The Ghost Bride (20 page)

On the third day, Auntie Three came back to work despite the bandages on her hands. The cook was quite astonished to see her.

“Why so surprised?” she asked. “I told you I’d be back soon.”

“Ya, well I didn’t think you really meant it.”

“What did you expect me to do? Sit in my room and look at the wall?”

He shrugged but insisted on seeing her arms.

“It’s all healed, I tell you,” she said, but when the cook peeled back one corner of the bandages, I winced at the sight. Her skin was flayed where she had been scalded, though the wounds were bloodless and absent any color or pus.

“I don’t think you should be working yet,” he said.

“If you’re worried about
her
, I know how to keep out of her way,” she said, turning away. I watched her birdlike movements with a mixture of pity and curiosity. That small, stubborn figure clad in black and white reminded me of Amah in so many ways that my homesickness was almost palpable.

M
y chance came two days later. During the evening meal, the steward suddenly appeared in the kitchen. “Another steamed fish, quick!” he hissed.

“What happened?”

“Puppet servant collided with another. Now we’re missing a course, and the master has guests.”

“Guests?” asked Auntie Three, coming up behind the cook.

The steward started at this interruption. “Oh, it’s you. I’d ask you to serve but you know what happened last time. And she’s not in a good mood tonight.”

“What kind of guests?” asked Auntie Three again.

“You know,” he said. A glance flickered between the three of them.

“None of the puppets here have been trained to wait on guests. Aren’t there any others outside?” asked the cook.

“We’re low on servers. Some of them were damaged during the last banquet and haven’t been replaced yet.”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

They turned to look at me. “No!” said Auntie Three, but she was interrupted by the steward.

“I forgot about you.” He gave me a measured look. “Yes, you might do.”

“She has no idea how to behave!”

“It’s not so formal tonight. Only the old master is present. The young master is still away.”

Pulse racing, I smoothed my apron and reiterated my willingness to serve.

“All right,” said the steward at last. “But be quick! We’re between courses and I asked the musicians to play first.” Grasping my elbow, he propelled me out of the kitchen, muttering instructions. “The puppet servants will bring the food from the kitchen to the sideboard. I’ll present the main dishes at the tables. You stand on the side to arrange individual portions and keep an eye on the puppet servants for me. This batch is unreliable. Hopefully, it won’t be necessary for you to approach the tables. Understand?”

I nodded, then, fearing he could not see me in the dim corridor, added “Yes, sir” for good measure. I was itching to ask him who the guests were, but he looked so preoccupied that I held my tongue. The saving grace was that Lim Tian Ching, the young master, was not here, though by this point I was so desperate to do some spying that I might have braved his presence anyway. As we walked swiftly down the corridors, I kept my eyes open for possible hiding places. I had tried to sneak into the main house before, but the cook always locked the great kitchen door at night. Now that I was on the other side, perhaps I could find a place to conceal myself before he did so.

The banquet room was lit with dozens of oil lamps. A trio of puppet musicians was performing—two
er hu
players and one
yang qin
player accompanying them. The sight set a shiver through me. The last time I had seen live musicians had been at the Double Seventh Festival at the real Lim mansion in Malacca, and there we had been entertained by such a trio as well. As I well remembered, Tian Bai had been one of the musicians. What was it about this ghost world that seemed to create uncanny parallels with the living? I thought of Auntie Three in the kitchen and how much she reminded me of Amah, and wondered whether these coincidences were intentional or merely part of a peculiar synchronicity between the two places.

I had little time to reflect upon this before I was hustled to a serving station by the steward. The guests were in the midst of eating and I could see by the stacks of dishes on the sideboards that it was a lengthy feast. Hissing some final instructions to me, the steward hastily made his way to the largest table with a steamed fish. He set it upon the table with a flourish and deftly deboned it for the waiting diners with much smiling and bowing. This must be the head table, I decided, for him to serve them first, and I craned my head to see its occupants. There were ten figures seated there: two of them enormous enough to dwarf the other diners. With a sinking sensation, I recognized the humped, hulking form and sweeping tines of an ox-headed demon.

