As the family marched along the course, they were met by the entertainers again — this time the dragon dancers, a long beast with a giant head and two dozen legs, which wended its way before them to the beat of a noisy gong and a thunderous drum. Horns and flutes joined in as the beast frightened the children and amused the adults. Fireworks blazed the morning air as the carts wheeled through well-wishers towards the tenancies.
Chi Lin laughed at the little children hiding their faces from the dragons with its black marble eyes and jaundiced wargles. As the parade wended its way through the tenancies, the salt workers and their families lined the road, cheering and bowing, waving little banners of coarse cloth. They wore their best attire, which was poor to say the least, but the effort was counted toward the respect they owed to the Wu family. Then, as the dragon dancers coursed through the crowd, the journeymen distributed the Moon Cakes and paper lanterns. Chi Lin was happy in this. She watched faces, some familiar from her tour, beam and grin, where once they had been grim and weary. Tomorrow they would be grim and weary again, but while the dragon danced and the family waved their greetings, lanterns would be embraced and faces stuffed with Moon Cake. Of course, some stole away with their prizes, perhaps to hide them for later. Perhaps to admire them for a week or more, the monkey faces on the cakes being too pretty to destroy. But hunger in the end would triumph over a need to horde. It was a fine day, indeed, but wearied Chi Lin. She was glad to see her bed at the end of it.
The festivities continued within the house, much dining and chatter. The wives gathered each night in the Old Lady of the House’s ke-ting to exchange gossip and take tea. Chi Lin took her customary place apart on the first gathering, but on the second, the Old Lady of the House ordered her to sit beside Rutabaga, Liang-tze’s third wife — a twittery woman, who spoke much but said nothing. Chi Lin just smiled and enjoyed the sound of her silvery voice. But for each gathering of the wives, Chi Lin said nothing, the conversation dominated by Jasmine and the Old Lady of the House.
The daughters had indulged in games — special Autumn Festival games, the lot of them standing in a row waiting for their mothers to hand them a sprig of wisteria. Then they drew a small silk sheet with a number written upon it. They may not have been able to read, but they knew the numbers. Then one of the wives would call out a number and that daughter would come forward before the company of silly twittering girls and descend into the garden. It was a make-believe garden, the branches waving over her head. But she was to tell all what her husband would be like and enumerate the items in her dowry. Then the wives would confer and announce how many children she would most likely have — how many boys and how many girls. It all seemed pointless to Chi Lin, but the girls enjoyed it, especially Pearl and Jade, which gladdened Chi Lin, because she was fond of Lotus’ daughters. Sapphire, however, seemed glum at this game, which puzzled Chi Lin. Still, people were different, she supposed and not all children loved games.
The boys played a sillier game, or at least to Chi Lin’s mind it was sillier, although it amused her. The men and their sons ran about the courtyard until one son was caught by one of their uncles. Just who was actually snared did not matter. In this case it was Wu Bo-fei, Wu San-ehr’s second son. Then they everyone surrounded him and encircled the toad. This meant calling him frog names until he acted like a toad, hopping around ridiculously, spitting and croaking. Wu Bo-fei, like all of Wu San-ehr’s sons, was a serious lad and not prone to acting like a toad. But there was no help for it. He went from belligerent to sulky to finally hopping around as a rather fierce toad indeed. He was given six Moon Cakes for his trouble.
4
One the fifth night, the family gathered to observe the Ascent to Heaven. As an honor to the Lady in the Moon, the goddess of the Autumn Festival, one wife was selected to perform this ritual. Chi Lin was glad she was not selected, but was eager to watch Lotus perform the rite. It was to this rite the Second Wife had been practicing on her p’i-pa for weeks. But for more than just her playing. Because her feet were bound into golden lily pad slippers, Lotus had a physical feat to overcome. The stairway was decorated with silk drapes and painted to represent the night sky. Lotus was lovelier than ever she had appeared to Chi Lin, her face painted white. She was draped in a long silver robe. Her handmaidens guided her to the first step, and then, with care, she ascended, the invested practice allowing her to achieve all ten steps, and then sit in a sky blue chair, where the p’i-pa awaited her.
