‘The Red String of Fate’ by Holly Kench
‘Maidens of the Yangze’ by Kelly Matsuura
‘Black Smoke and Water Lilies’ by David Jón Fuller
‘The Ghost Bride’ by Kelly Matsuura
The string around my ankle chafed. The length of it tugged and pulled, tripping me up as I walked down the street. Wrapping around posts and tangling in knots, it weighed me down.
At first I was proud of the fine silken thread. It was, my mother said, a sign I was destined for better things. A husband was in my future. Yue Lao had blessed me and all I had to do was wait.
As a child I toyed with the thread, twisting it around my little finger and strumming it with my thumb as though it were a pipa. I played the instrument of my ancestors and dreamed the song of my future.
When the song was over, I whispered down the thread, willing my words to reach the other end and wondering who might be the bearer of my destiny.
“Are you there?” I called. “Can you hear me, Husband?”
He was, I imagined, a warrior-prince. Too busy to respond to my childish calls as he slayed advancing armies in the quest to find his princess.
But before long this princess grew up. I tossed aside my crown with the fantasies of childhood.
Despite my mother’s protests, I took up new dreams.
Instead of imagining a prince, I saw a life of infinite possibilities. A future of my own design.
But the thread pulled me. It tied me to an unwanted reality, knotted me into expectation and restrained me from imaginings of freedom and choice. One step in the wrong direction and the thread dragged me back. The path of my fate was set and the string that bound my destiny was unrelenting.
I was ungrateful. I knew this without doubt, for my mother told me daily. The hours on her knees were a gift to me. She prayed, so that Yue Lao gave.
And I was ungrateful. A word used to describe my generation, it twisted into my existence, binding my identity and knitting with the string around my ankle.
I saw flecks of my ingratitude vie with the thread of my fate. They sparked with volatile opposition, heating up until I thought the thread might break. Instead the expectations of who I was, and who I would be, fused together. Fastening.
My ingratitude was as inescapable as my future as Woman. Wife. Mother.
These were certainties given to me. And freedoms taken away.
My mother saw the string as an anchor. It would keep me good and safe. Unerring. Everything a daughter should be.
I pictured my husband, for, at some point, his face had become a certainty in my mind, despite the twists and turns of the string that tangled behind me. If I were to see him in the street, I would know him in an instant.
We were on this journey together. My would-be husband and I. Although there was an unknown distance between us, the thread ensured our mutual complicity. Without meeting, we were partners, and without realizing it, I had become as invested in his future as I was in my own.
I pictured his face. The mouth I knew would always smile when he looked at me, and the eyes that showed his smile to be true.
And I knew that, like me, his future was at the mercy of the string at our ankles.
So I took that string and I cut. I sliced it through with a kitchen knife.
With a single swipe our destinies, intertwined for so long, split apart.
I walked forward, tentatively, one step at a time, and the world did not collapse. Instead my steps moved unrestrained and my destiny waited for me to point the way.
The End
Four men carried Mei Zhen from her house to the river’s edge: her father, two elder brothers, and their neighbor, Mr. Chao. Her mother and younger sister followed behind part of the way, but stopped at the rocky steps that lead down to the narrow beach. No doubt, they did not want sand on their dainty bound feet.
I watched from a little way down the beach, my bare feet sinking into the wet sand, my toes gripping me in place with even more strength than Father’s grip on my arm.
I was not allowed closer. I could not say goodbye nor kiss her pale cheek. The Huang’s were cruel, heartless people; how they had a child as wonderful and sweet as Mei Zhen was beyond anyone’s understanding.
As the procession crossed the sand, I couldn’t take my eyes from Mei Zhen. They had wrapped her body in white silk, with bindings of white rope and small flowers. A generous funeral, but only I, Mr. Chao, and the Huang family knew she was not really dead yet.
Mr. Chao had visited my house late the night before and told me of the Huang’s plan to kill their insolent daughter.
“She is still refusing to marry old Mr. Zhou, and it is a great embarrassment to them,” he told me.
“She loves me,” I insisted. I knew they would never let us marry, but Mei Zhen was still only fourteen and we had hoped to have more time together before she was forced into an arranged marriage.
“I know, I know.” Chao nodded. “But it is done. They have given her a powerful sleeping potion and at dawn they will drown her in the Yangze. They will then announce to the town that she took her own life.”
“No!” I stood up in blind anger. “They can’t do this! You must help me get Mei Zhen out of that house, to take her somewhere safe!”
I was crushed with overwhelming feelings of both anger and guilt. This wouldn’t be happening if I had kept my love for her a secret and not tried to win over the Huang’s in vain. Now, they knew everything, and Mei Zhen was to pay with her life.
Mr. Chao sat calmly in my sitting room and sipped his tea.
“Sit down, Jing Wei. The Huang’s have asked me to help them tomorrow. I’m afraid that Mei Zhen will never wake from the potion she was given, so we are too late to bring her back to us, but there is one thing I can do.”
Tears streaked my cheeks and I fell to my knees to prostrate before him.
“Please, Mr. Chao. Please save her!”
“There, there.” He patted my arm and smiled. “Mei Zhen is a truly beautiful girl, with a sweet nature. I have made a request to the baiji river-maidens, that they transform her. It is the only way you will ever see your love again.”
“A river-maiden? Are the legends true?” Everyone knew the stories of the baiji; the graceful river dolphins were said to be the reincarnated souls of young virgin women who died in, or beside the Yangze River.
“It is not encouraged for people to really believe the legends, but yes, it is true. When my daughter, Chu Hua, was terminally-ill last year, the baiji Goddess promised to care for her. I now visit with Chu Hua each full moon, and she appears in her human form to me only then. The rest of the days, she is a smiling dolphin, dancing in the waves.” Chao’s peaceful expression convinced me this was a good solution for Mei Zhen. We would never marry, nor share a bed, but I could see her every month and she would be free from a harsh marriage to an old man.
I remembered too, standing with Mei Zhen on the river bank and watching the baiji leap and play. “They’re performing just for us!” Mei Zhen would say, laughing loud and dancing on the beach herself. I remembered the breeze in her hair, the billow of her soft cotton robes, her look of wonder and bliss.
