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As I said, it was unbearably hot that year during Catching Cool Breezes. We sweltered inthe upstairs chamber. Downstairs was only slightly better. We drank tea, hoping it wouldrefresh our bodies, but even in our lightest summer jackets and trousers we suffered. Sowe talked often about cool memories from our childhoods. I spoke of putting my feet inthe river. Beautiful Moon remembered running through the fields during late autumnwhen the air was crisp against her cheeks. Snow Flower had once traveled north with herfather and had experienced the frigid wind that blew in from Mongolia. These things didnot soothe us. They were a torment.

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Baba and Uncle took pity on us. They knew more than we did how cruel the weather was.They worked in it every day under the brutal sun. But we were poor. We didn’t have aninner courtyard to lounge in, or land where we could be carried by bearers to sit underthe shade of a tree, or any place where we would be completely shielded from the eyes ofstrangers. Instead, Baba took some of Mama’s cloth and with Uncle’s help strung a canopyfor us on the north side of the house. Then they laid some padded winter quilts on theground so we might have something soft to sit on.

“The men are in the fields during the day,” Baba said. “They will not see you. Until theweather changes, you girls may do your work here. Just don’t tell your mothers.”

Beautiful Moon was accustomed to walking to her sworn sisters’ houses for embroiderysessions and the like, but I had not been outdoors in Puwei like this since my milk years.Sure, I had stepped from our threshold into Madame Wang’s palanquin and had pickedvegetables in our home garden. But beyond that, I was allowed only to look down fromthe lattice window to the alley that passed by our house. I had not felt the rhythm of thevillage for too long.

We were gloriously happy—still hot, but happy. As we sat in the shade, actually catchinga cool breeze as the festival promised, we embroidered the tops of shoes or did finalconstruction. Beautiful Moon’s stitches were concentrated on her red wedding slippers,the most precious of all shoes. Pink and white lotus flowers bloomed, symbolizing herurity and fruitfulness. Snow Flower had just finished a pair in sky-blue silk with a cloudp

ppattern for her mother-in-law, and they sat next to us on the quilt looking dainty andelegant, a gentle reminder of the high-quality work we should insist on for all ourprojects. They filled me with happiness, bringing to mind the jacket that Snow Flower hadworn on the first day we’d met. But nostalgic thoughts didn’t seem to interest SnowFlower; she had simply moved on to a pair for herself, which employed purple silktrimmed with white. When the characters for purple and white were written togetherthey meant a lot of children. As was so common with Snow Flower, her embroideryembellishments called upon the sky for inspiration. This time birds and other flyingcreatures twisted and soared on the tiny swatches. Meanwhile, I was finishing a pair ofshoes for my mother-in-law. Her shoe size was slightly larger than my own, and it filledme with pride to know that, based solely on my feet, she would have to consider meworthy of her son. I had not yet met my mother-in-law, so I did not know her likes anddislikes, but during the heat of those days I thought of nothing but coolness. My designwrapped around the shoe, creating a landscape of women taking their ease under willowtrees beside a stream. It was a fantasy, but no more so than the mythical birds thatadorned Snow Flower’s shoes.

We made a pretty picture sitting there on those quilts with our legs tucked under us justso: three young maidens, all betrothed to good families, cheerfully working on ourdowries, showing our good manners to those who visited. Small boys stopped to talk tous as they set out to collect firewood or took the family water buffalo to the river. Little第 62 页 共 189 页

girls in charge of their siblings let us hold their baby brothers or sisters. We imaginedwhat it would be like to care for babies of our own. Old widows, whose status and comportment were secure, swayed up to us to gossip, examine our embroidery, and remark on our pale skin.

On the fifth day, Madame Gao paid a visit. She had just returned from Getan Village, where she was negotiating a match. While she was there, she had delivered a set of letters from us to Elder Sister and had picked up a letter from Elder Sister to us. None of us likedMadame Gao, but we had been raised to respect our elders. We offered tea, but shedeclined. Since there was no money to be made from us, she handed the letter to me andgot back into her palanquin. We watched until it turned the corner; then I used my embroidery needle to slice open the rice-paste seal. Because of what happened later thatday, and because Elder Sister used so many standard nu shu phrases, I think I can reconstruct most of what she wrote: Family, Today I pick up a brush, and my heart flies away home. To my family I write—regards to dear parents, aunt, and uncle. When I thinkof past days, my tears cannot stop falling down. I still feel sad to have left home.

My stomach is big with baby and I am so hot in this weather. My in-laws are spiteful.

I do all the household work.

In this heat it is impossible to please.

Sister, cousin, take care of Mama and Baba.

We women can only hope that our parents will live many years.

That way we will have a place to return for festivals.