Chapter
25

I
told
myself it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t notice me, hidden as I was at the back
and dressed in a drab uniform. Still, my hands trembled as I carried out my
tasks. I didn’t think that they were the same creatures that I had seen
stationed outside my house. Those had been lowly foot soldiers, while these two
had an air of command. I hoped they might not know me by sight. Preoccupied with
my racing thoughts, I suddenly realized that I had allowed a couple of puppet
servers to wander aimlessly around the room.

The steward shot daggers at me with his eyes but it
was too late. One of the puppet servers stumbled against the nearest ox-headed
demon. With a snarl, it turned and bit off the server’s arm, spitting it out on
the floor. It happened so fast that I had barely time to blink. There was a
moment’s hush in the room, then conversation resumed as though nothing had
happened. The puppet server was now aimlessly rotating on the spot while its
severed arm twitched spasmodically like an insect on the marble floor. The
steward, still in the midst of serving the steamed fish, cast an agonized glance
at me. I thought about sending another puppet to fetch it back, but dared not do
so. Keeping my head down, I made my way swiftly around the room and steered the
damaged server back to the side.

“Stay there,” I whispered and, miraculously, it
obeyed me. Now there remained only the problem of the arm. I crept toward it,
trying to remain below eye level of the guests. At last, with a shudder, I
seized it. It jumped and spasmed like a live thing although it was cool, with no
trace of warmth. The flesh had an unpleasant yielding consistency, like wax.
Gritting my teeth as I tucked it firmly under my arm, I was about to retreat
when a foot trod heavily on my hand.

It was a wide foot with a bony ankle, shod in an
old-fashioned man’s court shoe with upturned toes. Everything in this realm of
ghosts was grotesquely and ornately old-fashioned. It was as though the funeral
goods burned for the dead had marked no changes in vogue, no passage of time. I
wriggled my hand experimentally, trying to remove it from under the foot, but it
merely pressed down harder. For a moment I crouched there, wondering what to do.
Then I gave a sharp tug. The foot came off with a jerk and its owner made a
sound of indignation. I couldn’t help glancing up.

“What a surprise,” said a familiar voice. “What are
you doing here?”

It was the shriveled old man whom I had first met
when I had come to this ghostly Malacca, fresh from the Plains of the Dead. He
was the last person I expected to see supping at the Lim family mansion, and my
shock must have shown on my face.

“I thought you were going to see your friend,” he
said. Desperately, I pleaded with my eyes for him not to draw attention to me,
but the wretch merely gave a cackle that cut through the buzz of conversation.
“Why are you dressed like a servant?”

“Is something the matter, Master Awyoung?” A
woman’s voice broke in. The silvery sound of it made the hairs on my neck stand
up.

“I’ve caught a little chicken,” he said gleefully.
“Someone who shouldn’t be here.”

Chairs scraped as the guests peered around and
down. I cowered, wondering if, in a mad moment, I could dash across the floor to
the passageway. But the same female voice was speaking again. “Really, Master
Awyoung. It’s just a servant.”

“Ah, Madam. I don’t know whether this is really one
of your servants,” he said. I felt an overwhelming urge to kick the evil old man
in the shins.

“Why do you say that? Stand up, girl.”

Reluctantly I stood, dropping my head and hunching
my shoulders. Faces turned expectantly toward me. Thankfully, I was far away
from the two ox-headed demons, a sentiment seemingly shared by the other guests
who had moved their chairs slightly away from them. The rest were human ghosts,
all elaborately turned out in the stiff costumes that I had come to hate. My eye
went to a gaunt old man, very yellow and wrinkled, with eyes that glittered like
paring knives. A single wart with two long hairs sprouted from his cheek. This
must be Lim Tian Ching’s great-uncle, whom the servants referred to as Lao Ye,
the Old Master. Next to him sat the source of the female voice.

She was young. Not much older than me and
strikingly beautiful. Her classically oval face was as smooth and white as a
powdered rice biscuit, the sloe eyes long and tilted. Her nose was a trifle too
long and the tip drooped; in old age it might become unsightly. But she would
never grow old. She was already dead, after all. Numerous jade ornaments hung
from her headdress and dangled from her ears and neck. When she moved, they gave
off a faint ringing sound. Her delicately painted eyebrows were knitted together
in a frown.

