The Ghost Bride (22 page)

His left arm, resting on his knee, almost encircled
me—and I felt his muscles flex, then tense, as though he was anticipating
something. I tried not to think of how close he was, but could only hear the
distracting rhythm of my own pulse. A burning flush crept up my neck. Afraid
that Er Lang would notice, I stiffened, but he paid no attention to me, other
than to tighten his grip on my shoulder warningly.

The feet of the puppet gardeners drew ever closer
until I realized with dread that they meant to prune the very hedge that we were
hiding in. At the last moment, Er Lang rose abruptly. He waded out of the bushes
and began to busy himself with the greenery, rocking his heels in imitation of
their movements. His large bamboo hat was not quite like their pointed coolie
hats, but I hoped desperately that such details wouldn’t matter to them. They
stopped and huddled together, then to my great relief, moved on to another stand
of trees.

It was some time before he motioned for me to come
out, and when I did so, I couldn’t help glancing around nervously. The gardeners
were now mere specks in the distance.

“Do they work at night as well?” I asked, looking
at the dusky pall that still thankfully covered the sky.

“It will be morning soon,” said Er Lang. “But they
seem to go around at all hours. You look dreadful, by the way,” he remarked
conversationally.

I glared at him, conscious of the way my hair had
straggled out of its plaits, the dirt that encrusted my clothing, not to mention
the tear stains on my grimy face. “Why does it matter?”

“Well, if you were caught spying on Master Awyoung,
it would help to look a little more alluring.”

“Are you planning for me to be interrogated by him
as well?”

“It might be quite useful.”

“I hate you,” I said before I could stop
myself.

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Most women say they
love me.”

I turned away to hide my irritation. Er Lang’s
high-handedness and egotism constantly amazed me, despite any gratitude that I
ought to have felt for his rescue of me. But then he was the one who had
instructed me to come here in the first place, I thought angrily, conveniently
forgetting that I had had no other options at the time. Before, I had speculated
whether Er Lang was hiding the head of a cold-blooded fish beneath his
impenetrable hat brim, but now I decided that he must be the Pig Marshal—a
monstrous hog who was the companion to the Monkey King of Chinese mythology.
Formerly a marshal of the Heavenly Hosts, he had accidentally been reborn into a
sow’s litter, and spent most of the time chasing women in the mistaken belief
that he was irresistible. That, I thought sourly, was probably Er Lang’s true
form.

“Of course, I would endeavor to rescue you,” said
Er Lang, rather pompously, I thought. “I wouldn’t leave you here.”

“Wasn’t that what you were just planning to do?” I
asked.

“You’ll have to trust me. Besides, I don’t see that
you have many other options. If you don’t find a way to rejoin your body soon,
you might lose it forever.”

“How many days has it been in the real world since
I left?” I asked, suddenly anxious.

He paused. “Almost three weeks.”

“But I thought you said time tended to run faster
in the Plains of the Dead than in the world of the living!”

“That doesn’t mean it always does. If we’re lucky,
it might reverse itself and run slower.”

Fear closed my throat. “How much time do you think
I have left?”

“At best, a few weeks.”

“And worst case?”

“The deterioration in fit between your spirit and
body might have already begun.”

I
’m
sorry,” said Er Lang after a long and awkward silence.

I felt like crying but there was no help for it.
Tears would do me no good, even if I withered away into a wraith. “Very well,” I
said with forced cheer. “I’ll go and find Master Awyoung.”

“He must have a powerful sponsor in the Courts of
Hell if he’s organizing a rebellion. Try to find out who is pulling the strings,
although I’m afraid your disappearance from the storeroom may soon be
discovered. Which means we have very little time.”

That reminded me. “I was supposed to meet Fan
tomorrow. She said she would show me the way back—or can I go with you?”

“Out of the question. The way that I took to enter
this world is not one that you can follow.” Er Lang shook his head decisively,
making the broad-brimmed hat wobble. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him
why he wore it, but I thought again about what sort of monstrosity it might
conceal and bit back the question.

P
rogress back toward the mansion was slow. Er Lang moved quietly,
pausing to freeze into the shadows or against walls. I had merely to follow his
lead as we made a series of hurried sorties, always keeping a lookout for the
ever-present household staff. The whole place was burdened with an outdated
Chinese ambience that I barely saw in Malaya. I wondered what the afterlives of
Sikhs, Tamils, Malays, and Arab traders were like. Indeed, what was the Catholic
paradise? For some reason, Tian Bai’s dream of the Portuguese girl Isabel Souza
crossed my mind. If she died, I thought, did she have to scuttle around the
grounds of a hostile mansion like this? I had my doubts.

