The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane Read online

  I stay on the main thoroughfare, afraid that if I turn off it I’ll never find my way home. I don’t know how to locate the orphanage. I’m surrounded by strangers in a place that could never even come to me in a nightmare. I’m hungry. My private parts hurt. I’m weak from giving birth and all the walking. And I absolutely must not be caught, because even for Han majority people what I’m about to do is against the law. I’ve heard of jail, prison, and labor camps—who hasn’t?—but no Akha has ever survived being sent to one. Not that I’ve heard of anyway.

  An image of A-ma gazing out over the mountains before she handed me the knife comes to me. The way she set her jaw . . . Anguish. Courage. Sacrifice. This is mother love. This is what I must find in myself now.

  I come to a tiny roadway that divides a block. It’s also unpaved but empty of people and bicycles. I creep into the shadows and sit shielded by a discarded cardboard box with my back against the wall. From here, I can watch the street without being seen. Surely those people will need to sleep. I eat some rice balls, ration my water, and nurse Yan-yeh again. I tell her everything I can about Akha Law, about her a-ma and a-ba, about the lineage, and what it will mean to become a woman one day. How I will always love her. How I will think of her every breathing minute of my life. I whisper endearments into her face, and she looks up at me in that penetrating way of hers. Her tiny hand grips my forefinger, searing my heart and scarring it forever.

  I’m awakened later—who knows how much time has passed?—by her mewling. I feel dawn coming in the quiet around me, but for now the night is still murky and dim. I must act now. Already tears pour from my eyes. I make sure her blanket is tight around her and the tea cake secure. I put her in the box. She doesn’t cry.

  At the corner, I peer in both directions. To the left, in the distance, two women approach, sweeping the powdery dust from the surface of the dirt road with brooms made of long thatch—slowly from side to side, swish, swish, swish. I step out, turn right, and scuttle forward. I pass over two more streets, both deserted. All the while, I’m whispering, “Your a-ma loves you. I’ll never forget you.” I place the cardboard box on the steps of a building. No more words now. I must run, and I do—to the next corner, right, then right again, and to the next corner, so that I’ve returned to the edge of the main street. The two sweepers come closer—swish, swish, swish. I dart across the road and hide on that side so I can see the abandoned cardboard box. Its sides tremble. My daughter must be moving, realizing I’m gone. And then it comes—a terrible wail that cuts through the darkness.

  The two sweepers look up from their work, cocking their ears like animals in the forest. And then another croaking shriek. The women drop their brooms and come running. They don’t notice me, but I see them clearly—two elders with faces like rotten loquats. They drop to their knees on either side of the box. I hear them clucking, concerned yet comforting. One picks up the baby; the other scans the street. I can’t hear their conversation, but they’re decisive and knowing, as though they’ve encountered this situation before. Without hesitation, they begin marching back the way they came, back toward me. I slither farther into the shadows. When they pass me, I watch them until they reach their discarded brooms and continue on. I leave the safety of my hiding place and follow, creeping from doorway to doorway. They arrive at a building I passed earlier right on this same main road. The woman holding Yan-yeh sways and pats her back. The other woman bangs on the door. Lights come on. The door cracks open. A few words are exchanged. My baby is handed over, the door closed, and the two old women walk back to their brooms. The sign on the door reads: MENGHAI SOCIAL WELFARE INSTITUTE.

  I stay until the sun comes up. Grocers set baskets brimming with vegetables on the sidewalk. Barbers open their doors. Children walk hand in hand to school. The door to the Menghai Social Welfare Institute remains closed. I can’t stop crying, but there’s nothing more I can do. I begin my long walk back up Nannuo Mountain. I get lost only a few times. When I feel I can’t take another step, I venture into the forest. I fall asleep holding A-ma’s knife. The next day, by the time I reach my grove with the mother tree, where A-ma is waiting for me, I’m empty of tears. From now on, I cannot—I must not—let anyone see my sorrow. The loneliness of that . . . like I’m drowning . . .

