(2001) The Bonesetter's Daughter (29 page)

“Why do you say that?” Father asked.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” the old man insisted. “I feel you’ve had a lot of bad luck and there’s no other reason for it. Am I right?”

“We had a suicide,” Father admitted, “a nursemaid whose daughter was about to be married.”

“And bad luck followed.”

“A few calamities,” Father answered.

The young man standing next to the priest then asked Father if he had heard of the Famous Catcher of Ghosts. “No? Well, this is he, the wandering priest right before you. He’s newly arrived in your town, so he’s not yet as well known as he is in places far to the north and south. Do you have relatives in Harbin? No? Well, then! If you had, you’d know who he is.” The young man, who claimed to be the priest’s acolyte, added, “In that city alone, he is celebrated for having already caught one hundred ghosts in disturbed households. When he was done, the gods told him to start wandering again.”

When Father finished telling us how he had met these two men, he added, “This afternoon, the Famous Catcher of Ghosts is coming to our house.”

A few hours later, the Catcher of Ghosts and his assistant stood in our courtyard.

The priest had a white beard, and his long hair was piled like a messy bird’s-nest. In one hand he carried a walking stick with a carved end that looked like a flayed dog stretched over a gateway. In the other, he held a short beating stick. Slung over his shoulders was a rope shawl from which hung a large wooden bell. His robe was not the sand-colored cotton of most wandering monks I had seen. His was a rich-looking blue silk, but the sleeves were grease-stained, as if he had often reached across the table for more to eat.

I watched hungrily as Mother offered him special cold dishes. It was late afternoon, and we were sitting on low stools in the courtyard. The monk helped himself to everything—glass noodles with spinach, bamboo shoots with pickled mustard, tofu seasoned with sesame seed oil and coriander. Mother kept apologizing about the quality of the food, saying she was both ashamed and honored to have him in our shabby home. Father was drinking tea. “Tell us how it’s done,” he said to the priest, “this catching of ghosts. Do you seize them in your fists? Is the struggle fierce or dangerous?”

The priest said he would soon show us. “But first I need proof of your sincerity.” Father gave his word that we were indeed sincere. “Words are not proof,” the priest said.

“How do you prove sincerity?” Father asked.

“In some cases, a family might walk from here to the top of Mount Tai and back, barefoot and carrying a load of rocks.” Everyone, especially my aunts, looked doubtful that any of us could do that.

“In other cases,” the monk continued, “a small offering of pure silver can be enough and will cover the sincerity of all members of the immediate family.”

“How much might be enough?” Father asked.

The priest frowned. “Only
you
know if your sincerity is little or great, fake or genuine.”

The monk continued eating. Father and Mother went to another room to discuss the amount of their sincerity. When they returned, Father opened a pouch and pulled out a silver ingot and placed this in front of the Famous Catcher of Ghosts.

“This is good,” the priest said. “A little sincerity is better than none at all.”

Mother then drew an ingot from the sleeve of her jacket. She slid this next to the first so that the two made a clinking sound. The monk nodded and put down his bowl. He clapped his hands, and the assistant took from his bundle an empty vinegar jar and wad of string.

“Where’s the girl that the ghost loved best?” asked the priest.

“There,” Mother said, and pointed to me. “The ghost was her nursemaid.”

“Her mother,” Father corrected. “The girl’s her bastard.”

I had never heard this word said aloud, and I felt as if blood was going to pour out of my ears.

The priest gave a small grunt. “Don’t worry. I’ve had other cases just as bad.” Then he said to me: “Fetch me the comb she used for your hair.”

My feet were locked to the ground until Mother gave me a little knock on the head to hurry. So I went to the room Precious Auntie and I had shared not so long before. I picked up the comb she used to run through my hair. It was the ivory comb she never wore, its ends carved with roosters, its teeth long and straight. I remembered how Precious Auntie used to scold me for my tangles, worrying over every hair on my head.

When I returned, I saw the assistant had placed the vinegar jar in the middle of the courtyard. “Run the comb through your hair nine times,” he said. So I did.

“Place it in the jar.” I dropped the comb inside, smelling the escape of cheap vinegar fumes. “Now stand there perfectly still.” The Catcher of Ghosts beat his stick on the wooden bell. It made a deep
kwak, kwak
sound. He and the acolyte walked in rhythm, circling me, chanting, and drawing closer. Without warning, the Catcher of Ghosts gave a shout and leapt toward me. I thought he was going to squeeze me into the jar, so I closed my eyes and screamed, as did GaoLing.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the acolyte was pounding a tight-fitting wooden lid onto the jar. He wove rope from top to bottom, bottom to top, then all around the jar, until it resembled a hornet’s nest. When this was done, the Catcher of Ghosts tapped the jar with his beating stick and said, “It’s over. She’s caught. Go ahead. Try to open it, you try. Can’t be done.”

Everyone looked, but no one would touch. Father asked, “Can she escape?”

“Not possible,” said the Catcher of Ghosts. “This jar is guaranteed to last more than several lifetimes.”

“It should be more,” Mother grumbled. “Stuck in a jar forever wouldn’t be too long, considering what she’s done. Burned down our shop. Nearly killed our family. Put us in debt.” I was crying, unable to speak on Precious Auntie’s behalf. I was her traitor.

The next day, our family held its banquet, the best dishes, food we would never again enjoy in this lifetime. But no one except the youngest children had any appetite. Mother had also hired a man to take photographs, so we could remember the days when we had plenty. In one, she wanted a picture of just her and GaoLing. At the last moment, GaoLing insisted I come and stand near Mother as well, and Mother was not pleased but did not say anything. The following day, Father and my two uncles went to Peking to hear what the damages would be against our family.