“I think Mei Zhen would want this,” I answered in a whisper. Chao now held my and Mei Zhen’s happiness in his hands. “Can you really convince them to take Mei Zhen? What if they refuse?”
Chao smiled. “It is done. The moon is full now, and my precious Chu Hua received the Goddess’ blessing. They will wait for Mei Zhen in the shallows tomorrow, and take her into their family immediately.”
“How do they do that?” I asked.
“Ah, but it is a great secret, not to be shared with humans. It must be enough that we know they exist at all.”
I nodded. “Very well. I will guard the secret of the maidens always.”
“You are a good young man. I’m sorry you cannot have the future that you dream of.” Chao rose then and said good bye.
“Come to the riverbank tomorrow. Put on a great show of grief for the Huang family and vow to avenge Mei Zhen’s death. That rotten couple deserve to live in fear for the rest of their days for what they have done to that lovely girl.”
And so, I stood on the beach, my father gripping me tight as I flailed my arms and screamed at the injustice and loss. Only Mei Zhen’s sister glanced my way, and I saw the tears in her eyes too. She wanted to scream and cry and pound her fists as was the usual custom, but by declaring Mei Zhen’s death a suicide, the funeral was a silent one of shame.
My feet sank deeper into the wet sand. Something sharp cut my tender flesh but I took little notice. As the four men tossed Mei Zhen’s weighted-body into the ocean I screamed out loud as Chao had said to, but inside I made a promise to Mei Zhen.
See you on the next full moon, my one true love.
The End
I am born in the Valley of the Forest Monastery. It is a time of invasion.
I am five years old. My name is Quick Stream. I sit on the fence that pens our pigs while my father and mother work in the fields. The mud stinks a familiar stench; earth and slop and excrement. The sun is bright; it is summer. The mountains surrounding the valley still have snow covering the tops. My father has told me to keep an eye on the pigs, but to face away from the sun and watch the pass to the west. It is called the Way of Black Sorrow.
At seventeen years old, I remember watching the Way at five and tremble, for once again smoke blows through from the far side of the mountains; the marauders have returned. At seventeen I am safe behind the walls of the monastery, but I tremble nonetheless.
I am eleven years old. I live with my father’s sister and her husband. He is unwilling to share his home. I am old enough to work but not to be asked to leave. When the harvests are poor, he yells at me. Perhaps he thinks it is my fault. I don’t know what to say, so I leave until he has tired and gone to sleep. The trees are not thick around the foot of the mountains, but many evergreens grow higher up. The woods whisper in the wind. The sound is soothing, and it helps one to forget. At times, I see young monks wandering silently between the trees—they are holy men; they tread softly on the earth, listening to the whispers. They are men of peace, but all know they have trained long to defend their monastery. At eleven I have heard that they are fearsome in battle, as flowing in their movements as the sapling in the wind, but hard as oak when they strike. I hide and wait, and watch one as he passes. He does not look up; he gives no sign of noticing me; and yet it seems he expects me to be here. At eleven I do not understand how he can know this.
When forty-three years old, only my right hand is sore in winter; the knuckles crack open in the cold. Snow covers the shingles of the monastery and blankets the valley in white. I stand in the watchtower above the gates. Stone walls were built before I was born, to protect the people of the valley. The monastery has never been troubled by the marauders. They have tended to avoid it. Behind its walls, the farmers of the valley have taken refuge in times of trouble. Before they pass between the gates, I see them. The abbot trusts my judgment; he has done so since I was thirty.
I am twelve. My aunt warns me her husband is in a foul mood. I will offer to help our new neighbours repair the abandoned home they are to live in. I once knew the people who lived there.
I am five years old. Smoke rises between the crags of the Way of Black Sorrow. It is dark and stinks; unlike that of our hearth-fire. Our farm is one of the nearest to the Way. I hear a rumble, as of snow tumbling down the slopes before it crashes into the trees, but there is no avalanche. It may be on the other side. From the monastery across the valley comes an answer: a deep horn blows and echoes through the valley. I have only heard it at Midsummer and Midwinter before. I am frightened and call to my parents. As the rumbling gets louder, the pigs squeal and cry. I run to the fields and warn my parents, but of what I do not know. My father has heard it now too, and he tells me to stay with my mother, who picks me up and runs. I jostle in my mother’s arms as she goes; I cannot see what is happening. I hear the whinnying of horses and men shouting; some are familiar voices. Many are not.
I am twelve. The family who is rebuilding the neighbouring house speaks strangely. They are from outside the valley. But they are happy to be here. When I offer, the man accepts my help with the fence around the animal pen. They have one goat. I meet his two children. One is a baby, a boy; the other is my own age, a girl. She is the first girl I have met since I was very young. Most of the large families live on the far side of the valley, and I see the others once a year, at Midsummer Night. But my uncle has not allowed me to go for three years; he has asked me instead to guard our home. The neighbours’ girl is named Sun Rising. She has shiny, dark hair and brown eyes, and wears the white blossom of a water lily in her hair. She watches as I help her father.
I am thirty years old. I walk alone in the woods, listening to the groan of tree branches under the weight of snow. I wear sandals, a robe and pants. The air is cold on my bald head and shaven face. The pungent scent of fir surrounds me, mixed with something new, and I think back to Sun Rising. I am walking on the northern slopes, where I last saw her. I do not permit myself to look for a discarded lily.
