The Ghost Bride

by Yangsze Choo

The Chinese considered the moon to be yin, feminine and full of negative energy, as opposed to the sun that was yang and exemplified masculinity. I liked the moon, with its soft silver beams. It was at once elusive and filled with trickery, so that lost objects that had rolled into the crevices of a room were rarely found, and books read in its light seemed to contain all sorts of fanciful stories that were never there the next morning.

We Chinese did not like to give or receive certain gifts for superstitious reasons: knives, because they could sever a relationship; handkerchiefs, for they portended weeping; and clocks, as they were thought to measure out the days of your life.

In the novels that I read, the heroines were continually exclaiming over some love token they exchanged, whether it was a hairpin, inkstone, or more daringly, a tiny shoe from a bound-foot girl. I had always discounted them as ridiculous. But now, as I cupped the watch in my hands, the soft ticking was like the heartbeat of a small bird.

It was strange to think that power in this world belonged to old men and young women.

Ma huang was the stimulant herb derived from the jointed stems of ephedra. Steeped into a tea, it gave relief to coughs and loosened phlegm from the lungs, but even I had some idea of its dangerous properties and could not quite believe that Yan Hong had been so ignorant of its side effects.