  Social Welfare Institute

  No. 6, Middle Nanhai Road

  Xishuangbanna Dai Autonomous Prefecture

  Yunnan province, China

  Report on Baby Girl #78

  Today a baby girl foundling was delivered into our care by Street Cleaners Lin and Hu. They report they did not see a mother, father, or any other person of interest. They are fully aware of the penalties for lying and have been honest in similar past situations.

  Baby Girl #78 arrived with part of her umbilical cord still attached. It looks four to six days dried. From this, I am giving her a birth date of November 24, 1995. Baby Girl #78 weighs 2.77 kilograms and is 47 centimeters in length. She has black hair. She does not have a birthmark or other identifying marks.

  As required, we have cataloged and stored her possessions, except for a cardboard box, which I sent to the kitchen to be used for vegetable storage:

  1 cake of tea, 1 blanket, 1 shirt, 1 pair leggings, and 1 cap with charms. These items will remain with the child.

  The charms on the hat and the indigo coloring of the handwoven blanket and clothing suggest that the child was born of an ethnic minority woman.

  Two photographs and a footprint of Baby Girl #78 were taken during intake and will be added to her file.

  Signed,

  Director Zhou Shue-ling

  SHREDDED OUT OF EXISTENCE

  The next three months are terrible. In the beginning, my breasts turn as hard as rocks with the arrival of my milk, and my insides continue to leak red tears. Even after the physical discomforts pass, I ache for my lost baby. Waves of grief wash through me—sometimes with such cruel force that my eyes pool beyond my control. When A-ma sees me thus, she pinches the exposed back of my neck or snaps at me to do my chores more carefully, all to help me gather myself in front of the rest of my family. A-ba, noticing I’m more subdued, decides I’m ready for marriage: “It’s time for you to start contributing to the increase of people,” he declares.

  In the fourth month, Mr. Huang and his son return. Mr. Huang looks the same; the boy looks completely different, with a full head of hair instead of a shaved dome. A-ba shows off his new hand-operated rolling machine, for which he traded his best crossbow. “Now we can process an entire kilo in a half hour!” he boasts.

  Mr. Huang shakes his head. “Nothing mechanical can touch our leaves.”

  A-ba, his shoulders slumped, puts his machine under the house with the pigs and chickens; the stranger hires me again; and his son follows A-ma nearly everywhere she goes. Xian-rong has retained the Akha words he learned last spring and now picks up even more. Tea Master Wu arrives from Yiwu to supervise the killing of the green, kneading, drying, and sorting. He watches every step of the artificial fermentation process too. We happily take Mr. Huang’s money, and he gets to act like a big man. Beneficent.

  After three months, we know that the fermentation results are far better than those from last year. Once the cakes are made, Mr. Huang arranges for them to be transported off Nannuo Mountain and out of the country for storage and aging in Hong Kong.

  “But I’m still missing my favorite leaves.” Mr. Huang needles me at the end of his trip. “How much will you make me pay for them this year? Double? Triple? This time, will you take me to your grove? I’d like to see how you care for your trees.”

  I’m about to go to pick leaves when A-ma stops me. She seems to have a magical sense when it comes to our trees. “The grove is special to our family. It is special to you. Never let an outsider have it. Never let a man see it.”

  “I would never take him there, but if I sell him some of my leaves, San-pa and I will be able to—”

  “San-pa,” she nearly shouts. “He’s never co
ming back! And even if he does, do you think we would allow you to leave with him? Where would you go? What would you do?”

  I have answers to her stinging questions: He is coming back, they can’t stop me from leaving with him when I’ve walked to Menghai and back alone, we would go wherever he wants. We could start a life in his family’s newlywed hut or go to a whole new village, as he once suggested. But why bother trying to turn a monkey into a goat? A-ma will not change her mind about Mr. Huang or San-pa: “Stay away from that tea man. And forget about San-pa.”

  But the temptation and my dreams are too great. I climb the mountain and fill a basket with unfurling leaves from the very tips of each branch of the mother tree. I tell myself these are not the best leaves. Those would have come in the first ten days of tea-picking season, but Mr. Huang buys them, paying me even more than he did last year. Once again, we visit the faraway village so I can process the tea in secret.

  One day later, A-ma goes to the grove and discovers what I’ve done. I wish she would shout at me, but that’s not the Akha Way. Instead, she punishes me with quiet words. “Was it worth it? Did it make that boy return for you? It’s been more than a year. You sold your greatest gift. You sold your honor.”

