guests, which included Superintendent Po T’ai-kuan and Commissioner Ai-lo Wun-kua and assorted Ya-men officials. Chi Lin marveled at their attire, especially Ai-lo Wun-kua in his steep turban, jade girdle and bright red robes. The wine flowed freely and Moon Cakes were in abundance almost in need of replenishment, which the cooks remedied early the next morning, because Moon Cakes, especially the ones stuffed with bean curd, were the principle essential for the second day.

  Chi Lin roused early and, although she was particularly tired, she managed to wear her best purple robe and ascend the carry-chair sent for her, because today was the parade — when the House of Wu reached out to the community and tenants with gifts and spectacle. All the wives were seated in carry-chairs, their porters uniformed in bright green surcoats and red pantaloons. The wives — nine in all, were surrounded by their sons, if they had any, these sons on ponies draped in red and green finery. Leading the parade, on horseback, was Wu T’ai-po and his two sons, and behind them was an army of journeymen guiding carts of Moon Cakes and small paper lanterns. Chi Lin, the least wife, was the last wife, but she did not care because her heart was glad to be a part of this family, especially when they departed through the gates and were greeted by the citizens of Yan-cheng.