by Yangsze Choo
Tears streamed from my eyes and dried in the wind. I didn’t know what I felt sorrier for—my father’s years of grief, the unmasking of my childish fancies, or even the Third Concubine’s wasted life and her wicked schemes. All I could fix upon now was to go to the Lim family mansion in this ghostly world. There, I must surely find some of the answers to my questions. And I might see my mother, although I had begun to dread that meeting. The kind, gentle mother that Amah had fostered in my blurred memories might turn out to be another virago.
My visit to the Third Concubine had consumed almost all the daylight, and the drop in temperature seemed to correspond with the number of figures of the dead that I glimpsed, hurrying here and there on the gloomy streets. These bleak emanations might have stemmed from the ghosts themselves, for there had been little evidence of such a chill upon the grasslands the night before. It was as though with the dimming of the light, the icy breath of the grave grew stronger.
I now had a good sense of where the Lim mansion might be and Chendana set off at a brisk trot. We passed through endless streets and wide boulevards, far more than the real Malacca ever possessed. The distance was interminable, the rows of darkened houses eerily expectant. At last we drew up in front of an imposing gate. If I had thought that any of the homes in my family’s ghostly neighborhood were grand, this put them all to shame. A great wall, almost ten feet high, surrounded it. The doors alone were massive, yawing upward into dark shadows that were barely pierced by a pair of gate lanterns. This was no mansion. It was an estate. For long moments I hesitated, struck by the sudden fear that the gates would be manned by more ox-headed demons, but then I remembered that Fan said they rarely came here, and I plucked up my courage. At worst, it might be no more than one of those silent automatons. I slid off Chendana’s back and let the great iron door knocker fall with a clatter.
There was a long silence as the echoes died away, then slowly, the great gates opened. A pale face peered out. It was a manservant, dressed in old-fashioned livery. I was surprised to see that he was a human ghost and not one of those puppetlike servants. His eyes swiveled around the empty street, then rested upon me.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I—I’m looking for . . . ” I stammered. Fool that I was, I had been so intent on the revelations of the day and the pressing need to get to the Lim mansion that I had completely forgotten to think of some pretext for entry.
“For work?” he barked. “You’re late. Didn’t they tell you to go to the side entrance, not the main door?” Then he paused. “Or perhaps you mean the other kind of work.” Leaning forward, he brought a lantern up to my face and examined it closely.
“I heard you needed a kitchen maid,” I said quickly.
He gave me a long leer. “If you ask me, you’d be wasted there. The master’s been looking for new concubines. They don’t need you in the kitchen with so many puppet servants.”
“You mean, those manikins burned as funeral offerings?”
“Hush your mouth! We don’t talk about funerals here. Nobody wants to be reminded about his death. We call them puppet-men. And to the master, don’t refer to them at all. He doesn’t like them. Any pauper can have a puppet servant or two. Even I have one! That’s why at the great houses they hire human ghosts as staff.”
“If you have your own servant, why are you working here?” I asked.
“Same reason as you, sweetheart. Not enough funeral money burned for me. But why waste yourself in the kitchen?” His eyes fastened on me greedily and I began to feel afraid. “I could use a wife myself.”
I shrank back, glancing into the shadows where I had left Chendana out of sight. If I had to, I would rather pretend to be a candidate for Lim Tian Ching’s harem than be accosted by this gatekeeper. At least I would stand a better chance of getting farther into the house. But another voice rang out from within.
“Who’s there? Why have you left the gate open?”
The gatekeeper turned sullenly to face another retainer who had appeared at the entrance. “I was just giving her directions. She wanted to go to the kitchen.”
“The wrong door, eh?” The second man, older and more heavyset, turned to me. “Now then, who are you?”
I cast my eyes down, mumbling that I had heard there was an opening for a kitchen maid.
“You can do better than that,” he said. “In fact, the master will be pleased to see one like you.”
I began a tale about having pledged true love to my fiancé, but he sighed and cut me off. “Never mind. I’ve heard this kind of thing before. I’m sure you’ll change your mind after twenty years in the kitchen. If you have a change of heart, let me know. I’m the steward here. Make sure to address me politely when you see me.”
I trailed after him, avoiding the baleful glare of the gatekeeper. “Sir, I have a few possessions still outside.”
He barely turned his head. “I’m sure you do. Some grave goods and such. You can collect them later.” And so, thankful that I had told Chendana to hide until I came back for her, I crossed the threshold of the Lim mansion.
We walked a long way, down endless corridors and through countless courtyards. I glimpsed echoing expanses of silent banquet halls and felt a shiver course down my spine. I had been here before in my dreams, those suffocating nightmares when I had been forced to wander these halls night after night and admire Lim Tian Ching’s wealth. Though puppet servants still stood blankly at attention, there were also a number of human ghosts. Some were dressed as servants, but others appeared to be guests or residents of the house. They wore the same kind of stiff, gaudy attire that I had seen Lim Tian Ching wear, which gave the whole scene an antique air. Feeling like a complete nonentity, I scurried behind the steward with a lowered head.