Once perched, the family raised their voices, acclaiming her ascent. Then, she raised her instrument and sang to Chang O, the Lady in the Moon:
From silver throne, I rule the night,
From Tai-yang Shen I borrow light
And touch the stars with night bird song
So they may move the dark along.
And when the morning glows apace
And washes clean my celestial face,
I to the cock’s crow wail and weep
Until behind the hills I sleep.
More acclaim — sighs and hearty cheers as Lotus beamed from her high seat, allowing the p’i-pa to rest near her feet. The Master of the House was upstanding. He raised a cup of cassia wine high and all who would and could drink, drank to the honor of Chang O and Lotus’ fitting tribute. Chi Lin decided she would like to better know the Second Wife — although more subdued than Jasmine, Lotus was still ensconced in a tinsel realm of ornamentation and carefully detailed decorum. Yet, Chi Lin would like to know Lotus better.
On the sixth night, a great feast was spread in the White Heart Pavilion, a place for full family gatherings. Men, women and children were seated in family clusters with Wu T’ai-po and his wife at the head table, taking in the glories of the entire crew. Chi Lin sat alone, but prominently enough, although there were eight other tables, one for each wife and their children. Ceremony was loose at this meal, the younger children allowed to roam and visit with their cousins. The older ones adhered to protocols, but just.
Chi Lin was amazed at the quality of the cuisine — special dishes prepared by Wu T’ai-po’s private cook and three specialists from Yan-cheng hired to prepare the Moon Fish and the steamed eels, T’ai-po’s favorite dish. Chi Lin did not much care for it, but she tried it, and then smiled at her father-in-law who bubbled with questions as each wife and son sampled a menu item. You cannot find crabs like these in the North, he announced to Wu San-ehr. This swan was captured on Tai-hu Lake yesterday, he boasted to Wu Liang-tze, who was too drunk to know a swan from a goose. The persimmon cake is a specialty of Pu-yen Village and they only make it for us at this time of year, he boasted waiting for a response from Orchid, who managed a smile above her usual mope. But to the eels he wanted Chi Lin’s assessment. She thought they smelled like the inside of well-worn shoes as she raised a morsel to her lips. She braced to not disappoint, grinning as she sucked the eel into her mouth. Somehow she kept it there without spitting it across the hall.
“It is tender,” she said. “I know no other word to describe it.”
Wu T’ai-po was cheered and moved on to Lotus’ reaction to the melon soup. Chi Lin was glad for that. She quietly pushed the eel dish aside in favor of a Moon Cake. But even that was bedeviled by the after taste of the eel, or so she thought. Or perhaps it was her growing distaste for the entire meal. She could only guess, so guess she did.
When the feast concluded, the children were set free to prepare the sky lanterns, while the adults solemnly retreated to the courtyard. There, on a long table, sat cups of cassia wine filled to the brim. Chi Lin knew this ceremony. Her mother had taught her and her family practiced it during every Autumn Festival. She approached the cup as did the sons and wives also. She trained her eye to the cup’s surface — a reflective lake, a soft tan to match the cassia bark. The entire group stared at their cups for some time until Chang O arrived, rising high over the wall, her light moving across the table. Then, the moon appeared in the cups — a silver disk in a sweetly prepared drink. When she was centered in the M
aster of the House’s cup, they would all drink, but not until then. Chi Lin watched as the Lady in the Moon moved across the surface of her wine. Then Wu T’ai-po’s craggy voice broke the silence.
“She has come to give the House of Wu good luck and much fortune — many wives and many sons. I honor her.”
He drank, and the others joined him, for such was the custom on the Autumn Festival.
