The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(111)
“Your mother’s tea healed my boy.”
“You don’t truly believe that.”
“But I do believe it, and I want to prove it. I’ve been funding Pu’er studies around the world, and we’re discovering all kinds of benefits. But there’s something about the tea from your grove that’s different.”
“So you’re asking for my tea for your personal gain?”
“No!” He puffs his chest, insulted. “Don’t you see, Li-yan? We have to protect the trees. If I can find your grove, how long before the study base or some unscrupulous dealer does? The camphor trees won’t hide your special trees forever.”
Which tells me he really does know the location of the grove. Maybe he’s been there already . . .
“The two special tea cakes we made . . .” His voice drifts off again. “They had yellow threads which grew and spread—”
“I remember you telling me this before. A-ma always relied on those for her toughest cases.” And they’re in Yan-yeh’s tea cake . . .
“Those threads are what’s so powerful. For years, I’ve scoured the mountains, looking for other sources, but haven’t found one. They’re only in your grove, and they’re what saved Xian-rong when he had a recurrence in 2007.”
I remember Mr. Huang coming to my shop in the tea market and telling me that he’d been to my village and wondering why no one, not even A-ma, had mentioned it.
“And A-ma treated him again?” I ask.
He nods. “I told Xian-rong the tea would help settle his stomach postchemo. And, since he loved your mom and Nannuo Mountain, he never asked questions and was content to obey. He’s been cancer-free ever since.”
“Then let it go and be grateful.”
“Li-yan,” he pleads, “my son has recovered twice from cancer. My wife died from it. Did they have a genetic predisposition or was it just bad luck? How can I know what will happen to my grandchildren and great-grandchildren?”
“Xian-rong isn’t even married yet,” I respond, trying for a light tone, “and you never like the girls he goes out with anyway.”
But this isn’t the time for levity.
“One day he’ll find the right girl.” Mr. Huang leans in. “Then what? You Recite the Lineage? What about my lineage? What about Xian-rong’s? You’ve known him for twenty-one years. What if he or his son or daughter gets sick? Your mother might be gone. You and I might not be here either. There would be no way to protect my family’s security and longevity. You’ve never trusted me, but you should start now. I’m a man who loves his son very deeply. What would you do for your son?”
* * *
I don’t tell Jin about my conversation with Mr. Huang. I don’t call A-ma to discuss what he said either. I hold all the information inside me, trying to process it. Out of everything he said, one question lingers: What would you do for your son? I find myself watching Paul when he draws his bow across his violin strings, when he kicks the ball during soccer practice, when he wakes screaming in the night. We Akha think so much about our ancestors and the spirit world in which they reside, but our sons and daughters in the world of the living prolong our lines in the direction of the future. They will be the next ancestors. They should be protected, but at what cost? By the time Paul and I leave for China the following month, I know what must happen. I hope my conviction will be enough to sway A-ma.
On our way to Spring Well, we make a quick stop at the Social Welfare Institute to deliver clothes, toys, books, and other necessities. Paul always likes these visits, and even though he’s only eight he likes to make things for the kids—like puppets made from lunch bags—but this time he’d asked if we could bring three laptops. “They could play games. They could even learn to read a little. When they’re older, if they aren’t adopted, they could do their homework . . . Mom, please!” Before we left home, I’d told Jin that our son is destined for a great university, because he’s already building his community service record. My husband had laughed and kissed the top of my head.
And then it’s on to Nannuo Mountain. Tea-picking season is always so busy that A-ma and I usually don’t visit my grove until I’m just about to return home. Not this time. Directly upon our arrival in Spring Well, I ask her to come with me to my hidden grove. My a-ma has reached seventy-eight years on this earth. She’s lived on Nannuo Mountain her entire life—breathing clean air, eating fresh food, and walking these mountains to care for tea trees and people alike. She’s strong, and I lag behind as she strides up mountain trails that grow progressively narrow until the last one seems to disappear. She waits for me at the boulder, and together we shimmy around it.
What is another year to the mother and sister trees? In the twenty-eight years I’ve known of their existence, they seem unchanged. Once I had thought of the grove as a place of pain, suffering, and death. Now I’m honored to have it as my legacy. But it may be so much more than that. I go straight to the mother tree and caress its bark. Yellow powder comes off on my palms, which I hold out for A-ma to see.
“Do you know what this is?” I ask.
“It’s a gift brought here by our nomadic mothers as they journeyed—”
“Mr. Huang thinks it’s something more.”