The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(7)
Today, the women and girls in our household are gathered around the fire pit on the women’s side of the house to do needlework. The fire gives us light and warmth, while the choking smoke helps to ward off mosquitoes. First Sister-in-law and Second Sister-in-law have their heads bent together in private conversation. Puffy colored balls on the ends of wires wound with embroidery thread grow from First Sister-in-law’s headdress like a meadow of wildflowers. Second Sister-in-law’s headdress is fringed with a string of hollow silver balls about the size of peas that swish across her forehead like bangs. I fidget as Third Sister-in-law examines my needlework. Usually I have Ci-teh at my side for these inspections, but she hasn’t been allowed to visit since my bad behavior cycles ago at the tea collection center.
The afternoon is interrupted when Deh-ja and her mother-in-law arrive, bringing A-ma a gift of peanuts. It’s never too early to seal the bond with the woman who will bring your baby into the world. But poor Deh-ja. Usually you can barely tell when a woman is pregnant. Our clothes are sewn to be loose enough to be comfortable, while the many layers give added warmth, show family wealth, and have the clever ability to hide what’s underneath. Beyond that, from childhood, girls like me are taught the proper behavior during pregnancy so we’ll have a bone-deep understanding of our responsibilities when we go into marriage. When the time comes, we should be shy about our condition and stand at an angle so our stomachs will appear less prominent. We even have a courteous way of referring to a woman carrying a baby inside her as “one living under another,” because she must obey her husband and never run away from him. It’s hard to imagine Deh-ja under Ci-do or running away from him, though, because her belly is so huge with her first baby that she looks like a melon left too long on the vine, ready to burst.
“There must be a big son in there,” A-ma says, as she lifts the kettle from the fire. “He wants to come out and give greetings to his a-ma and a-ba, and most especially to his a-ba’s parents.”
Deh-ja smiles happily. “Let it be a son. Let it be a son. Let it be a son.”
She sure is reliable in her chanting, and I can see that her fealty pleases her mother-in-law, as do my a-ma’s comments about the baby wanting to meet his grandparents. Pregnancy is a gift to the entire village. Even I know how to recognize when a woman has “come to a head,” obvious from her morning sickness. A-ma has taught me to identify if the baby will be a boy or a girl by the way it sleeps in its mother’s womb. If the baby is more on the right side, then it will come out a boy. If it’s more on the left side, it will be a girl. I need to learn these things if I’m going to follow in A-ma’s line by becoming a village midwife one day, as she wishes.
Not only is Deh-ja persistent with her chanting but she’s also already memorized the rules for the introduction of her baby into Spring Well. She’s been careful not to curse or eat on an uncovered porch—both of which would draw too much attention to herself. When she recites, “Ci-do and I will refrain from the intercourse for ten cycles after our son is born, as is proper,” her mother-in-law beams proudly and comes back with the proper and happy response: “I bless you with an easy birth.”
“It’s good to see that Ci-do has also been doing his part,” A-ma says as she pours tea for everyone. “He’s avoided climbing trees, because the world knows that this might cause the baby to cry easily, which not one person in the village desires.”
“And he engages solely in men’s activities, especially hunting,” Ci-do’s a-ma boasts, “to make sure his firstborn comes out a son.”
“Then all should be well,” A-ma concludes, although I’ve overheard her express concern about Deh-ja’s size to the sisters-in-law.
Third Sister-in-law has ignored this entire exchange. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she counts my stitches for a second time—not a good sign. Her needlework is considered to be the most excellent in Spring Well. Her headdress is covered with embroidered and appliquéd designs of different creatures with special meanings: a frog and a monkey at play to show harmony; a bird with a worm in its mouth to signify her maternal love; and a butterfly whose head is embroidered to look like a lavender and yellow crab. Because she is so good at her handiwork, she can show off her expertise and creativity just for the fun of it.
She finally looks up from her examination and tosses the piece of cloth back in my lap. “You’ll need to pull out every stitch and do them again.” Third Sister-in-law is my favorite, but sometimes it feels like all she does is boss me around. She’s the mother of a son and one day I’ll marry out into my husband’s home, which is why A-ma tolerates it. But then Third Sister-in-law goes too far by showing her sharp snout and critical tongue. “You’ll never get a marriage proposal if you have to rely on your needlework.”
A-ma shoots up a hand to keep her from uttering another word. Nothing so untoward should be spoken directly.
“Let her be,” A-ma says in a manner designed to end all further conversation on this subject. “The girl will go to her marriage with a precious dowry. She will find someone willing to marry her, if only for that.”
It’s a small room, and surely A-ma sees the looks that pass between the three sisters-in-law and our neighbors. I have a dowry, true, but it’s hardly precious. It’s a remote tea grove high, high, high on the mountain and handed down by the women in her family. Its location is a secret because of tradition and because the grove itself is said to bring bad fortune to trespassers. Some might even call it cursed . . .