In another time and place I would have liked to
examine a few of these designs and structures, some of which I had only seen
illustrated in books and scrolled paintings. The small pavilions, the little
crooked trees, and occasional pagodas were all strangely familiar to me. But
there was an eerie chill about the place, a deadness in the colors and the blank
light that made me feel as though I were passing through a paper landscape,
myself no more than another cutout upon a
wayang
kulit
, or shadow puppet stage. As much as I disliked the place,
however, I had to admit there was a certain thrill in sneaking around Lim Tian
Ching’s property. After all, how many times had he entered my own dreams without
permission? At last we came to a small door in a wall. Er Lang laid a hand on
the wooden surface and it gave slightly.

“Good,” he said with some satisfaction. “No one has
bolted this yet.”

“Where are we?” I whispered.

“Behind the private apartments of the family. I did
some reconnaissance yesterday and left this door open.”

I felt some shame at my earlier indignation over
his belated rescue of me.

“Beyond lays a series of small courtyards. If there
are any important guests staying with the family, they ought to be lodged
somewhere around here. I leave it up to you to find Master Awyoung’s chambers.
Do whatever you need to, but return by dusk.”

“Here?” I said.

“Do you see that pavilion in the distance?”
Turning, I could just make out a tiled roof and red-lacquered pillars. “Wait
there. If for some reason I don’t show up by next morning, I suggest that you
find your way out and contact your friend Fan.”

“And just leave you?”

“I can take care of myself,” he said. “It is you
who may have difficulties leaving the Plains of the Dead.”

He slipped through the gate like a drop of spilled
ink and vanished.

Chapter 26

I
pushed the gate open. Inside was a private courtyard; a neat yet lifeless enclosure consisting of potted plants arranged in rigid ranks. Every plant was identical, down to the number of flowers and the angle of the leaves. I couldn’t help thinking that they must have been printed on a card and burned, for the pleasure of some long-dead Lim. Three doors opened onto this space from the enclosing walls. I hesitated again, wondering which path I should take. Guessing that the plainest door might be a servant egress, I tugged on it. It opened suddenly and noiselessly into a hallway.

It was soon apparent that this was a private wing in which I had never been. The corridor was narrower, yet more sumptuous than the open passageways of the main house. There were silk hangings on the wall, and as I glanced at them I saw they were part of a private art collection. Strange beasts rolled their ink-dark eyes at me from the scrolls; and as I walked farther along, the paintings became more and more curious, some of them embarrassingly so, as they depicted couples writhing in sexual congress, women transforming into animals, and hollow-eyed ghouls gnawing on bones. I averted my eyes from the most terrifying ones, for the painted images seemed to have a life of their own.

The sound of light footsteps, tripping quickly across the cold tiled floors, reminded me of where I was and the task at hand. I searched wildly for a bolt-hole. There was a door nearby, but it was so grand and ornate that I wouldn’t have dared enter it save for the fear of discovery. I tried it and surprisingly, it swung open. Fortunately the room was empty, although it looked as though it was someone’s private quarters. I glimpsed a writing desk and, in the far corner, a traditional bedstead fashioned like a box. Books and papers lay about in disarray, but I had no time to examine my surroundings. The single large armoire that might have concealed me was locked. I tugged on it futilely, then slipped into the box bed. The brocade curtains were half drawn and I crouched behind one of these, my heart beating uncomfortably. No doubt the footsteps would pass, I told myself, but they stopped right outside the room.

“Awyoung! Master Awyoung! Where are you?”

It was my mother’s voice. To my horror, I realized that I hadn’t quite closed the room door and it swung, reproachfully, ajar. There was a moment’s hesitation, then a slim white hand, laden with heavy rings, pushed it open. Hastily, I ducked behind the bed curtains.

“Are you here?” she called out.

I could hear her walking around the room, flicking through the open books and pushing aside piles of papers. What was she looking at? And why was she here? Realizing that the slightest twitch might betray my presence, I crouched in my corner, hoping that she wouldn’t think to examine the bed. The bedstead had been built like a three-walled curtained box with low sides that one could recline against. Traditional romances often featured such beds, along with descriptions of beautiful heroines languishing helplessly within. I had never dreamed that one day I might find refuge in one of these beds, hiding in a ghost world from my dead mother as she rifled through the secrets of an unpleasant old man. I bit my cheek as inappropriate laughter threatened to choke me. What a joke! I had longed for my mother, dreamed of her, anticipated and imagined our reunion, and this was the result of it.

