The Ghost Bride

by Yangsze Choo

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.

Women had little security other than jewelry, so even the poorest among us sported gold chains, earrings, and rings as their insurance.

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.

All amahs put aside their wages for their retirement. They were a special class of servant sometimes known as “black and white” because of the clothes they wore: a white Chinese blouse over black cotton trousers.

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. A careful watch must be kept to ensure the ink would not fade.

Life was followed by death in the endless cycle of rebirth, if one believed the Buddhists. We were all nominally Buddhist I supposed, although my father, as a strict Confucianist, reserved a certain contempt toward them.

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.

The doctor looked at my tongue, felt my pulse, and shook his head gravely. He had said he had rarely seen a case of someone so young with so little qi, or life force. It was as though someone had drained me of half my vital energy. For that he prescribed a course of heating foods. Ginseng, wine, longan, and ginger.

Tian Bai raised a hand to my face. I dared not breathe as he ran a finger lightly down my cheek. The look in his eyes was serious, almost intense. My face burned. I was seized by an urge to press my lips against the back of his hand, to bite the tips of his fingers, but I could only drop my eyes in confusion.

He kissed me, slowly at first and then harder. My heart was pounding, my hands caught in the thin fabric of his shirt. Then he let me go.

“Well, let us begin again, then,” he said. “Now that we’ve introduced ourselves with the requisite compliments.”

“Self-control is a quality I’ve always admired. Especially in a woman.”

if you wish to return to the living, it is better not to dilute your spirit with the food of the dead.”

it’s not my fault that you proved to be such an inept spy.”

He slipped through the gate like a drop of spilled ink and vanished.

My heart felt as hard and dry as a salted apricot.

“If you didn’t insist on wearing that ridiculous hat, you might have better luck materializing here.” “It’s purely for self-protection. I would be far too recognizable without it.”

His very features, under the ubiquitous bamboo hat, remained a cipher to me.

Something was coming; it was only a matter of time before it found me.

The question rolled back and forth on my tongue, like a weighty glass marble.

I was entranced, like a moth drawn to the moon.

“Well, can you die happy now?” Abruptly reminded of his flippancy, I couldn’t bite my tongue. “Is this why you think you’re irresistible to women?” Er Lang smiled. It was a dazzling smile that made me feel faint. “I always tell the truth.”

His breath was hot and clean, a wind that pierced and melted me in an instant. The world spun, the stars in the sky guttered like candles.

“I should have stopped you sooner. Though I now understand why men succumb to ghosts.” He spoke lightly, but my ears blazed with mortification.

“Last time it was a cemetery, and now the bottom of a well,” he remarked. “What were you doing anyway?”

Incredibly, we were arguing again.

There is a river between us, however, like the Milky Way that separates the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid. And no matter how much I shout and call, I will never cross it.