After a while, the surroundings became more utilitarian. “Don’t expect to come in through the main gate again,” the steward said curtly without breaking his stride. “You’re lucky I happened to pass by when I did.”
We were now rapidly approaching an outbuilding from which the clang of pots and sounds of shouted orders became discernible. It was a homely cacophony, so unexpectedly like the world of the living that I was surprised to find a lump in my throat. It had been only two days since I had passed into the realm of the dead, but already I longed for the noise and clatter, the living air of my own Malacca. The kitchen was a vast hall filled with servants and steam. Rows of dishes were laid out, many arranged elaborately like spirit offerings. There were a number of puppet servants, all busy chopping, frying, and steaming this bounty. If this had been a real kitchen, the smell of oil heating, garlic and ginger being pounded, and fish frying would have assailed my nostrils, but the smells here were muted. I had to sniff hard to tease them out. The steward spoke to a large, paunchy human ghost who was in charge. After a brief conversation, he beckoned me over.
“This is the new girl.”
“Too dainty. I can’t use her. Send her upstairs.”
“She doesn’t want to do that kind of work,” said the steward significantly.
“I don’t need another kitchen maid.”
“If you please, sir,” I ventured. “I can also serve and wait.”
“There you go,” said the steward. “Use her as waitstaff. They can always do with more humans on show.”
The cook looked at me skeptically. “I have enough puppet waiters. At least they don’t spill soup on people. I can’t afford another mistake like that again.
”
The steward rolled his eyes. “Do as you will. If you can’t use her, send her to housekeeping, then.”
When he had left, the cook regarded me with a raised brow. He had small cunning eyes above a broad, squashed nose with flaring nostrils. It was unfortunate that he was so fat. His corpulence only served to accentuate his resemblance to a pig, especially when he sank his jowly chin into his neck to regard me.
“All right,” he said after an awkward silence. “I’ll give you a trial. But don’t come crying to me if it doesn’t work out. You shouldn’t be here at all and you know it.”
I blanched, wondering if my covert mission was so easily discerned. But he went on to say, “The steward talks tough but has a soft heart for young girls like you. He left a daughter behind, about your age, I think. Otherwise you really should be auditioning for the master’s bedchamber.” He laughed coarsely and I shrank even further into myself. “Nah, don’t worry. I said you can have a trial here. But if you don’t suit, then it’s off with you. Plenty of ghosts wanting work nowadays, especially since this household is doing so well.”
I bobbed my head, thinking of an alias. “Thank you. My name is—”
He cut me off with a dismissive gesture. “Don’t bother. We don’t use names here.” Seeing my eyes widen, he shook his head. “You must have just died. Listen, all of us here came because we had descendants or some family member who bothered to burn offerings to us. We’re technically the privileged ones, who can spend some time enjoying the fruits of filial piety before going on to judgment at the courts. But some of us end up working as servants out of boredom or necessity. Still, we don’t use our true names, understand? My grandchildren want to think that I’m enjoying an afterlife of leisure here and I want to preserve that illusion. So no names.”
“But how would they know what you were doing here anyway?”
“Cheh! Of course they don’t know, but we don’t like to think about them getting wind of it through some spiritualist or medium. You never know what sort of information leaks out. Anyway, for our own pride, we don’t mention it.”
I nodded obediently, wondering again at this ghost world, which seemed to have so many of the vices and failings of life.
“So you can be girl number six.”
“Number six?”
“Yes, there were five before you. Don’t ask me what happened to them. Now, go over there and start preparing that fish. I want to see you clean and steam it Teochew-style. Understand?”
He gestured to a shining pile of pomfret, their silvery bellies slick and plump. I often helped Old Wong in the kitchen, though I was mostly relegated to menial tasks like pinching the roots off bean sprouts and cleaning squid. Occasionally, however, he let me prepare dishes. Now I carefully slit a fish open to remove the guts. To my surprise, however, there was nothing inside at all—only a hollow space. Setting the knife down, I examined it thoroughly. It looked like a fish, and felt like one, right down to the slippery flesh, but when I brought it to my nose there was no smell at all, not even the clean salt tang of the ocean. Over my shoulder I heard a burst of laughter.
“Never seen a fish like this before, have you?” said the cook. “They’re pretend fish, just like all this food isn’t real food either. There’s very little taste, so that’s why the kitchen is so important. We have to do our best to make it palatable.”
“But I thought that offerings had flavor,” I said.