In our natal home, we will always have people who treasure us.

Please be good to our parents.

Your daughter, sister, and cousin I finished reading the letter and closed my eyes. I was thinking, So many tears for Elder Sister, so much joy for me. I was grateful that we followed the custom of not falling into your husband’s house until just before the birth ofyour first child. I still had two years before my marriage and possibly three years after that before I joined my in-laws permanently. I was interrupted from these thoughts bysomething that sounded like a sob. I opened my eyes and looked at Snow Flower. Apuzzled expression spread across her face as she stared at something to her right. Ifollowed her gaze to Beautiful Moon, who was brushing at her neck and taking greatbreaths.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Beautiful Moon’s chest heaved with the effort of drawing in air—uuuu, uuuu, uuuu—

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sounds I will never forget.

She looked at me with her lovely eyes. Her hand stopped brushing and clasped the side ofher neck. She did not try to stand. She sat with her legs tucked under her, still looking likea young lady sitting in the shade of a hot afternoon, her needlework in her lap, but I couldsee that beneath her hand her neck had begun to swell.

“Snow Flower, find help,” I said urgently. “Get Baba, get Uncle. Quick!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Snow Flower try as best she could to run on her tinyfeet. Her voice—unused to being raised—came out unsteady and high-pitched. “Help!Help!”

I crawled across the quilt to Beautiful Moon’s side. I saw on her embroidery a bee struggling for life. The stinger had to be in my cousin’s neck. I took her other hand and held it in my own. Her mouth opened. Inside, her tongue was growing, engorging.

“What can I do?” I asked. “Do you want me to try to get the stinger out?” We both knew itwas already too late for that.

“Do you want water?” I asked.

Beautiful Moon couldn’t answer. She breathed only through her nostrils now, and eachbreath was more of an effort.

Somewhere in the village I heard Snow Flower. “Baba! Uncle! Elder Brother! Anyone!Help us!”

Those same children who had visited us the last few days gathered around our quilt, theirmouths agape as they watched Beautiful Moon’s neck, tongue, eyelids, and hands swell.Her skin went from the paleness of the moon she was named for to pink, to red, to purple,to blue. She looked like a creature from a ghost story. A few of Puwei’s widows arrived.They shook their heads sympathetically.

Beautiful Moon’s eyes locked with mine. Her hand had blown up so much that her fingers were like sausages in my palm, the skin so shiny and taut it looked ready to split. I cradledthe monstrous paw in my hand. “Beautiful Moon, listen to me,” I pleaded. “Your baba iscoming. Wait for him. He loves you so much. We all love you, Beautiful Moon. Do you hear me?”

The old women began to cry. The children hung on to each other. Village life was hard.Who among us had not seen death? But it was rare to see such bravery, such stillness,such beauty of purpose in the final moments. “You have been a good cousin,” I said. “Ihave always loved you. I will honor you forever.”

Beautiful Moon took another breath. This one sounded like a creaking hinge. It was slow.Almost no air could enter her body.

“Beautiful Moon, Beautiful Moon . . .”

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The horrible sound ended. Her eyes were just slits in a face cruelly distorted, but shelooked at me with full understanding. She had heard every word I’d said. In the lastmoment of her life—when no air could enter her body and no air could go out—I felt asthough she passed on to me many messages. Tell Mama I love her. Tell Baba I love him.Tell your parents I am grateful for all they have done for me. Don’t let the men suffer forme. Then her head tipped forward onto her chest.

No one moved. Everythi was as still as the panorama I had embroidered on my shoes.Only the sound of weeping

ngng and sniffing would have told anyone that something waswrong.

Uncle ran into the alley and pushed through the people to the quilt where Beautiful Moonand I sat. She was so peaceful in her bearing, it gave him hope. But my face and thosearound us told him otherwise. A horrible cry tore out of him as he sank to his knees.When he saw the condition of Beautiful Moon’s face, another dreadful howl. Some of thesmaller children ran away. Uncle was so sweaty from working in the fields and thenrunning back to us I could smell him. Tears poured from his eyes, then dripped from hisnose, cheeks, and jaw and disappeared into the wetness of his sweaty tunic.

Baba arrived and knelt beside me. A few seconds later, Elder Brother broke through thecrowd, panting, Snow Flower on his back.

Uncle kept talking to Beautiful Moon. “Wake up, little one. Wake up. I will get your mama.She needs you. Wake up. Wake up.”

His brother, my father, gripped his arm. “No use.”

Uncle had a posture eerily similar to Beautiful Moon’s, his head tucked down, his legsunder him, his hands in his lap—all the same except for the sorrow that dripped from hiseyes and the uncontrollable grief that wracked his body.