5
The children broke the solemnity, cheering as a troupe of dancers entered the courtyard. It was time to send the sky lanterns aloft. The dancers were an expensive treat, six ladies dressed in blue moon gowns, with feather fans, their headdresses arrayed with fuzzy red pom-poms. They danced to a chuan and flute band, their movements graceful, yet poignant. Chi Lin enjoyed this, but also liked the bird call artist — an odd looking man dressed in tatters, who pranced among the children imitating ducks and chickens and geese. He finely imitated an owl, and then an Imperial crane, which garnered the most applause.
The sky lanterns were fetched, the children hopping about anxious to see them lit. Wu T’ai-po kindled the first one and it arose above his head and drifted toward the moon. Cheering. Then the others were lit and sent aloft, the sky filled with a host of disks, flickering across the outer walls. Chi Lin could see other lanterns in the distance — towns folk and tenants launching their own lanterns. The sight thrilled her. Then the children moved forward toward the gate. They wanted to see the water displays — the candle lamps which were floated down streams and across the salt flats. They wanted to see the distant ship lights as they joined the festivities at sea. But Chi Lin was suddenly weary. She saw Willow carrying a great red lantern.
“I will stay,” Chi Lin said, not following the servant’s beckon.
“Will you be fine?” Willow asked.
“I shall be. I am not accustomed to the late hour.”
She was actually beginning to feel a wave of nausea and wondered if she could keep her dinner down, especially the eel. But if she was to spoil the jollity, it would be in silence and away from other eyes. She noticed the Lady of the House frowning. Chi Lin supposed her mother-in-law disapproved of any wife leaving the festivities, but it could not be helped. She nodded to the Lady, and then turned to the gate.
“Auntie,” came a voice.
It was Wu Lin-kua.
“Go see the moon sky,” she said to the boy.
“But I would like you to see it too.”
“I have seen my share of moon skies,” she said. “I have eaten too much and need to rest my head.”
“But I want you to come, Auntie.”
The boy looked so crestfallen, Chi Lin almost conceded. But then she thought better.
“You have many Aunties, Lin-kua.”
“None like you.”
Chi Lin grinned at the compliment, but knew it was a conceit not safely expressed with the relatives within earshot.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Go watch the moon sky. I shall be fine.”
Wu Lin-kua kicked the ground, but did her bidding. Chi Lin gazed to the sky — the wondrous proliferation of light, almost shaming Chang O herself. She briefly closed her eyes, seeing the sea and the salt flats and the streams and creeks laden with candled lanterns. She remembered them from home — a gentle blessing for good fortune and a pathway for the ch’i of those who roamed the night seeking their way toward rest. With that, she opened her eyes and turned toward the promenade. She would be alone, but at rest, the lanterns burning in her mind — no better place to be kindled.
Chapter Fifteen
Plum Wine
The Hall of Silver Silence was a welcomed refuge from the festival. Chi Lin was weary and suffered queasiness, the eels perhaps the culprit, although she suspected something else. She drifted alone into the hall. Despite the wake of a great feast, Mo Li had set the table with a steam bun, two Moon Cakes and a bowl of plum wine. Chi Lin shuddered and passed them by. She sat on an old chair, the new one of her dreams still beyond her means. She loosened her sash and opened her robe, the night air feeling good upon her belly. A soft breeze rattled the beads about the window. She could see the sky dotted with lanterns from where she sat, but only sleep would be a comfort now.
Suddenly, she realized that she might not be alone.
“Gao Lin?” she muttered.
No answer. Then she recalled he had been deep in his cups and playing tile games with the porters. She was glad he relaxed, and hoped he might win some cash, he being cleverer than any porter to her knowledge.