She could not understand what the trees were saying, but I can, now. I believe it will be a good summer for the fields, as there is much snow on the mountains, and the streams we drink from will run strong. I hear also from the trees as they speak to me that I am not alone in the woods, that there is a stranger here. There are strange tracks, and the signs of much thrashing in the snow. I follow until I find a hunter. He has been torn apart. His arrows lie scattered like twigs, his blood in warm red pockets in the snow. His eyes stare at the sky; I close them. I rest my hand against the trunk of an old spruce tree and close my eyes. The forest is quiet, and after a moment I open my eyes and continue, treading softly. I see blood staining the snow in large drops; I follow for one hundred paces before it diminishes. The snow is deep and the tracks are clearer. The stranger has taken refuge under the wide boughs of an evergreen. He smells me and begins to stand, but is too weak. I approach slowly, whispering to him. I am ten feet away now, and we look into each other’s eyes. His are larger than mine, and yellow; a tiger’s wise face looks back at me. His body is great; his paws huge. He smells of damp fur and blood. He is gravely wounded; one arrow sticks into his shoulder, another is lodged in his side. I whisper to him until his head sinks and his eyes close. I step beneath the boughs.
I am twelve. Sun Rising and her family live in the house beside the one that used to belong to my parents. Into the house I once lived in moves a different family. Like Sun’s they are from outside the valley, but from the north. They did not enter through the Way of Black Sorrow in the west, as Sun’s did. Their two sons are older than me, and they do not need my help with their house. The younger of them is named Eagle's Wing. When he is close, I smell beer and meat on his breath, especially when he grabs my collars to threaten me. I cower before his shoves and taunts; I don’t understand why he should dislike me. He says I am always watching him. This is not true, except when he visits Sun. She does not like him, and the excuses he has for visiting, such as fixing the thatch on the roof or building a work shed, ring hollow to me. I am already helping Sun’s father with these things. Sun will not come walking in the woods with me. She must help look after her brother. And she is afraid of the forest, but will not tell me why. I am sad at this, but she often asks me to come into the kitchen to taste the fresh bread, or to move the table when she is sweeping, so I allow myself to believe she enjoys my company. Eagle's Wing is larger than I am, and stronger. When he visits Sun, he shoves me out of the way when he thinks no one is watching. He is loud and seems to get his way with others, perhaps because he doesn’t listen to anyone’s objections. He never knows when I am watching, perhaps because he only pays attention to himself. Nevertheless, Sun’s father allows him to visit, because unlike me, he still has a mother and father and home of his own.
I am five years old. My mother stumbles as she runs up the slope to the monastery. The rocks are dry; their dust grits in my tears and what runs out of my nose. The sun is hot. We approach the gates, which are tall and made of iron, set in grey walls of stone. A man looks down on us from a window over the gates. The doors open and we are let in. My mother is crying. Behind us others are running to the monastery and there are loud noises from down in the valley. My mother has run the entire length of the valley from our home to the monastery in the east. She cannot breathe or speak. She gives me to the arms of my aunt, and then breaks away from us, and runs back down the mountainside. I cry for her to come back. But she does not. Black smoke and horsemen run over the fields. My parents never return.
I am thirty. I place my hand on the thick fur of the tiger near one of the arrows. Blood mats the white undercoat but the pulse is steady. I remember the hunter’s arrows; they are not barbed, as a warrior’s would be. The arrows are caught in his flesh but the blood is red, not frothy or dark. He may live, if I am not weak. I whisper again to the tiger, and his eyes open. He raises his head to regard me, then opens his mouth; the gap is small enough to fit my hand. He wants something as security; I know this without understanding how. With one hand on the arrow in his shoulder, I put the other on the beast’s tongue. It is rough like a carpenter’s coarse sandpaper. The tiger closes upon my hand and holds. I begin to pull the arrow out, very slowly, whispering to him. After many minutes, the arrow comes free. Blood pours out of the wound, and I press down on it. The tiger growls and bites down on my hand. The pain is terrible but I do not release the pressure on the wound. At length he relaxes his hold, and I feel blood flow from my left hand. I can still feel my fingers. He licks the blood from where his teeth have pierced me. His fur is thick and is clogging around the first wound; I will bind it with a piece of my robe. I will need help to finish this. I take hold of a tree branch and wait. The tiger waits with me as I send for help; the message ripples through the forest to the monastery.
I am fifteen. Sun Rising and I walk together at the edge of the woods; it is a beautiful autumn day, near the equinox, and some of the leaves have turned. The forest is a mix of dark green, orange and yellow and the air is cool and dry. My uncle has been suggesting I find a place to set my own roots, fixing up the last unused farm. He means to help me, if I will do it. But I know that I cannot manage a farm on my own, especially the one that is left; its land has long been fallow and the soil is poor. But I would like to ask Sun to be my wife. We talk as we pass between the trees; she tells me she feels safe in the forest when I am around. This is strange to me, for I always feel comfortable here. I listen to the trees. She also tells me her parents have suggested she marry Eagle's Wing, to which I suggest that Wing is a fool and would not know what to do with an intelligent, beautiful woman. We kiss and I know that I will never be happy without her. I have longed to do this for years, and this moment echoes through my life, back to the first time I draw breath to the moment I stand above the gates of the monastery at forty-three.
I hear someone approaching; I warn her but she does not believe me. I pull away and am afraid, for it is Eagle's Wing who has followed us. I feel I have made a grave mistake. She will marry him, and I will never share a home with her. Her father and my uncle will not allow us to be happy. Eagle’s Wing will surely win. When he appears Sun is angry and embarrassed and frightened; she slaps him before he can say anything. He is astonished, but rather than leave he grabs her shoulders and pushes her to the ground. She screams. I stand back, afraid, and do nothing. This shames me for the rest of my life.
At thirty, I sit with the tiger beneath the tree. His blood is flowing and I cannot wait any longer. He has strength enough to lift his head so I tear the sleeve of my robe and bind his shoulder. My left hand is swollen but no longer bleeding. The tiger moves more slowly now, yet as I lay my grip on the second arrow, he opens his mouth again, and into it I place my hand. I ease the arrow out, very slowly, but at the last it catches on his rib and there is no way to remove it gently. I whisper again, and pull out the arrow. He growls and bites down.
I am fifteen. Sun kicks Wing in the knee. He curses. She stands and runs into the woods. I start to follow, but he catches my arm. He cannot run, so strikes me instead, and threatens me to stay away from her. I know what he was going to do to her; I know now why she did not go alone into the woods. I pull away and try to follow her. But my shame will not let me call to her. She disappears. Many believe either Wing or myself is to blame. I allow myself to hope she has left the valley and now lives somewhere else, but I think she must be dead. I have driven her from the valley.