While they were gone, we learned to eat watery rice porridge flavored with just a few bites of cold dishes. Want less, regret less, that was Mother’s motto. About a week later, Father stood in the courtyard, bellowing like a madman.

“Make another banquet,” he shouted.

Then our uncles followed: “Our bad luck has ended! No damages! That was the magistrate’s decision—no damages at all!”

We rushed toward them, children, aunts, tenants, and dogs.

How could this be? And we listened as Father explained. When the other shop owners brought in their damaged goods for inspection, the magistrate discovered that one had rare books that had been stolen from the Hanlin Academy thirty years before. Another, who claimed he had works of master calligraphers and painters, was actually selling forgeries. The judges then decided the fire was fitting punishment to those two thieves.

“The Catcher of Ghosts was right,” Father concluded. “The ghost is gone.”

That evening everyone ate well, except me. The others laughed and chatted, all worries gone. They seemed to forget that our inksticks had returned to charcoal, that the ink shop was just floating ash. They were saying their luck had changed because Precious Auntie was now knocking her head on the inside of a stinky vinegar jar.

The next morning, GaoLing told me Mother needed to talk to me right away. I had noticed that since Precious Auntie had died, Mother no longer called me Daughter. She did not criticize me. She almost seemed afraid I, too, would turn into a ghost. As I walked toward her room, I wondered if she had ever felt warmly toward me. And then I was standing in front of her. She seemed embarrassed to see me.

“In times of family misfortune,” she began in a sharp voice, “personal sadness is selfish. Still, I am sad to tell you we are sending you to an orphanage.” I was stunned, but I did not cry. I said nothing.

“At least we are not selling you as a slave girl,” she added.

Without feeling, I said, “Thank you.”

Mother went on: “If you remain in the house, who can tell, the ghost might return. I know the Catcher of Ghosts guaranteed this would not happen, but that’s like saying drought is never followed by drought, or flood by flood. Everyone knows that isn’t true.”

I did not protest. But still she became angry. “What is that look on your face? Are you trying to shame me? Just remember, all these years I treated you like a daughter. Would any other family in this town have done the same? Maybe your going to the orphanage will teach you to appreciate us more. And now you’d better get ready. Mr. Wei is already waiting to take you in his cart.”

I thanked her again and left the room. As I packed my bundle, Gao-Ling ran into the room with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’ll come find you,” she promised, and gave me her favorite jacket.

“Mother will punish you if I take it,” I said.

“I don’t care.”

She followed me to Mr. Wei’s cart. As I left the courtyard and the house for the last time, she and the tenants were the only ones to see me off.

When the cart turned down Pig’s Head Lane, Mr. Wei began to sing a cheerful tune about the harvest moon. And I thought about what Precious Auntie had told the beggar girl to write:

A dog howls, the moon rises.
In darkness, the stars pierce forever.
A rooster crows, the sun rises.
In daylight, it’s as if the stars never existed.

I looked at the sky, so clear, so bright, and in my heart I was howling.

DESTINY

The orphanage was an abandoned monastery near Dragon Bone Hill, a hard climb up a zigzag road from the railway station. To spare the donkey, Mr. Wei made me walk the last kilometer. When he let me off and said good-bye, that was the start of my new life.

It was autumn, and the leafless trees looked like an army of skeletons guarding the hill and the compound at the top. When I walked through the gate, nobody greeted me. Before me was a temple of dried-out wood and peeling lacquer, and in the bare open yard stood rows of girls in white jackets and blue trousers, lined up like soldiers. They bent at the waist— forward, side, back, side—as if obedient to the wind. There was another strange sight: two men, one foreign, one Chinese. It was only the second time I had seen
a
foreigner so close. They walked across this same courtyard, carrying maps, followed by a troop of men with long sticks. I was afraid I had stumbled upon a secret army for the Communists.

As I stepped over the threshold, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Dead bodies in shrouds, twenty or thirty. They stood in the middle of the hall, along the sides, some tall, some short. Immediately, I thought they were the Returning Dead. Precious Auntie had once told me that in her childhood some families would hire a priest to put a dead body under a spell and make it walk back to its ancestral home. The priest led them only at night, she said, so the dead wouldn’t meet any living people they could possess. By day, they rested in temples. She didn’t believe the story herself until she heard a priest banging a wooden bell late at night. And rather than run away like the other villagers, she hid behind a wall to watch.
Kwak, kwak,
and then she saw them, six of them, like giant maggots, leaping forward ten feet into the air.
What I saw I can’t say for certain,
Precious Auntie told me.
All I know is that for a long time afterward, I was not the same girl.

I was about to run out the door when I saw the glint of golden feet. I looked more carefully. They were statutes of gods, not dead people. I walked toward one and pulled off the cloth. It was the God of Literature with his horned head, a writing brush in one hand, a valedictorian’s cap in the other. “Why did you do that?” a voice called out, and I turned around and saw a little girl.

“Why is he covered?”

“Teacher said he is not a good influence. We should not believe in the old gods, only Christian ones.”

“Where is your teacher?”

“Who have you come to see?”

“Whoever arranged to take Liu LuLing as an orphan.” The girl ran off. A moment later, two lady foreigners were standing before me.

The American missionaries had not been expecting me, and I had not expected them to be Americans. And because I had never talked to a foreigner, I could not speak, only stare. They both had short hair, one white, the other curly red, and they also wore glasses, which made me think they were equally old.

“Sorry to say, no arrangements have been made,” the white-haired lady told me in Chinese.

“Sorry to say,” the other added, “most orphans are much younger.”

When they asked my name, I was still unable to talk, so I used my finger to paint the characters in the air. They talked to each other in English voices.