There were scratching noises and holding my breath, I inched my face behind the curtains until I could see. Her back was toward me but she was using a brush to write something on a scrap of paper. The scratching sound was the hasty noise of an ink stick being ground with little water on a dry ink slab. In Malaya, I had had slate pencils and even wooden graphite ones. Presumably, no one had bothered to burn any such modern replicas for the dead, as my mother was reduced to brush and ink. She was so absorbed in her task that she hardly noticed the approaching footsteps until it was almost too late. The door creaked in protest, and with a start, she pocketed whatever she had been writing and hastily shuffled the papers.

“Ah, madam! What brings you here?” It was the voice of Master Awyoung.

“You, of course.” I had to hand it to her. The woman had nerves of iron.

“What are you doing in my humble room?”

“But Master Awyoung, you have your own house. Your own mansions and villas, which make this place look quite provincial.” Her voice dropped to a purr.

“You know my stupid descendants. They would never let me carry on my research there.”

“Oh? No doubt that’s why you brought your paintings here.”

His laugh was a rattle of small stones. “You like them? I instructed my grandson to burn my entire collection after my death so that I could receive them here. They cost a lot, too! My son was against it—wanted to sell them off, but my grandson complied.
Hmph!
It was worth it to indulge that boy while I was alive. But what are you here for? Surely not to admire my paintings?”

“I was examining them in the hallway when I noticed that your door was ajar.”

“You’re too kind. What can I do for you?”

Her tone changed. “Has my husband’s good-for-nothing grandnephew accomplished anything?”

“Lim Tian Ching? I thought you would know more about the matter than me.”

“He doesn’t trust me. But I know what you’ve been up to. Flattering and cultivating that young fool.” Though her words were harsh, the cadence of her voice was strangely seductive. I wriggled uncomfortably in my hiding place, my ears tingling.

“As long as he remains a fool, it suits my purpose. Otherwise he wouldn’t dare relay such treasonous messages and packages.”

She laughed, a high tinkling sound that was surprisingly youthful. I hadn’t thought it possible to dislike my mother any further, but her laughter made me grit my teeth. “Remind me never to underestimate you.”

Master Awyoung said, “As soon as he died, I knew I had my tool. Do you know how many years I’ve been waiting for such a courier to come by? Lim Tian Ching has just the right connections for this task. A rich family, a doting mother in the world of the living, and too much self-absorption to blind him to all but his own concerns.”

“And what do you get out of this?” I heard a strange rustling sound.

“What do you think? Having my stay in the Plains of the Dead extended indefinitely.”

“But you complain so much about it.” The slippery sound of satin again.

“That is only more of my cleverness.” He gave a grunt and made a horrible slurping noise. I peered through my inadequate peephole and blushed furiously. From what I could see, the wretched old man was pawing my mother, and she, shameless creature that she was, had already slid one alabaster shoulder out of her gown. I turned away, my cheeks flaming. How could she! They were each as dreadful as the other. Another, more pressing thought struck me, however. Sooner or later they might move to the bed and my hiding place would be discovered. Panicked, I glanced around. There was a small space between the bed and the wall, so unbearably narrow that I got stuck halfway. The heavy brocade curtains twitched, as though tugged by an unseen hand. In a frenzy of fear, I forced myself through. No sooner had I managed to slide down behind the back of the bed and onto the floor when there was a loud thump and a squeal of laughter. Master Awyoung and my mother had thrown themselves upon the bed.

For several minutes I lay there, my face pressed against the cold stone floor like a gecko, listening to the sounds above me. There was no bed skirt hiding the space beneath the bed and if anyone entered the room, I could easily be seen. I was wriggling my way forward when I heard my mother speak again.

“I really shouldn’t be here at all.” She pouted.

“Nobody will find out.” He sounded muffled. “I love calling you ‘madam’ and the icy look in your eyes.”

“If my husband should ever suspect!”

“You know he’s not really your husband.”

“How dare you say that!” There was a rustling sound, as though she had gathered her garments together.

“Come, come. There’s no need to pretend with me. You know as well as I do that you were never formally married to him. The title Second Wife is merely a courtesy. You just showed up one day, looking so beautiful that he couldn’t resist you.
I
can’t resist you myself, even though you probably plan to discard me.”

My mother laughed uncomfortably. “As long as you treat me well, I shall always be with you.”

“Well, how does another hundred years of happiness sound to you?”

“Really?” she cooed. “Tell me, who’s really behind all these secret meetings and money transfers? It’s one of the Nine Judges of Hell, isn’t it?”

He sat up suddenly. “Who told you that?”

“Am I right?”