At sixteen, I petition to join the monastery. Though old for a novice, I am accepted.
I study for many years. We hold the forest sacred and all our training for defence is based on the spirit of the trees. It is arduous, but is a relief and helps me to find peace. Many of the monks are orphans. All are given a symbol to wear as a tattoo on their right shoulder: the river, the phoenix, the tortoise. I must wait for the abbot’s revelation of my symbol.
At seventeen, I watch from the monastery when the marauders return. Wing’s older brother is killed in the fighting.
I am thirty. The monks who find me say that they could not approach my body for fear of the tiger beside me. But when they came near, he did nothing to harm them. He had licked the stump of my left wrist clean. They bound my wrist and the wound in the tiger’s side before bearing me back to the monastery. There is much talk in the monastery when the abbot visits me in the infirmary. I tell him of the encounter with the tiger and he nods, telling me it is a miracle I was not killed. I say nothing. He commends me for my keen ears and gentle words, and awards me the symbol of the tiger, though I will not need a tattoo. My absent hand speaks for me.
At forty-three, I watch from the gate-tower of the monastery. I have been Brother Tiger’s Paw for thirteen years. Much has changed, though the valley has had peace for long years. Many children have been born, and I have advanced far in my studies; I see now the cycle of things from nut to tree to rotten wood and through to new growth. It is a good life. There are few novices in the monastery; it has been long since any have chosen our way over the prosperity of the fields. Long since any were orphaned. My knuckles are pink and close to cracking in the cold air, but I do not let this distract me; for there is something in the wind, a scent I have not smelled since I was seventeen. Smoke wisps up from the west and I am the first to guess what it means. I sound the deep horn of warning, and the monks assemble quietly in the courtyard. Eagle's Wing leads a delegation from the farmers to the monastery to ask what is happening, because, other than at Summer or Winter Solstice, the horn has not been sounded in many years. Wing is nearly fifty; his work has made him dark of skin and strong, and his eyes reveal his opinion of me. He thinks I have grown soft, leading an idle life of contemplation. Perhaps he knows so little of the Monastery and our Order, though he lives in the same valley as we do.
I explain that I see invaders coming, to which the monks nod, and Eagle's Wing scoffs. He has seen nothing, and he lives closer to the Way; I must be mistaken, he says. The marauders have never attacked in winter. The abbot shakes his head and warns them to prepare, but the others do not listen. They are young men, born after the last invasion, proud of their strength and skeptical of ours. Eagle's Wing adds that if any horsemen enter the valley, they will be welcome; for he will lead a charge against them, and pull them from their mounts. No longer will the farmers of the valley be targets, but warriors themselves. I understand the look in his eyes, for I remember his family was chased here long ago.
Three days later a tiger is seen in the forest. It chases someone nearly to the gates of the monastery, even as smoke begins to plume black and thick from the western pass. I run down from the gate tower and out to the animal and its quarry. It meets my gaze and stops; the woman runs past me. I see it is the same creature I lost my hand to; I see also he had no intention of killing the woman. The monks on guard duty approach with long staves, made of holy wood, to drive the animal back, but there is no need. I bow to him and he departs, climbing the slopes to the north whence he came. Many count this strange, but there is no time to wonder, as the rumble of hooves is heard beyond the valley. The deep horn is sounded, but only the women and children flee to the safety of our walls. Eagle's Wing spurs the farmers to action, that the valley may have mounted warriors of its own. It is a daring plan, but the monks will not take part. For while the trees must give way before the forest fire, for there to be new life, it is not for them to carry the fire to other forests. We will keep the women and children safe behind our walls.
I return to my post. I witness the approaching battle as horses spill down the slopes in the west, black and brown, their riders bearing fire. It is as terrible as it was when I was a child and a young man.
The woman who fled from the tiger is brought to my post. She wishes to thank me, I believe, but I am going to tell her that she was in no danger; I know this tiger and he would not hurt her. I am about to tell her this, I will tell her in a few moments. The sound of hooves thunders through the valley. The horsemen have overrun the men of the valley. Those who have taken horses from the marauders cannot control them, and are taken from the battle by their new steeds into the forest. I hear this through the trees. The slaughter is becoming unbearable. The monks will have to intervene. The abbot will wait for my judgment on the conflict before he gives permission for us to join. I must be calm. Eagle's Wing fights in the rearguard of the retreat, which is becoming a rout. He is mounted upon a brown horse that bucks.
I turn to tell her that she was in no danger and is safe now. But I do not. I stare as she is staring at me, for I know her, though I have not seen her since she ran into the forest many years ago. Sun Rising asks if it is really me. I say it is. I see in her face the many questions about what has become of me, and I feel I am looking into a mirror. We say nothing, the answers are in our eyes. I have always loved her, but I allowed myself to forget, after I drove her from the valley.
The people are almost at the gates now. I may open them, but the raiders, spurring their mounts up the slopes to the monastery, are enraged that the farmers have fought back, and pulled them down. Is the man right to defy his oppressor, if he wishes to become the oppressor himself? The conundrum this poses is artificial. He must not resist, he must fall back. With the villagers who seek not a stronghold but a refuge already behind the monastery gates, is it necessary to let the others in? A question to be asked. What to do about the reappearance of Sun Rising, at an unexpected time? A question to be answered.
I am five. Black smoke and dusty earth.
I am twelve. Water lilies and bread baking.
I am fifteen. Dry leaves and fir needles.
I am thirty. Wet fur and steaming blood.
I am forty-three. Black smoke and water lilies.
I signal that the doors be opened. The farmers are admitted, but Wing still engages the leader of the raiders, horse to horse. Shall I permit them to kill each other? Shall I trust my heart? I look at Sun and nothing is clear. The people huddled behind our walls smell of sweat and fear, while before me I smell the memory of baked bread and water lilies and feel as though no years have passed. Yet where my emotions yield my intellect will not.