  In my shame and despair, I finally accept he’s never coming back. Anguish nearly destroys me. I’m like a leaf that’s fallen from its home branch and now spirals down, down, down, floating out over a cliff, buffeted by winds, shredded out of existence.

  A-ma stops asking me to accompany her on healing visits. The sisters-in-law, following A-ma’s example, pretend I no longer exist. My brothers ignore my face swollen from so much crying. A-ba doesn’t even notice what’s happening to me. I feel too guilty to go to my grove for solace and solitude. I can’t talk to Ci-teh, because where would I start? And even if I could confide in her, she’s never around. These days she’s spending every free moment stealing love in the forest with Law-ba, the boy A-ma and A-ba once wanted me to marry. She’s turned into the type of girl she once accused me of being: one who discards the comforts of friendship to give her full attention to a boy.

  I end up spending my days and nights under the house with the dogs, pigs, chickens, and ducks. The smell is rancid and foul, and the animals stare at me with baleful eyes. If Akha Law is correct and everything on earth is connected, then our animals are aware of my humiliation. I feel as low as a human reject. And yet life continues around me. Ci-teh’s family announces she’ll soon marry Law-ba, and the whole village enjoys a celebratory feast. I must attend the festivities, but they are heartbreaking for me. Not so long ago, A-ma and A-ba intended this joyousness for me. Soon after the banquet, all three sisters-in-law come to a head in the same cycle. The news is greeted by great rejoicing in hopes of the arrival of new grandsons; sacrifices are made to ensure good deliveries; and everyone in my family eats proper foods, because these simultaneous pregnancies are so auspicious. Joy and optimism spread through Spring Well. Even in my hiding place, I can’t avoid the sounds of pigs being bred, cats yowling that they’ve found mates, and boys and girls singing their attraction to each other from hilltop to hilltop.

  “The flowers bloom at their peaks, waiting for the butterflies to come—” The first line of the love song reaches me. How unfair.

  The next line belongs to the girl. It should be “The honeycombs wait for the bees to make honey,” but I can’t hear it. She must be singing away from my direction. A relief.

  “A beautiful flower calls to her love—”

  The male voice comes closer. I cover my ears.

  “Alloo sae, ah-ee-ah-ee-o, ah-ee-ah-ee-o.”

  The song tortures me. I hum a planting tune to drown out the pitiless sounds of ardor. Later, I feel the thumps of footsteps climbing the men’s veranda and remove my hands from my ears. The singing is over, at least. The bamboo floor above me squeaks and heaves as my father and brothers pace back and forth. Footsteps rattle down the stairs. Third Brother’s feet come into view.

  “Girl, you’d better come.”

  I go around to the women’s veranda. A-ma and the sisters-in-law are all standing when I enter the house. A-ma wears one of her impenetrable expressions.

  “He’s returned,” First Sister-in-law states.

  I rush to the men’s side of the house. San-pa! He looks thinner. Wiry. Older. A man now. I run into his arms. He holds me tight. His heart beats into me. He speaks over my head to the men in my family.

  “I’ve Recited the Lineage for you. Your daughter and I have no matching ancestors for seven generations. Your daughter does not have seizures nor is she troubled by insanity. Neither do I have these afflictions. I went away to earn money so I can take care of her when she’s at university.”

  “My daughter didn’t take the gaokao.” How is it that A-ba can so easily use against me something that he once opposed? I notice, though, the long silence from San-pa.

  Finally, San-pa sputters, “I’ve come with the proper gifts for your family to seal the arrangement.”

  A-ba clears his throat, but when San-pa won’t allow him a single objection, I know my future husband has forgiven me my failings as a student. But can we have a life together if I don’t tell him about our baby?

  “Most important, your daughter is older than thirteen,” he goes on, gaining momentum again. “You and I both know that we could have married in the past without your permission, but I sought it anyway. I respected your wishes. Now you must respect mine. I have come to fetch a wife, and I expect your daughter to go-work-eat with me.”