“Who are you?” she asked.

I ducked my head respectfully, “I’m a new servant,
Madam.”

“I can see that,” she said. “But exactly who are
you?”

The yellow-faced old man made a dismissive gesture.
“My dear, do we need to trouble our guests with domestic issues? Question her
later if you want.”

At this point, the steward broke in. “Lao Ye,” he
said, addressing him respectfully, “I hired her a few days ago because we were
short of staff.”

“Oh, is that so? I seem to recall a problem with
the kitchen staff. Something about soup.” He raised his eyebrows at the woman
but she turned away from him, pouting prettily. I could hardly breathe. Although
I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t stop staring at her. Was this my mother? I
searched her features for any sign of familiarity. Did I look at all like her?
Was my forehead like hers, my eyes, the shape of my ears? I couldn’t remember
any specific details that Amah had told me, only that my mother was very lovely.
Look at me! I willed her to gaze upon me with some spark of recognition. Can’t
you see that I’m your child? I’d heard that even animals could recognize their
young, but she gave no sign of it. Her bored glance slid across my face and
drifted across the table to rest upon the ox-headed demons opposite.

“Your Excellencies,” she said. “I hope you’re
finding the food to your satisfaction.”

Taking this as my cue to be dismissed, I backed
away only to be arrested by a thin, grasping hand at my wrist. “Not so fast,”
said Master Awyoung. Inwardly, I cursed the accidental meeting that had thrown
me into his path earlier. “I spoke with this girl just a few days ago. She was
asking questions about demons and the corruption of border officials.”

“How do you know this?” asked the Old Master.

“I stationed myself near the entrance as is my
usual custom to check out any newcomers. She spun me a tale about looking for a
friend, but now she turns up here. There can’t be any such coincidence. She must
be a spy.”

I blanched. Fool, fool! I’d dismissed him as a mad
old man, but now I bit my lips and tried to keep my eyes on the floor. “If you
please, sir,” I said in a trembling voice, “there must be some mistake.”

“Take her away and lock her up,” said the Old
Master. “We’ll question her later.” He glanced at an ox-headed demon, and it
grunted in assent. The steward made an involuntary move, his face filled with
consternation, but the Old Master waved over a puppet servant dressed in dark
livery, which had been leaning against the wall. I guessed it was part of his
personal bodyguard. Seizing my arms with an iron grasp, it propelled me from the
room. I cast a despairing glance at my mother, but she was lifting a morsel to
her exquisitely rouged lips with a pair of ivory chopsticks. She didn’t even
turn her head at my exit.

I
was
frog-marched swiftly down endless dim passages. Gone were the suites of splendid
rooms, the grand reception halls. This was a place I had never been to, far away
from the kitchen and all that was familiar to me. As soon as we were out of
sight, I struggled to free myself, but my attempts were only met by a tightening
of the viselike grip. I had no illusions that the puppet servant would crush my
bones with no qualms. And then what would happen to me? My spirit form might be
injured, just as Auntie Three had been scalded. The thought made me shudder and
any resistance I had melted away. At last we stopped before a plain door. The
servant opened it with one hand and thrust me unceremoniously in with the other.
“Wait!” I cried. “Leave me a light!” But it was no use talking to the creature.
With a bang, the door closed upon me and I could hear its footsteps, rapid and
impersonal, receding into the distance. I sank to the floor in despair.

After a time, my eyes became accustomed to the
darkness. A dim, barred shape resolved itself into a shuttered window. Faint
gleams of light came through the slats, but they were fastened so tightly that I
couldn’t pry them apart. The room itself was barely ten paces across and smelled
musty. It was dry, however, and on ground level. I guessed it was a disused
storeroom, which seemed infinitely better than being cast into a dungeon. Though
perhaps they were only holding me here temporarily. I remembered the ox-headed
demon’s casual assumption about interrogation and began to panic again. If it
didn’t like my answers, it might well decapitate me on the spot and then what
would happen to my soul?