Chi Lin further opened her robe and lifted her shift, inspecting her flesh, which felt unusually warm. Her breasts were sore and her belly roiled, a kettle of eels inside wanting to get loose. She belched and felt better, but not so well as to change her plans for sleep. She meant to stand and approached her bed, but sitting seemed a better easement. So she delayed and delayed until rising was an effort. But rise she did. Her feet rebelled, swollen, so she sat again and untied her slippers, kicking them far from the seat. Now her head swam. She was sure she was going to swoon. But she fought it, pushing up from the chair, wobbling across to the bed cabinet, where she held onto the post.
“I will never eat eels again,” she said.
Then she smiled. Nothing eaten could make her breasts tender or her feet swell to this extent. Nothing in the world’s seas or lakes could do it. To bed she would go and worry about it in the morning. But then she heard a grunt from the courtyard. It was loud and boisterous and was followed by a hearty laugh. Someone was coming. She did not want company, especially now, but especially not this man, because she recognized the mumbling voice.
“This is it,” the voice declared, slurred and sloppy. “And I see a light inside. I knew it, when I saw her leave.”
Suddenly, on the threshold, holding onto the lintel was the man, Wu Liang-tze, tripping over the high step, but still managing to enter.
“Brother-in-law,” Chi Lin gasped, closing her shift and clinging to the bed post. “Do not enter. I am alone and it is not proper.”
“Ah, alone,” he stammered, and then laughed. “You need my protection, then.”
“I need only protection from intruders like you. Go, or I will sound an alarm.”
“Go ahead. Scream, if you must. But they are all into their lanterns and Moon Cakes. You will be no more than a crane’s call lost in the weeds and marshes.”
He staggered further into the hall. Chi Lin gripped the side of the bed, but she would have done better to fall back into the chair because Liang-tze aimed directly for her, loosening his jade corset as he approached.
“I love a good feast followed by a good woman.”
“I am ugly,” she said. “You told me so yourself.”
“Ah, in face you are plain, but I am not interested in your face, sister-in-law.”
He laughed again and thrust forward, catching her arm and pushing her onto the bed. Chi Lin screamed, but her voice sounded weak and puny compared to the racing of her heart. Liang-tze was a heavy man, who knew his way about removing his clothes in any fashion while maintaining dominance over a woman. Chi Lin knew he was prolific at it. But now, with his jowls dripping with spit and his breath stinking of wine, she was more nauseous than ever.
“Be merciful,” she stammered.
“You shall live,” he said, ripping her shift open, while dipping his loin cloth beyond requisition. “I know you are new to this. So the pleasure will be mutual.”
Chi Lin was flattened on bed, Liang-tze’s weight extreme. She tried to push him off, but failed. She hit his shoulders, but he only laughed. She felt him groping under her, and knew he was succeeding, his worm growing as hard as ironwood and seeking to take the plunge. Suddenly, his weight eased off her, his face puckering in disgust. His head snapped back. He faltered, falling backwards. Chi Lin saw hands prying him off her. These were dainty hands, the hands of a woman, perhaps. But then she saw something astonishing. She saw Wu Lin-kua and Wu Chou-fa wrestling their uncle to the ground.
“
Get off me,” Liang-tze screamed at the boys, as they managed to roll him toward the table.
Liang-tze was up in a flash, but the boys jumped on him again, less successful this time, their uncle throwing them around haphazardly. Chi Lin screamed again. She managed to cover herself, but before she did, she quickly inspected to see if Liang-tze had completed the act. He had not. This gave her little consolation. Her arms were bruised and her shoulders were sore. She gasped, and then belched, surely about to vomit. Then a notion overtook her. She quickly staggered to the table, grabbed the bowl of plum wine and spilled it on the sheets. Then she tossed the bowl into the darkness.
“Mistress,” came a voice.
It was Gao Lin. He ran to her, and then tried to help the boys, but Liang-tze was regaining his control. As he righted himself, he paused.
“Who is this who dares interrupt me,” she shouted at Gao Lin.
Chi Lin was sure that Gao Lin would fight the Second son, an act that would bring untold punishments upon Gao Lin’s head.
“No, Gao Lin, do not do it,” she stammered.
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