I turn and leave my post, signal to the interior warden, and we take up our staves; mine is but a club, one-handed. Five of us hurry out to separate Eagle's Wing from the horsemen, who are all around us now. They too are young men, but for the leader; they have heard his stories, and look on us with a mixture of fear and contempt. The horses’ breath steams in the winter air; splattered blood and thrashing hooves turn the snow pink.
My brothers and I move quickly, striking the nearest from their horses, driving them away from Wing. He laughs and charges past us to press what thin advantage we have. I call for him to retreat, but instead he rides down the nearest raider, killing him. He is too far away from us.
Those still mounted wheel to encircle us. We separate and move through their midst, like mist through the trees. We are among the forest now, and every branch is our ally, every root their foe. Horses stumble; riders are swept from their backs; but still there are too many of them. Wing is making things difficult, plunging into them, confusing our strikes. I cry for him to dismount, but he will not.
In a momentary tremor through the trees I feel the approach of my old friend. Wing charges to engage the enemy, who hack now at the branches of our trees, and some who aim deadly fire on their arrows. Wing’s horse rears before me; I will not let him pass. I should not let him die. But in the clarity of this moment I see things I had not before; I must change or be swept away by the fire. The majestic white and orange tiger sweeps Wing from his brown horse. I know now that I have always been ill at peace, no matter how I hide it. Now the horse is upon me. I slip aside, but it is too late for Eagle's Wing; the tiger has torn his throat out. He moves on, driving terror into the steeds of the flame-wielding archers, sending the shots wild and letting the panicked horses scatter the riders. He has removed the direst threat.
The tiger follows my brothers and me to the monastery. He does not enter, but looks at me once more, his eyes wiser than my own, and again I bow. I know what I must do. The monks tend the wounded, and I request an audience with the abbot. I tell him of what has happened, and he nods. I request permission to leave the order, renouncing all claim to sanctuary. He studies me long, but nods again. He places his hand upon my forehead and tells me I will now forget the whispering of trees, how to strike with their limbs as my own and that I must leave my club of wood behind. He wishes me well, and counsels me not to forget what has gone before, but to accept it. I bow and take my leave.
Dressed only in some discarded clothes, no longer my habit, I go to Sun Rising. I tell her I must leave the monastery. I ask her if she would like to come with me. There is a long silence, as we stand amid the frightened folk and the bandaged, some still too afraid to return to their homes. She asks me if I would truly give up everything to do so. I say, no, not only for her, but I would give it all away to begin something new, with her, if she will. We leave the gates of the monastery together.
The trees groan under the weight of old snow, their roots sleep deep beneath my feet, and their language is strange to me now. Brother Tiger’s Paw of the Monastery no longer, I leave. Sun walks to my right, her hand in mine after twenty-eight years. We are leaving the valley, to the north, where perhaps we will find safe passage.
The End
“Ming Yue! Let’s go.” Sheng Li took my hand and we dropped through the clouds. Snow and wind billowed all around us and I squealed in delight, oblivious to the cold.
We landed on a snow-covered sports field. In front of us, a dozen teens skated on a large ring of ice about the same length as a running track. Some students held hands, taking their time, while others whizzed around practicing their speed-skating. I knew exactly where we were.
“This is my old high school! Why bring me here?” I looked to Sheng Li, my new husband. He was constantly surprising me.
“Winter will be over soon, and I doubt we’ll see another one as we are. And, this is a fond memory for you, isn’t it?” He smiled.
I nodded. “Yes, we’ll pass on soon, I believe. So, let’s skate!” I squeezed his hand and pulled him forward to join the skaters who were unaware of our presence. We had no skates, nor coats or gloves, just each other. We couldn’t feel the chill of the wind, the scratch of metal on the ice under our feet, but we re-lived that joy of being young, being free, and being alive.
I never believed the old superstitions. While at times the stories my grandmother told were romantic and comforting, my academic mind couldn’t hold on to the idea of other worlds and realms, of things we can’t see, but are told to blindly believe in.
The numerous prayer rituals were a burden on my time, not to mention an expense my family could ill afford. Every yuan my father earned went first to my education, second to keeping the four of us clothed and fed. But my mother always gave up something she needed in order to pay for the extravagant altar gifts and priest’s blessings she ordered for her only son.
I missed my older brother too of course, but sitting in front of Xun’s altar only saddened me and made it hard to concentrate on my studies. I saw no point in dreaming of his afterlife, I didn’t even believe he had one, but it weighed on my parent’s and grandmother’s mind long after Xun was buried.
They had talked of finding him a ghost bride; a ridiculous thought, not only because it was such an outdated practice but also because it would require money we simply didn’t have. But I watched my mother, toying with her last piece of jewelry of value, the twenty-four carat gold bracelet given to her by Father on their wedding day. It would probably fetch enough to pay for the wanted bride and ceremony, but they would still be paying my student loans for years until I was able to take over the debt alone. It would be foolish not to keep something for emergencies.
One night, I overheard my father gently talking to my mother in the kitchen. He had had a change of heart and was now against arranging a bride for Xun. Mother wept, but she nodded her head in agreement and then leaned into Father’s chest to be consoled. My parents had a good marriage, better than most I imagine, and it pleased me to see them together in such a moment.
The matter then seemed resolved, and the talk of a ghost wedding faded like the paper joss money scattered at Xun’s funeral. Sometimes, when I was walking around the neighborhood, or hiding in Mother’s flower garden, I would find a bill snagged on a branch, or it would blow across my feet from nowhere. Xun’s money had his name printed on it; another extravagant expense Mother had insisted upon, but one I was reluctantly glad about. We burned a small amount of joss money at Xun’s funeral, but it was my mother’s preference to hold the paper money out to the wind. She would do this on auspicious days, saying the money would reach Xun in the spirit world and he could buy himself a gift from her. I thought this silly too, but whenever I found one of those papers randomly on the street I found a piece of my big brother again. Each one gave me a flash of memory from my childhood and reminded me not to forget him.
