The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(22)
* * *
The next morning, everyone gathers again in the clearing, where the ruma supervises the men as the four poles for the new swing are put in place then tilted inward until they meet at the top. A man of small stature shimmies up one of the poles and secures them together. He then fastens a long length of vine to the top, letting the looped end hang down in the center of the pyramid. Last, the ruma makes offerings to appease earth spirits and protect us from any accidents.
“I am a-ma and a-ba to Spring Well Village,” he chants. “Like a mother hen, I protect those under my wing. Like the father water buffalo, I protect them with my horns.”
He grabs the vine, walks up the hill, and places his left foot in the loop. Then, accompanied by cheers, he careens down between the poles and out into the air over the ledge that overlooks the village. Next, every male—from eldest to youngest—takes a turn.
Finally, we girls get our chance. For reasons of modesty, a board is strung through the foothold for us to sit on. When my turn comes, Ci-teh and Third Sister-in-law give me a push and then I’m flying down between the poles and up and out into space. The wind rushes through my headdress. The bells and other silver ornaments jingle. The chicken feathers flutter. The silver on my breastplate catches the sun. I’m a soaring bird for San-pa, and I can’t stop smiling and laughing as I pass back and forth over his head. He returns my smiles and laughs.
Later that night—after another feast—I take San-pa to the Flower Room. Some boys and girls have already paired off. I don’t spot a private place for the two of us, but that doesn’t matter. Our parents aren’t watching, so we can do whatever we want. When San-pa pulls me into his arms, we both seem to know what to do. His lips are gentle on mine. With a moan that I’ve only heard coming from a newlywed hut, he buries his face in my neck and kisses me again and again. I feel like I can barely stand.
* * *
The next morning, as A-ma and I grind grain beneath the house, she asks, “Who were you with last night? Was it Law-ba?”
A-ma and A-ba have always liked Law-ba, who lives in Bamboo Forest Village. We went to the same primary school, and my parents have always hoped I’d marry him. He wears glasses with big black rims that make him look like an owl—but with none of an owl’s intelligence—and I’ve never once thought about visiting the Flower Room with him.
I keep my head bent to the millstone, hoping she’ll think of something else to talk about, but she’s an a-ma and it’s her duty to be nosy.
“Was it the stranger boy I saw gazing at you?” she persists.
“I guess so,” I answer when I know perfectly well it was San-pa.
“But isn’t he the one who stole the pancake all those years ago?” She doesn’t chide me for taking him to the Flower Room. Instead, she cuts straight to the heart of the problem. “He was born on a Tiger Day. You were born on a Pig Day. That will never change. Your a-ba and I will never agree to a marriage.”
“But I love San-pa.”
“You love San-pa?” His name comes off her tongue like a bitter herb. “What you are doing is an irresponsible act of fate-tempting.”
But I’m not going to give up. Not ever. “He will be a good husband. His family is better than ours. We are both educated—”
“None of that matters, and you know it! There is no purpose to his visit,” she states with finality. “You will need to find another boy.”
Hours later—after more swinging and feasting—I let San-pa lead me into the forest. The world shimmers with life around us: the fragrance of flowers, earth, and wild animals; the sounds of frogs in incessant song, animals howling in their mating, and the caws of birds who stare down at us with reflective eyes; the air itself bathes our skin with its warm breath. We walk until we find ground cushioned with leaves and pine needles softened by the passing of seasons. We sit side by side, staring out at a range of mountains that bank away from us, becoming more and more shrouded with mist, humidity, and distance until they melt into the blue-gray sky.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
We turn to each other. He kisses me as he slowly lowers me to the ground. He fumbles with my clothes. His callused hands tell me that he works hard for his family. He squeezes one of my nipples, and a foreign-sounding yip escapes my lips. I haven’t practiced with other boys, but I yearn to touch the flesh beneath his tunic. His chest is smooth. His muscles are firm under my palms. He pulls up my skirt, reaches above my leggings, and touches that part of me that has become slick and wet, but he’s the one who moans. He stares into my eyes. I see all the way to his soul. Whatever he has between his legs has to find what I have between mine. I may not have done this before, but I’ve seen roosters mount the females of their species. Pigs, dogs, and cats too. San-pa helps me flip over until I’m on my hands and knees. Something hot and hard slaps against my rear end. I arch my back at the feel of his fingers. I’m so happy for Ci-teh’s advice, because he’s making a way exactly as he should.
“San-pa.” His name is an ocean in my mouth, carrying me to a place I never knew existed. His hands come to rest on my hips. Then that hot thing back there finds my entrance and begins to push. I push back . . . Waaa! Such pain—like the blacksmith’s poker stabbing me. I collapse to my elbows. We both hold completely still. He leans down over me, putting his mouth close to my ear.