Master Awyoung was silent for a while, then he began to laugh. It was a dry, malicious cackle. “My dear, dear madam. If heaven should get wind that you know even this much, your existence would be as brief as a candle flame on a stormy night.”

She shrugged him off. “As long as I’m with you I know I’ll be all right. Now, what would you like me to do?”

“Well, I was thinking about the girl.”

“Girl? You mean the servant we locked up?”

I had begun to creep toward the front of the bed, but froze at this change in subject.

“Pretty, wasn’t she?”

“Are you still thinking about her? Personally, I didn’t find her very appealing.”

“That’s too bad. I would have liked to see the two of you together.”

She snorted. “In your bed, no doubt.”

The frost in her voice was enough to chill the atmosphere, but Master Awyoung only laughed. “Ah, that’s why I have such a soft spot for you. You’re the only one who dares tell me off. Come now, don’t be so angry.” With these and other endearments he was able to entice her back into the bed, causing me to heave a sigh of relief. I had been terrified that she would see me if she stood up to leave.

Glancing up, I was encouraged by the sight of the drawn bed curtains. No doubt they wished to shield themselves from prying eyes, but it was to my advantage as well. Silently, I began to creep across the floor, expecting to hear a cry of discovery at any moment. The heavy armoire was placed such that the view of the door was obscured, and this was my goal. Pulse racing, I set off in an ungainly scramble and miraculously reached it. The door now stood directly in front of me, but I was faced with a dilemma. Since the armoire only partially blocked it, any movement of the door could be seen from the bed. If only the door were still ajar! But it was firmly shut. My hand crept toward it and pushed the latch down. It made a loud clack.

“What was that?” It was my mother’s voice.

I heard the bed curtains pulled back and then Master Awyoung said, “There’s nothing. See for yourself.” While I was steeling myself for a quick dash, I heard him chastising her. “You’re too jumpy. Nobody ever comes to my apartments.”

“What if Lim Tian Ching discovers what he’s actually doing?” she said urgently.

“Nonsense! He’s so consumed by his own grievances that the thought has never crossed his mind. He wants to drag down his cousin and marry some girl. Ridiculous demands!”

“You’re sure of this?”

“My dear, why do you bother yourself with such details? Or are you planning to sell me out?”

S
he had just begun to protest when there was a rap on the door. I froze, as did the couple on the bed. There was no escape this time.

“Who is it?” hissed my mother.

“Ah, I forgot. A servant with a message.”

“Why didn’t you ensure there were no interruptions?”

“But how was I to know that you would be here today?” he said. “Never mind. Keep the curtains drawn.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Who is it?”

The door opened and directly in front of me stood Auntie Three. Her eyes widened when she saw me, but her face remained impassive.

“Master Awyoung, the messenger delivered something to you.”

“I’m taking a nap,” he said. “Just put it on the writing desk.”

Auntie Three walked around me and past the armoire, as though I did not exist. She put a small package on the writing desk and looked inquiringly toward the box bed with its drawn curtains. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“No. Don’t disturb me anymore.”

“Very well, sir.”

As she walked back toward the door, she paused and gestured quickly with her hand. I suddenly understood that by standing there, she blocked the view of the door from the bed, allowing me to escape. Once we were in the corridor, she seized me by the wrist. “Quick!” she whispered.

She led me swiftly down the winding corridor. Mortified at what she must think of me, I started to stammer out an explanation, but she put her finger to her lips. I followed her, feeling as though we were mice creeping past the lair of a
musang
, or civet cat. The Malays like to tame them for they are supposed to be ferocious mousers. I had always wanted one, but had only seen them, stiff and cold, their beautiful fur bristling, brought to market by hunters who sold them for medicinal soups. What would it be like to be so tiny and snapped up by such wicked jaws? Those of an ox-headed demon were large enough to sever my head with a single bite. I shuddered and Auntie Three turned to look at me.

“We’ll rest for a moment,” she said.

She pushed open a door to a storeroom filled with stacks of stiffly folded funeral clothes. A pyramid of antiquated embroidered shoes rose in one corner, looking for all the world like a heap of discarded hooves. Closing the door behind her, she asked, “What happened to you?”

I told her how Master Awyoung had locked me up for interrogation.

“I heard about that from the steward,” she said. “I went to look for you this morning but there was a guard at the door, so I didn’t dare approach it. How did you get out?”

Deciding it would be better not to mention Er Lang, I mumbled something about climbing out of the window.

“The window! That was clever of you.” She looked at me with a curious sort of pride. “But what do they want with you anyway?”

It was too difficult to prevaricate further, so I gave her the bare bones of my story; how I was almost dead, or dying in the world of the living, and had come here because Lim Tian Ching was haunting me.