The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(41)
She nods tearfully before resuming her marriage duties. “Remember never to overtake your husband on the path,” she says. “Remember never to crow like a rooster. Remember always that you are only a hen.”
San-pa’s a-ma takes the headdress from Ci-teh and places it in the newlywed hut. Ci-teh gives an almost imperceptible nod: Good luck. I hope you’ll be happy. We’ll be friends forever. I smile at her and try to memorize every detail of her face, not knowing how long it will be before I see her again. As she turns to begin her journey home, San-pa and I enter the newlywed hut. The village ruma waits for us. He gives us our Meal of Joining—a single cooked egg, a single glass of rice wine, and a single cup of tea—to share. Once I put on my headdress, our wedding ceremony is complete. I am now Wife-of-San-pa and Daughter-in-law to his parents. I’m happy, but a part of me—that hard stone I carry within me at all times—reminds me of our daughter. Why couldn’t things have happened differently? Why couldn’t San-pa have come sooner? But then another thought: Only two more days and I’ll have her next to my heart again.
San-pa and I go back outside. A group of men herd a pig to our door. San-pa stabs his knife into its throat. The men restrain the animal so its blood can spurt into a bowl. Once the pig dies, San-pa slits it open and removes the liver. This is taken away for the ruma, nima, and village elders to examine for good and bad omens.
Each minute that passes is another minute of joy. Our marriage feast begins with a soup, followed by fried potato wedges, bitter melon with scrambled egg, sautéed eggplant and garlic, pickled mustard greens, and special meatballs made from minced meat from the slaughtered pig mixed with its blood. The people of Shelter Shadow complete their welcome of me by singing a wedding song filled with good wishes:
“You are the new bark on the tree of our village.
May your life together become strong as wood,
Rings growing one link at a time,
A part of the Akha line.”
That night, San-pa sleeps in his parents’ house, and I retire to the home of one of his uncles. To say this is difficult . . . Waaa! Tradition!
The next day, a woman elder escorts me into San-pa’s family house to bathe me. I feel embarrassed for her to see me naked. Will she be able to tell I once had a child? Meanwhile, villagers hit the eaves with long sticks. “Move in, soul. Move in! Move in!” I wish I could tell them that they don’t have to work so hard at this, because my soul moved in with San-pa’s a long time ago. Once I’m dressed, I return to the main room. Three elders take turns circling an egg around us. It sounds easy, but it’s hard for one elder to pass the egg to the next elder without dropping it. I hold my breath, so nervous. I look over at San-pa for encouragement, but he’s even more anxious than I am. If one of the elders drops the egg and it cracks, then we would not be able to have any (more) children, have a happy life, or live to become elders ourselves.
At the end of the evening, I’m invited to sleep on the women’s side of San-pa’s family home, while he sleeps on the men’s side. How tantalizing it would be to slip out, run into the forest, and do the intercourse, but if we did that our newlywed blessings would decrease. We’ve already had such ill luck that I don’t want to attract bad spirits intent on troublemaking.
On the third morning, San-pa and I go door to door to Beg for Blessings. We carry bowls of chopped pig meat and liver, as well as a bottle of liquor to share. In exchange, people give me gifts of money and silver trinkets. Again and again, we hear, “May you have a long life. May your animals multiply. May your tea pickings and rice crops be plentiful. May you have many children.”
Finally, finally, at the end of a night of feasting and dancing, San-pa takes me to our newlywed hut. I feel nervous yet eager, shy yet bold, as I start to undress.
* * *
The next morning, Shelter Shadow’s ruma kills a chicken and inspects it for bad signs. The tongue is in the normal position, which is fortuitous. If it had been twisted, it would mean that San-pa and I would argue on our journey. I can’t imagine ever arguing with my husband.
“Has a tiger ever killed an animal in or around our village on this day of the cycle?” San-pa asks.
The ruma and nima consult and agree that no such thing has occurred. With no more rituals left to complete, San-pa and I lift our baskets to our backs and depart.
San-pa has told me that it’s 250 kilometers from Nannuo Mountain to the village outside Chiang Rai in Thailand where we’re going. First, though, we head in the opposite direction, to Menghai. After a half day’s journey, we join the path I took when I carried Yan-yeh off the mountain. When night falls, we sleep among the rubber trees. In the morning, San-pa uses his machete to scratch the dirt where we rested. “Wake up! Wake up! Let’s go!” He smiles at me and explains, “All hunters do this to make sure we don’t leave our souls behind.” I’m not a hunter, so I didn’t know this ritual when I came this way with our baby. What if Yan-yeh’s soul got lost? What if mine ran away? What about all the ways both small and large that San-pa and I have skirted fate? By the time we reach the Menghai Social Welfare Institute, I’m both hopeful and frightened.
As we enter, the smell of urine hits my nose with a powerful slap. On the floor in front of us, a scramble of babies and toddlers. There are so many of them! Even as San-pa talks to the woman in charge, I dart from child to child. They’re all girls. This one too old. That one too young. Eyes too squinty. Ears too pronounced. Too much hair. Not enough hair. All this, as though I would recognize Yan-yeh after leaving her months ago in a cardboard box down the street. But, I tell myself, a mother would know.