The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(21)
“Stealing love with San-pa won’t be for me like it is for you and—”
“Boys try out girls. Girls try out boys,” Ci-teh continues right over me. “If they both like the intercourse, then the boy will ask for marriage. If the girl comes to a head by mistake, then they will either get married or the girl will visit your a-ma for one of her special potions. If neither of them likes the intercourse, then why would they want to spend the rest of their lives together? Then it’s only right to look elsewhere.”
“I’m not of a mind to sample every pumpkin in the market. I only want San-pa. Until we become village elders. Until we die. Forever into the afterworld.”
My admission sends Ci-teh into another spiral of giggles.
We climb a series of paths to a clearing that overlooks the village. Some men have already taken down the old swing, while others watch over a pit where pieces of a sacrificed ox turn on a spit. I look for San-pa in the crowd, but there are so many people . . . Women barter homemade brooms, embroideries, or dried wild mushrooms for silver beads and other trimmings for their headdresses. Men trade home-cured hides for iron to give to the village blacksmith to hone into blades for machetes and ax heads. Ci-teh and I are the only girls in our village who’ve put on our headdresses for the first time, and boys look us over like goats to be traded.
Ci-teh pulls on my sleeve. “When the time comes—and it will—you let him make a way down there first. It will still hurt, but it will hurt less. He’s probably stolen love before. He’ll know what to do.”
Before I have a chance to ask what make a way means, whoops and hollers cut through the air as a throng of young men emerge from the forest with four thin tree trunks stripped of their bark. One member of the pack carries over his arm loops of magic vine. San-pa! I’m accustomed to seeing him in school in unadorned leggings and tunic, but today he’s dressed as a man who wants to announce to everyone what a good family he’s from. His mother has dipped the cloth of his shorts and jacket in indigo dye many times to get a deep and very rich color. Even from afar I can see that his jacket is built of many layers. And his mother or sisters or both have stitched his belt with five bands of intricate embroidery. Instead of a turban, he wears a cap sheathed with silver cutouts hammered into the shapes of acanthus leaves.
“Look at him,” Ci-teh sighs dramatically. “He’s definitely come to look for a wife. He’s come for you! Why else would he walk so far? Why else would he join the boys from our village in going to the forest for the vine and to cut the trees? Hours on mountain paths and he still looks so . . .”
“Man beautiful,” I finish for her.
“Beautiful?” Ci-teh covers her mouth to hide her giggles.
He spots me. He doesn’t pretend indifference. His mouth spreads into a wide grin, and he begins threading his way through the crowd toward Ci-teh and me. She clamps shut her mouth, but I can feel her excitement. He stops a meter in front of us. His eyes shine like black pebbles washed by the rain.
“You have a nice village,” he says, “but I look forward to the day when you come to mine. It’s bigger, and we’re on the crest of a hill and not in a saddle.”
His meaning could not be clearer. He’s telling me he’ll make a good husband, because his village is better—wealthier and easier to defend—than mine. I blush so deeply that I’m sure I’ve turned the color of mulberry juice, which is so embarrassing that I feel my face burn even worse. Fortunately, the ruma arrives in the clearing.
The swing won’t go up until tomorrow, so this part of the ceremony will be short. The ruma starts his ritual chanting, but we don’t fully understand what comes out of his mouth. Our culture was built over many centuries by ancestors who lived on the earth before us. How they pronounced their words a hundred or a thousand years ago is only for the ruma to know. By the time he’s done, I’m ready to have a proper conversation.
“May I show you my village?” I ask.
It feels natural to walk by San-pa’s side, pointing out who lives where and telling little stories about our neighbors. He takes it all in, asking questions that in all the years we’ve known each other we’ve never discussed.
“How many brothers do you have?” he inquires. “How many sisters? How many cousins live in the main house?”
I ask him the same questions and follow up with “How many newlywed huts does your family have?”
“I’m the only son,” he answers. “My three sisters have already married out.”
So his a-ma and a-ba will welcome a daughter-in-law, be happy to build a newlywed hut, and eagerly await the sounds of grandchildren in the main house.
“I’ll visit my sisters’ villages on my way home,” he goes on since I’ve been so busy figuring in my head.
“You’re not leaving tonight, are you?” I stammer.
“If you’d like, I could stay for the entire festival.”
“I’d like that very much.” And another rush of blood floods my face.
We circle the village and return to the swing clearing, where everyone has gathered around a bonfire for the feast. San-pa joins the other unmarried boys, and I sit with my family. Our eyes keep meeting. Our silent communication is so deep that it feels as though we are the only two people here.
The music, singing, and dancing begin immediately after the meal. Someone hands San-pa a drum, and he joins the other men as they dance illuminated by the firelight. His body rises and falls with each beat of the drum. The warmth I feel comes not from the fire or my blushing cheeks but from below my waist. For the first time, my body fully understands why boys and girls want to go to the forest to steal love.