Perhaps I would one day, I thought. In a few years, when I married and moved to my own home where there was no altar, no joss money in my path to find, I would simply stop recalling his face and voice and laugh. I would forge my own life where there was no pity for the dead, no obsession over their well-being or fortune, or even any thought to where they were now.
So I was content for a while, driven to study hard and show my parents that their sacrifice was worthwhile, for all of our futures. I went to school early to work in the library and I stayed in the library until closing time every night, writing up my assignments. I thought less and less of Xun as the weeks after his anniversary passed. I wasn’t home as much to see my parents kneeling at his altar and leaving food and trinkets.
But that all changed one night when a stranger stepped in my path and pushed me into a darkened doorway. He tore at my clothing, calling me vile names and promising to punish me. I fought with all my strength, scratching and pushing and lifting my knee. I prayed for someone to come along the road and see my plight, to rescue me, but my screams echoed back in the silent abyss.
He finally stopped groping at my body and stepped back. For a second, I thought he might simply run away and leave me be, but instead he pulled a small knife from his boot.
He thrust it deep into my stomach and I gasped at the cold pain of the blade. My attacker ran then, dropping my body right there in front of the closed antique stores to bleed out on the dirty concrete. My soul swam free from its physical cage and left the world behind.
That night, my fate entwined with my brother’s and I became a believer in all the things I had shut my eyes to in the past. The spirit world was real. Ghosts were real too–they remained alone, trapped in the middle plane waiting for happiness to find them and help them move on. I knew this because I became one of them.
I felt the last drop of blood escape my body and lay prone on the ground, waiting for the cold to reach my bones, but it never did. I opened my eyes and it was neither day nor night but something in between. Lines were clear but colors were muted and I struggled to understand where I was. Then, I saw Xun.
He leaned against a store window, looking at the items on display with a blank, unreadable expression on his face. He wore the suit we had buried him in, not new, but well made from good fabric. It had first belonged to a relative, I recalled.
“Xun,” I said, my voice weak and alien to my ears. There was no other sound to absorb it.
“Hello, sister. I want to say I am pleased to see you again, but of course, you should not be here.” He frowned, and sat on the curb by my side.
I sat up and looked at my bloody dress. The murderer had taken the knife with him, but an image of his brutal attack flashed before my eyes.
“Why did this happen to me?” I asked, not expecting him to really know.
He squeezed my hand.
“I watch you sometimes, but I was not near you tonight. Only when you died, I was pulled to you immediately. I saw a man running in the distance, but no details. Tell me, did you know your killer?”
“No, I’d never seen him before. He was just some…some vagrant, I suppose. If I am truly dead, which I must accept, then nothing can be done, right?” I wanted to cry but strangely no tears came. Another thing I had lost.
“The earthly world will care and seek justice, but it is not your concern any longer, no.”
“What is there to even care about now?” I had believed that dead was dead; there was nothing else. It was going to take me awhile to catch up to my reality.
Xun stood up and pulled my hand to help me stand too. I realised I felt no pain. No clear emotion at all.
“Oh, we have something very important to do now. Come on.” He walked fast and I quickened my steps to keep up. The street looked exactly the same as I knew it, but there was not a single soul around.
“Where are the other people?” I asked. The shops didn’t look abandoned, but they were all closed, the shades drawn on some. “Where are we going?”
“There’s no one else here. Just us two now. And, we’re going home.”
“Home?” I was so confused.
“I’ll take you to Mother and Father, so you can say goodbye, but then we must get to work.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Figuring out how to get out of this place.”
There was already a gathering of neighbors at our front stoop when we approached the house.
“Don’t worry, they can’t see us. Well, most of them can’t,” Xun said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Some can?” I asked incredulously.
“Some of the old ones. Those who have lost many loved ones and are close to their time.”
I did notice one old woman, Mrs. Han, squinting our way. But we were still across the street and partly obscured by a birch tree. At ninety-four years old, I’d be surprised if she could see a living person from the same distance.
“Come on.” Xun took my hand and pulled me up into the air. With no effort at all, we leaped over the street, vehicles, and the humming crowd surrounding my family’s home. I braced to land my feet on the roof but we dropped right through, like a child’s hand dipping into water.
My parent’s knelt on the hardwood floor on either side of my dead body. Our local priest was administering last prayers from his place above my head. They had dressed me in a clean robe and my hair looked like it had been brushed with my mother’s loving hand one hundred times or more to make it shine. I looked down then and saw my bloody dress change to match the robe on my physical body.
They both cried hard; their tears dripping onto the worn silk of the robe and leaving moon-shaped stains on the front. I broke down too, sinking to my knees, but not feeling the coldness of the boards as my parent’s would be. Xun joined me and put an arm around my shoulder but his face did not change from its earlier stillness. He had been dead long enough to detach, I presumed.
“Can I just go back?” I asked. A ridiculous question, but my body was right there and I couldn’t have been out of it more than a few hours at most.
“No,” Xun said a little sternly. “You must say goodbye to them all, and your life. Now.”
“Wait. Grandmother isn’t here. Where is she?” Panicked, I jumped up and hurried to the main room.
Xun was already there, having gone through the dividing wall. I would learn these things.
Grandmother knelt in front of Xun’s altar and was talking to him quietly.
“Now you’ll have your sister to take care of. You won’t be alone,” she whispered. “But it is not enough. No, it is not. A brother and sister are not a family, and should not be together for eternity. A soul mate is necessary, for each of you now. I have said this all along, Xun. I’m sorry my words were not given weight by your father.”
“What is she prattling on about?” Xun asked, clearly bored.
“Oh, no. Since your death, she and Mother have schemed to find you a ghost bride, but Father eventually put his foot down about it. They had my college fees to pay; a burden on Father’s meager income as it is.”
Xun paced the room, looking at the photographs and ink paintings on the walls.
“I haven’t been here for some time. I had forgotten hearing them discuss it.” He pointed to a painting of a yellow sunbird. “You did this one, didn’t you? It’s still so vibrant.”
“Yes, I did. In junior high school. I haven’t had the time to paint at all since I started medical college.”
“You should have married when you had the chance. Then you could have been an artist, or a teacher as you had wished.”