Baba asked, “Do you want to take her or shall I?”

Uncle shook his head. Wordlessly, he pulled a leg out from under him and planted it onthe ground to steady himself; then he lifted Beautiful Moon and carried her into thehouse. None of us was functioning clearly. Only Snow Flower acted, moving swiftly to thetable in the main room and removing the teacups we had set there for the men when theycame back from the fields. Uncle laid out Beautiful Moon. Now the others could see howthe bee venom had ravaged her face and body. In my mind I kept thinking: It was only fiveminutes, no more.

Again, Snow Flower took control. “Excuse me, but you need to get the others.”

Realizing this meant that Aunt would have to be told about Beautiful Moon’s death,Uncle’s sobs grew dee er. I could barely think about Aunt myself. Beautiful Moon hadbeen her one true happ

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that I hadn’t yet had a chance to feel anything. Now my legs lost their strength and tearswelled in my eyes in sorrow for my sweet cousin and in pity for my aunt and uncle. SnowFlower wrapped an arm around me and guided me to a chair, giving instructions all thewhile.

“Elder Brother, run to your aunt’s natal village,” she directed. “I have some cash. Use it tohire a palanquin for her. Then run to our mother’s natal village. Bring her back. You willhave to carry her like you did me. May

yybe Second Brother can help you. But hurry. Youraunt will need her.” Then we waited. Uncle sat on a stool by the table and wept so hardinto Beautiful Moon’s tunic that stains spread across the fabric like rain clouds. Baba triedto comfort Uncle, but what was the use? He could not be comforted. Anyone who tells youthat the Yao people never care for their daughters is lying. We may be worthless. We maybe raised for another family. But often we are loved and cherished, despite our natalfamilies’ best efforts not to have feelings for us. Why else in our secret writing do you seephrases like “I was a pearl in my father’s palm” so frequently? Maybe as parents we trynot to care. I tried not to care about my daughter, but what could I do? She nursed at mybreast like my sons had, she cried her tears in my lap, and she honored me by becoming agood and talented woman fluent in nu shu. Uncle’s pearl was gone from him forever.

I stared at Beautiful Moon’s face, remembering how close we had been. We had had ourfeet bound at the same time. We had been betrothed to the same village. Our lives hadbeen inexorably linked, and now we were cut from each other forever.

Around us, Snow Flower busied herself. She made tea, which no one drank. She wentthrough the house, looking for white mourning clothes, and set them out for us. She stoodat the door, greeting those who had heard the news. Madame Wang arrived in herpalanquin and Snow Flower let her in. I might have expected Madame Wang to complainabout the loss of her matchmaking payment. Instead, she asked how she could help.Beautiful Moon’s future had been in her hands and she felt obliged to see her through thisfinal passage. But her hand shot up to her mouth when she saw Beautiful Moon’sdistorted face and those frightening monster fingers. And it was so hot. We had no placecool to put her. Things would begin to happen very quickly now to Beautiful Moon.

“How much longer until the mother arrives?” Madame Wang asked. We did not know.

“Snow Flower, wrap the girl’s face in muslin, then dress her in her eternity clothes. Dothis now. No mother should see her daughter this way.” Snow Flower turned to goupstairs, but Madame Wang grabbed her sleeve. “I will go to Tongkou and bring yourmourning clothes. Do not leave this house until I tell you.” She released Snow Flower,took one last look at Beautiful Moon, and slipped out the door.

By the time Aunt arrived, Baba, Uncle, my brothers, and I were dressed in plain sackcloth.Beautiful Moon’s body had been completely shrouded in muslin, then attired in theclothes for her journey to the afterworld. So many tears in the house that day, but none ofthem came from Aunt. She swayed in on her lily feet and went straight to her daughter’s第 66 页 共 189 页

body. She smoothed the clothes and then placed her hand over what had been her daughter’s heart. She stood that way for hours.

Aunt did everything properly for the funeral. She went to the burial on her knees. Sheburned paper money and clothes at the site for Beautiful Moon to use in the afterworld.She gathered together all of Beautiful Moon’s secret writing and burned that too.Afterward, she created a little altar in our house where she made offerings every day. Shedid not cry in our presence, but I will never forget the sounds that emanated through our house at night when Aunt went to bed. She moaned from some deep, deep part of her soul. None of us could sleep. None of us were any solace. In fact, my brothers and I triedour best to be as quiet—invisible—as possible, knowing that our voices and faces were only bitter reminders of what she had lost. In the mornings, after the men had gone out tothe fields, Aunt retreated to her room and wouldn’t come out. She lay on her side, her face to the wall, refusing to eat anything more than the bowl of rice that Mama brought her,quiet all day until night enveloped us and that frightening moaning began again.