I had cried before when I felt sorry for myself,
but now I found I was weeping silent tears of pure terror. After some time,
however, I gave myself a fierce shake. If I died here, truly died with no hope
of an afterlife or rebirth, then it would be my own fault for getting into this.
So I might as well try to get out by myself. I searched the room several times,
fumbling around in the darkness. The door was solid and would not yield to my
attempts. There was not even a stick of furniture, nor a weapon of any kind. I
sat down heavily on the floor and felt the familiar shape of Er Lang’s scale.
With trembling fingers, I drew it from my pocket and immediately it began to
glow with a pearly radiance.

Carefully, I examined Er Lang’s gift again. He had
said that I could call him by blowing upon the fluted edge of the scale,
although he warned that he couldn’t come to the Plains of the Dead. Still, I
picked it up and blew gently across the edge, much as one might blow across the
mouth of an empty glass bottle. A faint, musical sound emerged, like the wind
catching the last notes played on a faraway hillside. Nothing happened. I blew
again a few more times, then ran my fingers across it. It held a razor-sharp
edge and, with growing hope, I dug it into the doorjamb. It was sharp enough to
bite into the wood, but progress was painstakingly slow. I turned my attention
to the thinner window slats instead, hoping they would give more readily. As I
worked, I began to wonder whether anyone would come for me at all. The banquet
must be long over. Perhaps they had forgotten about me. My heart leaped absurdly
at this hope, then sank again. I heard the distant sound of footsteps.

Quickly, I thrust the scale deep into my pocket,
then hesitated. What if they searched me? In the end I tucked it into the
waistband of my trousers in the small of my back. The footsteps grew steadily
louder. There were at least two or three of them, but though I listened hard,
none sounded as heavy as the footfall of an ox-headed demon. There was the
jangle of something metallic, then the Old Master’s voice. “You put her
here?”

There was no reply, so I assumed the puppet servant
must have merely nodded. I had never heard any of them speak, and the thought of
a voice emanating from such a lifeless mockery made me shiver with
revulsion.

Master Awyoung asked, “Is it secure?” I’d hoped he
would leave after the banquet, but obviously he was much in the Lim family’s
counsel. Why had I ever spoken to him?

“She won’t get out.” The cold, silvery voice was my
mother’s. Then the door swung open.

T
hey
were holding oil lamps, or at least the servants were holding them. Accustomed
as my eyes had become to the dark, the light was blinding.

“Get up!” said the Old Master. “Who are you, girl?
And what are you doing in my house?” A puppet servant seized me by the arms. It
wasn’t difficult to drop my head and mumble.

“Please, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking
about!”

“Who is your family?”

“They’re from Negri Sembilan. We moved to Malacca
shortly before I died.”

“What about that story that you told me about your
cousin?” Master Awyoung interjected.

“It’s partly true. But I was afraid to talk to you
because you’re a stranger.”

“She’s lying,” he said contemptuously, but the Old
Master stooped over me for a closer look, forcing my face up under the oil lamp
with his cold bony hands.

“Well, it might be true I suppose,” he said sourly.
“I can see why a young girl might not want to tell you everything.”

“Nonsense! She knows something, I’m sure of
it.”

“It’s too bad our guests had to leave.” It was the
first time that my mother had spoken since she had entered the room. She hung
back, watching the proceedings with a bored look. “They would have had the truth
out of her quickly.”

“Well, they’re gone,” snapped the Old Master. “And
I hope this isn’t a waste of time.”

“Give her to me,” said Master Awyoung. “I’m sure I
can make her talk.”

My mother merely raised an eyebrow. “As if we
didn’t know that you just wanted another plaything.”

“I don’t need any more trouble,” said the Old
Master. “Give her to the demons. They’ll look into her soul and if she doesn’t
know anything, then my grand-nephew can have her. So don’t cripple her.”

“But what about me?” Master Awyoung said.

“You can have her if he doesn’t want her.” My
mother’s light laugh echoed through the room. “But I’m sure he will. There’s
been a shortage of concubines lately.”

The puppet servant abruptly released my arms and I
collapsed onto the floor. My interrogators began to exit, taking the oil lamp
with them. “Please!” I begged. “At least leave me a light.”