“When you died, they offered the funds to me. It was a rare chance for a woman in this town to have a higher education. I could not say no. Especially after you were gone,” I said these things that had been tightly locked away in my heart.
Xun didn’t look at me, but kept scanning the items decorating the walls. I watched Grandmother pour two cups of green tea and place them on the altar–one for me and one for Xun. I had seen her do this offering a hundred times, likely more, but the odd thing was that I did feel somewhat warmer in those next few minutes. Whether it was a real connection, or just my lingering human desire for physical comfort, I couldn’t say for sure.
“If I hadn’t died. Would you have married then?” Xun asked.
“Perhaps.” The truth was I had never been in love. I had had the odd boyfriend since my seventeenth year, but my heart had never bloomed. I had always preferred my books and studies; the solitude of my own thoughts and dreams were all that mattered.
“I had planned to marry Su Wing, did you know that?” He asked me wistfully. As if it had been important once, but was now merely a recalled moment in time.
I was surprised by this news. My brother had been a known womanizer of sorts about the village, and we had not taken any of his romances seriously. Su Wing was a beautiful girl though, a year older than me at school.
“I didn’t know,” I answered. “She married last spring. To an official in Deng Feng.”
“I watched the wedding,” Xun replied.
“It was a ridiculous show. Clearly she was unhappy with the union,” I said, hoping to show some sympathy to any pain he felt.
“Yes, I agree. Let’s get away from here. I should teach you how to move through the two planes freely, and other such things. Unless you want to witness your own funeral days?” Xun asked.
I shook my head.
“Not at all.” I had no wish to see my family’s pain at losing both their children.
“Good. Take my hand.” We flew straight up through the ceiling and arrived in an open parkland that I didn’t recognise.
“Is this in the real world?” I asked.
“No, it is on the spirit plane. You’ll get used to the subtle differences in color and depth of vision here.”
“It’s beautiful, but I can’t stand that there are no people. No children or animals playing. Are we truly cut off from other people and spirits?”
“Occasionally, someone I knew in my life passes through here. I have a chance to say something if I wish. This park is the crossover point, so it’s a good place to wait.”
“Wait for what?” I asked.
Xun looked over to the far trees.
“Just to wait. To pass time until someone comes for us.”
“It seems so pointless,” I offered.
“Everything that happens here is significant, but there is a lack of the sorts of pointless, everyday things in real life that shows you clearly what is truly important.” Xun tried to explain. “Time is no longer real, so there is no need to feel that you have to fill it. You can simply…wait. For the next significant moment.” He smiled then, like it was a joy to experience this nothingness. It still made no sense to me, but I smiled back.
“I’ll try to relax then. But I can’t help but wonder what happens when our parents marry us off to other ghosts. You know I never believed any of this existed, so it’s hard to swallow just now.”
“Don’t worry. It’s a good thing if they do marry us, something significant will happen and we can both move on to the next place.”
“Do you know what happens next?” I asked.
“No, but surely it is good? We may be reborn on earth straight away, or perhaps we’ll be needed for a quest of some sort.”
This sounded ludicrous, and more like the brother I had grown up with. The truth was, he was lazy, an under-achiever who thought the world owed him for everything, yet he never lifted a finger for anyone else. The idea of the gods needing him for an important mission almost made me burst with laughter.
Xun kept me occupied during the time of my funeral. The season changed from autumn to winter in the real world, but the plane we now resided on did not change at all. I grew accustomed to my weightlessness, and learned such tricks as passing through objects and moving like the wind. The idea of existing for no purpose began to settle with me.
Then, something did change. The significant event Xun had insisted we wait for. As we took our regular stroll through the enormous parkland one day, two spirits appeared in the distance, from nowhere.
“Are they ghosts, like us?” I whispered unnecessarily to Xun.
“Most certainly.” Xun beamed from ear to ear.
“Who are they?” I asked. It was my first encounter with other spirits since I had arrived here. My curiosity was high to say the least.
“I believe I know, but let’s make sure and ask,” he told me.
“Very well.” I walked by Xun’s side towards the strangers.
The four of us met in the middle of the square and there was silence as we all appraised each other. The strangers were a man and woman; the man, tall and distinguished, perhaps in his mid-thirties. The woman was tiny, but with a delicate beauty. Her eyes suggested she was not as meek as the rest of her appearance implied.
The man gave my brother only the slightest inspection before turning to me and smiling warmly.
“I am Ma Sheng Li. Are you Ho Ming Yue?”
“Yes,” I replied, surprised he knew my name. “This is my brother, Xun. How do you know me?”
“I hope it is joyous news, Ming Yue, that our parents have wed us this day.” Sheng Li bowed to me, but I caught the slight blush to his cheeks.
“I..I..excuse me?” I didn’t know how to respond.
Xun spoke on my behalf.
“Of course, my sister is filled with happiness at this news. As her brother, I welcome you to take her as your bride in Heaven.” Xun bowed to his new brother-in-law. “And you, beautiful flower? Are you to be my wife?” He asked the woman. The hope in Xun’s voice was clear to all.
“Yes. My name is Li Xiao Hong.” She bowed to Xun and then looked to me. “Big sister, it is my pleasure to serve you.”
“Ah, thank you. But such formalities are surely not necessary here?” I asked, looking at all three faces.
“Certainly not,” Xun agreed. “Now that we have been properly partnered, I hope we’ll be leaving this plane imminently.”
“Perhaps, then, we could take our new brides for a walk, Xun? To get acquainted.”
“Excellent idea.” Xun held his arm out to Xiao Hong. “Please, let us walk the square together as a couple.”
I’d never seen Xun so gracious with a woman, but he had been alone for a long time.
“Your brother seems very pleased with his match,” Sheng Li observed.
“Yes, you’re right. He has been here alone for two years, praying for a bride.” The guilt hit me then, that it was my fault he had been stuck here. “I should have supported my parent’s wish to find him a ghost-bride. I didn’t believe it, you see,” I confided in this stranger, just because it was someone to talk to besides Xun.
