The Astonishing Color of After(32)

I imagine a carbon-black veil dropping down around me and curtaining me off from the rest of these people. Blocking me from view and giving me a few moments of cool and quiet aloneness.

The crowd seems to grow denser with each step we take. I wonder if this is why Waigong shook his head when we asked if he wanted to come—because he knew that it would be crowded to a hellish degree.

Red bricks on either side of us shape archway after archway, gaping mouths that lead to the shadowed fronts of little shops and stands selling all sorts of things. I crane my head to see better: calligraphy brushes, scrolls of paper, carved blocks of dry ink. Vintage trinkets and retro postcards. Snacks like steamed buns and pastries and what looks like tofu floating in white soup. We get stuck against a wall of people, and the nearest archway begins to warp and twist. Its shadows darken, going black and pitchy. They shift into the silhouette of a bird with outstretched wings—

“Leigh?”

My grandmother is tugging at my elbow. The crowd ahead of us has thinned a bit.

I blink and glance back—the archway looks normal. My head’s all heavy and fogged up. It must be the lack of sleep.

“Are you okay?” says Feng.

I nod. “Fine. Tired.”

“Jet-lagged?” she asks.

“I guess so.” Or maybe just losing my mind.

We cut down an alley that’s cool and gray, untouched by the harsh sun, and emerge once more onto the open road.

Waipo points to the magnificent temple. Sweeping red roofs curve up at their square corners. Stone dragons guard the highest points with open mouths and hooked claws. Firebright lanterns hang down from the eaves, strung together like lines of planets, their tassels angling in the wind.

We weave our way past the smoke and crowd to get onto the steps. The thick columns holding up the temple are intricately carved, capturing the vivid details of humans and creatures.

“They all show different events,” says Feng, pointing at the closest one. “Every panel tells its own tale. When I was a kid, I used to make up my own stories about them. Usually there were two people falling in love and making their way through a world of monsters in order to find each other and be together.”

Waipo gestures around, her fingers grasping at invisible things in the air as she tries to tell me something. I don’t understand a word of it.

Feng jumps to translate, and I have to stop myself from sighing. I know I need the help, but I wish it were coming from someone else.

“This was your mother’s favorite Taoist temple. She would come here when she needed guidance, when she was looking for an answer.”

My grandmother points up at the ceiling. The undersides of the roofs are domed, made from carved pieces of wood that are stacked together in complex systems of interlocking circles and octagons. It’s beautiful, and even a bit dizzying.

In the heart of the temple, people bow before a crowned statue with a face of black stone, and dressed in imperial reds and golds.

Toward the far side, a young man is tossing things into the air, letting them arc up in flashes of red and fall back to the ground. For a second I think they’re feathers, just like the ones from the bird—but they’re dropping too quickly. The wrong shape, the wrong weight, clattering against the floor. No, they’re pieces of wood shaped like crescent moons, painted cherry red. The percussion of their falling makes them seem almost like toys.

Part of me wants to ask what those are and what he’s doing, except I’m reluctant to encourage Feng. The way she talks to me makes me feel like a tourist, like someone who doesn’t belong. And, well, maybe I don’t belong. Still, I don’t need the constant reminder.

But it’s like my thoughts are painted on my forehead, because she says, “In Taiwanese they’re called bwabwei. He’s asking his god a question. If one lands faceup, and the other lands facedown, the answer is yes. If both land facedown, it means the god doesn’t like what he’s asking. If both land faceup, it means the god is laughing at him.”

“What kind of question?”

“He might be trying to make a decision. It has to be a yes-or-no-type thing.”

The man steps over to a bucket of red sticks, raising the whole thing up like a drum and shaking them loudly.

Feng leans close. “So first he was asking whether his answer can be found here in these sticks. The god must have told him yes.”

Having selected one of the sticks, he reaches for the bwabwei again.

“Now he’s confirming whether that stick is the correct answer.”

The red moons fly up, turning in the air, clacking and skipping when they hit the floor. He throws them again. He throws them a third time.

“The answer is yes,” Feng explains. “So now he can use the number on the stick to find its corresponding poem. The poem will explain what the god is trying to tell him.”

I’ve never seen anything like this temple back home, never seen Mom do anything religious. Is this what my mother needed? Would having a place to go to ask questions have saved her?

I make my way over to where he was throwing the bwabwei, right in front of the crowned statue.

A teal curiosity settles in my stomach and my fingers itch to give a toss of my own. What answers could I get here? What questions would I ask?

Am I going to find the bird?

Is my mother happy, finally?

Was it my fault?