“Oh, they taste fine when they’re fresh and received when you’re in the world of the living,” said the cook. “But when you cross over into the plains they seem to lose all savor. That’s why a lot of the dead like to go visit their old haunts from time to time. Ah, it’s been a long time since I had some freshly made pie tee, or a bowl of assam laksa.” He stared off into the distance for a moment. “The pie tee my mother made was so delicious. The outside was crisp and the turnip-and-prawn filling sweet yet toothsome. She used to arrange them on a plate so that they looked just like tiny, crunchy top hats. And the chili sauce! My mother was famous for her chili sauce, which she pounded every morning and mixed with vinegar, garlic, and sugar.”
Listening to him reminisce made my mouth water. I had to close it to prevent myself from drooling, and for the first time since I had arrived in the Plains of the Dead, I became aware of a dull hunger. This was not good. Er Lang had specifically warned me against eating spirit food. I bent over the fish and rinsed it in a clean bowl of water. Then I selected a shallow metal pan from a large stack of pans while the cook watched me expressionlessly with his small piggy eyes. I broke off a knob of ginger, peeled, sliced, and arranged it on the dish. After placing the cleaned pomfret on top, I added sliced tomatoes, then looked around.
“The sour plums are over there,” he said flatly.
Under his watchful eye, I fished out four or five plums preserved in brine and laid them on the fish. Using my fingers, I mashed them to spread their soft flesh like a paste.
“Why so many? What a waste!” he barked at me.
“I thought I should add more because there’s so little taste,” I said.
He nodded in satisfaction. “At least you have some brains. Remember, everything here has to be highly spiced, sometimes even double or triple what you used to use before you passed over. Otherwise the guests will complain. All right. You can stop now.”
My arms were leaden and my shoulders ached with weariness. The cook was still talking and I had to concentrate to follow his rapid instructions.
“—so get your things. You can sleep in the servants’ quarters tonight. There are no other serving girls right now, so you’ll have your own room for the moment. Now hurry up. I want you in here early tomorrow morning when the fires are lit.”
I looked up at him, dazed. “How will I find my way?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’ll send a puppet servant out with you. You can get your grave goods and other belongings. Store them in your own room and don’t bring them into the main house. They don’t need your cheap clutter here. Tired, are you? It’s the air of the plains. It takes some getting used to when you first get here. Go on with you, then,” he said.
An expressionless manikin had glided up beside him and now it took off swiftly. I supposed it was to be my guide and hurried to catch up. Lit only by dim sconces, the low, narrow passages closed in upon me like a nightmare. My guide was also horribly familiar. I had seen that bland face repeated twenty times over on various puppet servitors around the house. It walked with no need for light, silent except for the occasional loud, papery rustle. I did not speak to it—though it was formed in the semblance of a man, I could not think of it as having a gender—and it paid no more mind to me than if I had been a stray dog. Soon we arrived at a walled garden with a small bolted gate. This, presumably, was one of the back doors that the gatekeeper had mentioned. I had little time to wonder at my surroundings, however, for my guide trotted rapidly along the outer rim of the wall until we approached the main gate from the outside. Then it stopped.
“I’ll just get my things, then,” I said.
The creature gave no sign of comprehension, but since it was clearly waiting, I hastened to find Chendana. To my relief, she was still concealed in the shadows. I had asked her to hide when I had first approached the gate hours ago, and part of my anxiety since then had been over her safety, even though I remembered Fan’s words about how no one else could tamper with your grave goods unless you gave them away. Aware of m
y silent guide, I took her bridle and led her back with me.
Our reentry into the Lim mansion was surprisingly easy. Perhaps it was because we came through the servants’ entrance, but there was no one around to comment on my horse. The puppet servant led me to a series of low outbuildings that stood behind the kitchens. These were obviously the servants’ quarters for human ghosts like myself, for piles of bedding and other sundries were laid out. Across the way I could see lights and hear men’s voices, but the women’s quarters were silent and dark. Leading me to a small room at the end, my guide opened the door and with a stiff jerk of its head, motioned me in.
“Where are the kitchens?” I asked, anxious that I should find my way in the morning. Another swivel and it pointed to the bulk of a building, just visible in the gloom. Then it walked off. I was so tired that I stumbled into the low-ceilinged, dark room. Obviously intended as dormitory housing for three or four servants, it was now empty and lit only by the fitful flicker of an oil lamp left by the puppet servant. I’d meant to leave Chendana outside, but the room depressed me, so not caring about propriety, I led my little horse inside. She had to duck to fit through the doorway, but her neat familiar form made me feel much better. Dragging a pallet out, I threw myself down into oblivion.
Chapter 24
I woke to the sounds of clanging and scraping. It was still dark, but from the narrow window I could see a faint lightening of the sky. Recalling the cook’s injunction to go to the kitchen when the fires were lit, I jumped up hastily. I patted Chendana’s nose, grateful again that she was not a real horse and could be left waiting indefinitely for me. Not wishing to draw attention to her, however, I backed her into the darkest corner of the room and pulled a bamboo screen, meant to divide the servants’ sleeping quarters, in front of her.