“Don’t blame yourself. I see you are an educated woman, and that leads me to believe you took your brother’s place at college after his death?”
“That is true. How intelligent you are,” I said without thinking.
Sheng Li laughed. “I have no doubt you are too. But, I’m afraid I have some prior knowledge of your situation. In fact, I was a professor of science at your university, and alas, a witness to your murder.”
I gasped in surprise.
“You saw what happened?”
“No, I was some distance away and only saw you slump to the ground. I rushed to your aid, but there was nothing I could do.” He hung his head as if in shame. “I learned your name and some details the following day.”
“Oh, so that means you…haven’t been here long?” I asked gently.
“No, my death was sudden, and my service was held only a week after yours.”
“How terrible! How did you…”
“Food poisoning. I have a weakness for raw fish, despite the risks from eating it.” He smiled as if he accepted his own mistake easily.
“Well, what a coincidence that our parents married us together. Perhaps the college connection impressed them?”
Sheng Li looked a little sheepish.
“I must admit, it is no coincidence. My mother has a strong connection to the higher spirits and I was able to speak with her, and request the marriage be arranged for us immediately.”
“You did that? Why?”
“I wished to take care of you, and see that you moved on quickly. Your death was most heinous and unjust. Had I not died myself, I would have fought to identify your murderer and see him punished.”
I took Sheng Li’s hand lightly, and looked him in the eye.
“What a selfless thought, indeed. I am nothing but grateful for such kindness from you,” I said, tearing up. Strange, I had thought my human emotions had left me.
All through winter, I observed Xun and his new bride falling in love with each other. At first, the guilt I felt at blocking his death-marriage had hardened my soul, but Sheng Li’s company and words of wisdom gradually lightened my heart. Xun too, held no resentment towards me, especially considering how happy he was with Xiao Hong. In his mind, she had been worth waiting for.
One day, as the first signs of spring poked through the earth, Sheng Li and I visited the university for what turned out to be our final day of crossing planes. I looked up at him as he wrapped his long arms fully around me and he recited a poem he was particularly fond of.
“I love you,” I said, for the first time. I knew he had loved me for some time, since the day we went ice-skating together, but he had been patient and not forced my feelings. He had accepted his death much sooner than I, and understood my need for extra time.
“And I love you, my flower.” He kissed the tip of my nose and I let myself imagine what his warm breath might have felt like if we were both alive.
I had closed my eyes then, and when I opened them, we were no longer in the university garden nor in the parkland.
“Where is this place?” It was pretty enough, with a soft, flowering grass underfoot, but a low mist shielded any other sights from view.
“I don’t know, but I have a good feeling.” Sheng Li was positive about everything. I could love him for that alone.
The mist parted, forming a walkway ahead of us.
“Are we going to Heaven now?” I asked in awe.
Sheng Li looped his arm through mine and led me on our way. “Wherever this leads, we are together. I care for nothing else.”
I smiled and nodded my head, though I knew he was not watching my face just then.
We walked through the mist, our footsteps growing in confidence with each passing second. I waved to Xun and Xiao Hong, far ahead of us on the path, waiting.
The End
Singaporean, but with a global outlook, Joyce Chng write science fiction and fantasy, YA and urban fantasy. Her fiction has appeared in the Apex Book of World SF II, We See A Different Frontier, Visibility Fiction, Crossed Genres and Bards & Sages, to name a few. Her urban fantasy novels are written under her pseudonym, J. Damask (which she will tell you is a play on her Chinese name). The Rider trilogy, a YA SF, was published in 2013 by Math Paper Press, an imprint of Books Actually, an independent bookstore in Singapore.
She can be contacted at A Wolf’s Tale:
(http://awolfstale.wordpress.com)
David Jón Fuller studied theatre at the University of Winnipeg, and Icelandic at the University of Iceland in Reykjavík. His short fiction has appeared in Tesseracts 17, Tesseracts 18, Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction From the Margins of History, Accessing the Future, and Kneeling in the Silver Light: Stories From the Great War.
He trained in Northern Shaolin style kung-fu for two years, and more recently trained with Bissett Jiu-Jitsu for five years. He lives in Winnipeg, Canada.
Website: www.davidjonfuller.com
Twitter: @DavidJonFuller
Holly Kench is a writer and feminist, with a classics degree and a fear of spiders.
She enjoys writing a range of genres, but has a particular love of fantasy. Holly seeks stories that contemplate the world as much as books that provide escape, but doesn’t think the two are mutually exclusive. These are the sort of stories Holly tries to write. She is convinced we can change the world through popular culture.
Holly manages Visibility Fiction, a project dedicated to the promotion and publication of inclusive young adult fiction. Visibility Fiction began as a result of Holly’s desire to create a space that celebrated and facilitated the telling of stories with diverse characters. In this capacity she has had the privilege of working with both Kelly Matsuura and Joyce Chng, who have assisted her in a journey of not only editing, but also writing her own stories exploring diverse cultures.
Holly also writes about her life as a stuffed olive at:
Kelly Matsuura grew up in Australia, but has lived most of her adult life in the northern hemisphere. After a year teaching English in China, she moved to Japan where she met her husband and lived for ten years in Nagoya, Aichi Prefecture. Due to her husband’s work, she’s enjoying a few years back in a western country, living in Michigan, USA.
Kelly has published numerous short stories online, in group anthologies, and in two self-published anthologies. She enjoys writing in various genres: fantasy, literature, young adult, and romance.
She majored in Asian Studies and Japanese at university, and currently studies Chinese, German, French and Spanish purely for interest.
As the creator and editor for The Insignia Series’ anthologies, she hopes to use her knowledge of Asian languages and culture to assist the other authors produce great stories and to share the group’s work with a new audience.
Kelly’s website:
www.blackwingsandwhitepaper.com
Thank you so much for reading Insignia Vol.2: Chinese Fantasy Stories! We hoped you enjoyed the diversity of work in this collection.
The Insignia Series blog is a great place to get in touch with the authors, find links to more Asian fantasy stories online, and follow updates about future anthologies.
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