The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(51)
* * *
Unsure of what to do next, I seek the solitude of my grove and fall asleep under the grotto’s canopy, feeling the age and protection of the trees around me. Many hours later, the smell of food cooking over a fire reaches into my slumber. I can tell by the warmth of the air that it must be midday already. I open my eyes, see a pair of legs, and follow them up.
“A-ma . . .”
“Girl.” She squats next to me and rests her elbows on her knees. Her eyes pass over my wrists, notice her dragon bracelet gone, and then drift away. I sense her hardening herself against the miseries I will tell her. “People saw you on the mountain. Word reached me last night. I knew I would find you here.”
I tell her more than I told my in-laws, but I keep it just as basic: my baby was given to a family in America, my husband was an addict, I ran away from him, he was killed by a tiger. She could say many things, all of which could begin with “I told you . . .” Instead, she says, “We Akha believe that every human lives and dies nine times before becoming a special kind of spirit, which is like the wind blowing, unseen yet comforting and necessary. Even San-pa will reach that level one day. But your daughter’s path . . . I don’t understand it.”
We sit silently for a long while.
“May I come home?” I ask at last, knowing the humiliation I’ll face from my family and neighbors for the rest of my life.
“I wish you could—”
“It’s against tradition,” I acknowledge, “but I’ve seen enough of the outside world to know that it is not something I wish ever to see again.”
“No place is as beautiful or as comforting as our home, but—”
“I don’t have to marry,” I hear myself begging. “I can work hard. I’ll become the midwife you always wanted me to be.”
“Girl—”
“If you don’t want me in Spring Well Village, I could live here in the grove.”
“You could, but people on Nannuo will hear what happened to San-pa. They’ll blame you for his terrible death, and your life will not be what it should.”
She pours tea made from big leaves from old trees. The taste of my childhood. The taste of home. The taste of sorrow.
“You are my daughter,” she picks up. “You and I are connected by blood. We are also joined by this grove and your daughter. When you were gone, not a day passed that I didn’t worry about you. And not a day went by that I didn’t know you would come back. It took longer than I thought.” Her smile is sad. “So . . . I’ve had much time to think about what should happen when I next saw you. I wish with all my heart that you could stay here—despite the embarrassment for our family and the regrets for you—but you must leave.”
I haven’t cried once since deciding to run away from San-pa, but now that all hope has vanished, I weep.
“Don’t.” A-ma nudges me with the back of her hand. “You must listen. Teacher Zhang and I have prepared for this moment.”
“Teacher Zhang? But how could he know anything about—”
Again, she gives me that sad smile. “We know you, and we knew San-pa.” She puts her hands on her knees and pushes herself up. “You’re going to that trade school—”
“What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “How?”
“Teacher Zhang always said he had friends there. He was right. He secured a place for you for whenever you returned.”
“But you never wanted me to go—”
“That’s correct. As your a-ma, I didn’t want you to be away for four years. Who knew how you would change or if you would ever come home? But now I need to make this sacrifice if you are to have any chance at life. And you need to do this so maybe you can return one day. People will forget eventually . . .”
Will they? They never forgot about Ci-do and Deh-ja.
She glances up at the sun, judging the time. “I was awake all night. Third Sister-in-law helped me gather clothes for you. We’ve also packed a basket of tea. The best. I made it myself from the sister trees. This morning, I went to Teacher Zhang’s house. He’s waiting for us now at the tea collection center. But before we leave, I must tell you some things.”
All this is happening too fast. I don’t know what to think or how to feel. Disappointment. Confusion. Guilt. Worry. Fear. Sadness. Grief. And more. But one emotion overrides them all: deep love for my a-ma. Tears of gratitude streak my face.
A-ma stares down at me and shakes her head tolerantly. “Just sit. Just listen.” Then she begins. “You’ve heard the stories of how the Tea Horse Road spread civilization through the trade of salt, matches, and so many other necessities. None was more important than the exchange of our tea for Tibet’s warhorses. I can still remember the caravans from when I was a girl. Some had mules to help them, and they were decorated with beautiful stirrups, embroidered breastplates, and tasseled reins. Other caravans were composed solely of men, who carried heavy packs of tea cakes on their backs for fifteen hundred kilometers through jungle and rocky passes, across rivers and around lakes, over icy peaks, until reaching the treacherous plateau that is Tibet.”
I’ve heard all this before. Why is she telling it to me again?
“Each caravan might take six months to reach its destination,” she continues. “One part was so steep that it took twenty days to go two hundred and twenty-five kilometers, with rests every hundred meters or so. Many died from the hardship, falling from cliffs or freezing in blizzards, but those who survived to come home would turn around after a few days and start the trip all over again. Back and forth. Never ending. The road was also a way for monks, pilgrims, armies, and peoples to move. For the Akha, the road gave us a path to follow when we fled down—”