The Ghost Bride

by Yangsze Choo

Malacca was a port, one of the oldest trading settlements in the East. In the past few hundred years, it had passed through Portuguese, Dutch, and finally British rule. A long, low cluster of red-tiled houses, it straggled along the bay, flanked by groves of coconut trees and backed inland by the dense jungle that covered Malaya like a rolling green ocean. The town of Malacca was very still, dreaming under the tropical sun of its past glories, when it was the pearl of port cities along the Straits. With the advent of steamships, however, it had fallen into graceful decline.

But though many races—Malay, Chinese, and Indian, with a sprinkling of Arab and Jewish traders—had settled here for generations, we kept our own practices and dress. And though my father could speak Malay and some English, he still looked to China for his books and papers. Never mind that it was my grandfather who left his native soil to make his fortune trading here. It was too bad that the money had dwindled under my father’s hands. Otherwise I don’t think he would even have considered the Lim family’s offer.

This practice of arranging the marriage of a dead person was uncommon, usually held in order to placate a spirit. A deceased concubine who had produced a son might be officially married to elevate her status to a wife. Or two lovers who died tragically might be united after death. That much I knew. But to marry the living to the dead was a rare and, indeed, dreadful occurrence.

“And the son, Lim Tian Ching, what was he like?” I shivered despite the heat of the day, remembering my dream. Amah usually avoided speaking of him, but I thought I would see what I could worm out of her today. “Spoiled, I heard.” “I think so too.” I blurted this out without thinking, but she didn’t notice. “They said he wasn’t as capable as the nephew. Aiya, no point discussing him. Better not speak ill of the dead.”

The seventh day of the seventh month was also considered a particularly fortuitous time to air old books and scrolls; and as my father had vast quantities of both, this was our major activity during the festival. Tables were placed in the courtyard and his collection was laid out in the sun, papers turned to ensure even drying.

My father enjoys music and encourages his household to play.” “Who are they?” “The older er hu player is my third uncle, and that’s his son on the yang qin. The other player is my cousin.” Cousin! I looked down to hide my confusion. My heart was beating like a drum. The music ended, but I could still hear the blood rushing through my ears. Embarrassed, I selected a large and sticky kuih angku, a steamed red cake stuffed with yellow bean paste, and bit into it. When I looked up again he was standing next to Yan Hong. “Li Lan, this is my cousin Tian Bai.” We did not shake hands as I had heard the British do, but under his gaze, I felt a flicker run through my veins. “In addition to cleaning the clocks, I also play a little music,” he said. Yan Hong looked at him with amusement. “What are you talking about?” Turning to me, she said, “Li Lan is the daughter of the Pan family.” I tried to swallow my kuih, but it was sticky and clung to my throat. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m fine,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.

Amah always said too much thinking made me pale and peaky.

She never seemed bothered by her ability to embrace two opposing things at once. I sometimes wished that I had that blithe assurance. My father made the dry observation that Amah had no difficulty reconciling her viewpoints because she had learned everything as custom dictated, and that was both her bondage and her solace.

The ghost of Lim Tian Ching had passed through my dreams. His unwelcome presence had violated the recesses of my soul. I was so terrified that I curled up on my bed and wrapped the covers around myself, despite the sweltering heat, until dawn came.

I had never done well in the feminine arts and I suspected that Amah felt bad about it. “Reading, reading!” she would grunt, and snatch away whatever book I had. “Spoil your eyes, you will!” I once pointed out to her that needlework would have done the same thing, but she never listened to me.

The hours, days, and years that had bled away in his opium haze demanded a payment from my future.

I wished I had never seen Tian Bai. Then I wished that my father had married me off to him sooner, before Lim Tian Ching had managed to die. As upset as I was, I had to admit that my father had good taste. He was right, I would have liked—I did like—Tian Bai. Very much.

“Amah, where do people go when they die?” As expected, she clucked her tongue, grumbling that we shouldn’t talk about such things, then contradicting herself by saying, didn’t I know all about it anyway? But finally she relented. “When someone dies, the spirit leaves the body and after the hundred days of mourning are over, passes through the ten Courts of Hell. The First Court is the arrival gate. There the souls are sorted. The good ones go straight to rebirth, or if they are really saintly they escape the Wheel of Life and go to paradise.” “What about the not-so-good ones?” I asked. “Well, if you were moderately good, you might be able to skip some of the Courts of Hell by crossing the gold or silver bridges. But if you committed some sin, you have to pass through the courts. The Second Court has the judges where they read out your good and bad deeds. Depending on that, you might be sent on to different punishments.”

“But what about ghosts?” I asked. “Most are hungry ghosts. If they die without children, or their bones are scattered, they are unable to even journey to the First Court. That’s why we leave those offerings out at Qing Ming.”

We already had ghost trouble, I thought, feeling a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in my throat. But if word got around that our family was ill fated, then I might as well forget about ever getting another marriage offer. Old Wong, our cook, was a taciturn fellow. Our maid, Ah Chun, on the other hand, was a different matter. She could scarcely hold her tongue about what we had for dinner. “There is no help for it,” said Amah. “We must go and see a medium.”