  Look how San-pa has changed! If only he’d spoken this forcefully sooner. We would have been sleeping and doing the intercourse in his family’s newlywed hut until our daughter’s birth.

  When A-ba addresses the traditional phrase to me, “Go get married to him then,” I understand that San-pa and I have finally won. Without another word, San-pa takes my hand and together we run out of the house and into the forest. We don’t stop until we reach our special clearing. Panting—from excitement, from our running—we stare into each other’s faces. He’s dirty from his travels. And I’m . . . My hands shoot to my cheeks. I must look—and smell—dreadful. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He grabs me, and we fall together on the bed of pine needles. We don’t even take off all our clothes. He’s even thinner than I thought when I first saw him. I can feel his sinews and bones under his skin. Once the intercourse—lovely and urgent—is over, we lie together.

  I’ve experienced numerous adversities in my eighteen years, but telling him about Yan-yeh is one of the hardest. He tightens his arms around me when I weep out the truth.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” he says when I’m done. “I failed you, but that doesn’t mean I’ll fail our daughter. We’ll go to Menghai and get her.”

  Why hadn’t I thought of this? Because my despair had forbidden me even to hope for a chance to get Yan-yeh. But is it still possible to change her from a human reject into a daughter?

  “People will know she came before our wedding—”

  “If we could have lived in the city near your school,” he says, his tone surprisingly sharp, “we would have avoided that problem . . .”

  This reproach stings more than it should when all I should be is happy to get Yan-yeh.

  “And we can’t stay on Nannuo or any nearby mountain where people might hear about us.” His brow furrows as he ponders the problem. After an uncomfortably long pause, he comes to a decision. “We should go back to Thailand. I can get work there, and she will not yet be so big. In Thailand, they will think we were already married when you gave birth, just as they already think I was born on Sheep Day. So propitious for a sheep and a pig to share a home, don’t you think?” He smiles reassuringly. “And here? By the next time we come back, you will have borne me a son. My a-ma and a-ba won’t bother counting her teeth to judge her age after they see him.”

  He has taken charge of our lives as all husbands should. How I love him in that moment.

  “Can we go get her
right now?” I ask.

  San-pa laughs and pulls me back into his arms.

  * * *

  Akha weddings are complicated and drawn out for days, sometimes weeks. Not ours. Everything happens over three nights, because we’re anxious to pick up our baby.

  I’m dressed in a white wedding skirt, a gaily decorated kerchief, and my usual tunic and leggings, when two elders from San-pa’s village arrive in Spring Well to set the rituals in motion. They present A-ba with coins. These are not a bride-price in the traditional sense. Rather, they are, as the older man says, “To pay for the mother’s milk your daughter drank.” Then come the yips and yelps of a group of young men, who shepherd San-pa into the village. A-ba announces that our family is going to host a Fill the Carry Basket ceremony so I might gather a proper dowry, which tells me he has accepted the circumstances. Ci-teh sits with me when the ruma recites a special poem about me, listing my attributes from the time of my birth to today. “She only got in trouble one time. She is a good worker.” And so on.

  The ruma then asks San-pa, “Do you need to test the machete before you buy it?”

  This sends Ci-teh into a spiral of laughter, because he’s asking if San-pa and I have yet stolen love. If not, we’d be required to go to the forest right then. Still, I’m a bride, so I turn crimson when San-pa answers, “The machete has been tested, and the rice already cooked.”

  A-ba presents me with a carrying basket to take to my new home. A-ma gives me a rain cape and a new set of clothes, plus her silver bracelet with the two dragons facing each other nose to nose. It’s beyond what I could have hoped for, considering her feelings about San-pa. My brothers contribute packets of rice seed that San-pa and I will be able to plant when we reach our new home. First Sister-in-law and Second Sister-in-law each cut a bangle from their headdresses as tokens for me to remember them by; Third Sister-in-law presents a blanket decorated with her fine embroidery and appliqué. I pack these things in my carrying basket, tucking the money Mr. Huang paid me at the bottom. (I haven’t yet told San-pa about my savings. I want to surprise him if a time comes when we need it.) And while most brides must relinquish their rights to the property they were allotted in the Thirty Years No Change policy to their a-bas or brothers, A-ma promises to care for my grove.