The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane Read online

  Ci-teh waits for me at the bottom of the stairs. I’d like to tell her she looks beautiful in her headdress and festival clothing, but we Akha never use that word to describe another human.

  “All the boys will want to take you to the Flower Room when they see you,” I say in greeting.

  “The Flower Room? I’ve already done that.” She giggles. “I’d rather go into the forest to steal love. The question is when are you going to the Flower Room?”

  I blush. Just the idea of meeting alone with a boy without our parents . . .

  “Of course,” she continues casually but knowing the effect her words will have on me, “if he comes, you might want to take him straight into the forest. There’s nothing to it, you know. You need to stop behaving like a blind kitten and act your age. Otherwise you’ll never get married.”

  Some boys and girls—like my friend—have been going into the forest to steal love since they were twelve. Not me. My free time was taken up with homework and studying. Over time, my seat in school was moved forward until I sat in the front row. San-pa also began to move forward, reaching the middle of the room. In another two years, we’ll take the gaokao, the countrywide test to see if we’ll be allowed to continue our education at a first-, second-, third-, or fourth-tier university or college. If we fail, we won’t have a chance to take it again. If we make it, we’ll be the first members of any mountain tribe on our mountain to be granted higher education. Then we’ll get married, have as many children as we want, and be a part of all the changes that are still to come to our prefecture . . .

  I’m not sure when I fell in love with San-pa. A week ago when he teased me about wanting to see me in my headdress? A year ago when I helped him for hours with his algebra homework? Or maybe six years ago when he gave me that bite of pancake? We have spent so much time together these past few years as the only Akha in our class. Together we studied the history of other countries beyond those that abut our borders but are still similar to China in outlook: Russia, North Korea, and Cuba. Together we struggled through the great Chinese novels—Dream of the Red Chamber and Rickshaw Boy—as well as those written by our Russian friends—Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. We’ve talked and talked. And we’ve spent hours together, just walking, partway to and from our first- and second-level schools. He’s always been interested in what I have to say, and I’ve loved hearing about his hunting expeditions with his a-ba and other men in his village. I’ve been able to help him with his essays, and he’s always shown his appreciation by bringing me a little treat plucked from the jungle—a blossom, a necklace of woven vine, or an egg from a nest.

  “If San-pa asks me to go to the Flower Room or the forest, I’ll go,” I confide to Ci-teh in a whisper.

  People in the next village can probably hear her laughter. Although we no longer spend the entire day together as we did when we were in Teacher Zhang’s class, Ci-teh and I are still as close as two girls can be.

  “If you don’t like it with him, then steal love with one of the other boys who’ll be here during the festival,” she says once she’s caught her breath. “You can do it as long as he isn’t in your clan.”

  “Stealing love with San-pa won’t be for me like it is for you and—”

  “Boys try out girls. Girls try out boys,” Ci-teh continues right over me. “If they both like the intercourse, then the boy will ask for marriage. If the girl comes to a head by mistake, then they will either get married or the girl will visit your a-ma for one of her special potions. If neither of them likes the intercourse, then why would they want to spend the rest of their lives together? Then it’s only right to look elsewhere.”

  “I’m not of a mind to sample every pumpkin in the market. I only want San-pa. Until we become village elders. Until we die. Forever into the afterworld.”

  My admission sends Ci-teh into another spiral of giggles.

  We climb a series of paths to a clearing that overlooks the village. Some men have already taken down the old swing, while others watch over a pit where pieces of a sacrificed ox turn on a spit. I look for San-pa in the crowd, but there are so many people . . . Women barter homemade brooms, embroideries, or dried wild mushrooms for silver beads and other trimmings for their headdresses. Men trade home-cured hides for iron to give to the village blacksmith to hone into blades for machetes and ax heads. Ci-teh and I are the only girls in our village who’ve put on our headdresses for the first time, and boys look us over like goats to be traded.

  Ci-teh pulls on my sleeve. “When the time comes—and it will—you let him make a way down there first. It will still hurt, but it will hurt less. He’s probably stolen love before. He’ll know what to do.”

  Before I have a chance to ask what make a way means, whoops and hollers cut through the air as a throng of young men emerge from the forest with four thin tree trunks stripped of their bark. One member of the pack carries over his arm loops of magic vine. San-pa! I’m accustomed to seeing him in school in unadorned leggings and tunic, but today he’s dressed as a man who wants to announce to everyone what a good family he’s from. His mother has dipped the cloth of his shorts and jacket in indigo dye many times to get a deep and very rich color. Even from afar I can see that his jacket is built of many layers. And his mother or sisters or both have stitched his belt with five bands of intricate embroidery. Instead of a turban, he wears a cap sheathed with silver cutouts hammered into the shapes of acanthus leaves.

  “Look at him,” Ci-teh sighs dramatically. “He’s definitely come to look for a wife. He’s come for you! Why else would he walk so far? Why else would he join the boys from our village in going to the forest for the vine and to cut the trees? Hours on mountain paths and he still looks so . . .”

  “Man beautiful,” I finish for her.

  “Beautiful?” Ci-teh covers her mouth to hide her giggles.

  He spots me. He doesn’t pretend indifference. His mouth spreads into a wide grin, and he begins threading his way through the crowd toward Ci-teh and me. She clamps shut her mouth, but I can feel her excitement. He stops a meter in front of us. His eyes shine like black pebbles washed by the rain.

  “You have a nice village,” he says, “but I look forward to the day when you come to mine. It’s bigger, and we’re on the crest of a hill and not in a saddle.”

  His meaning could not be clearer. He’s telling me he’ll make a good husband, because his village is better—wealthier and easier to defend—than mine. I blush so deeply that I’m sure I’ve turned the color of mulberry juice, which is so embarrassing that I feel my face burn even worse. Fortunately, the ruma arrives in the clearing.

  The swing won’t go up until tomorrow, so this part of the ceremony will be short. The ruma starts his ritual chanting, but we don’t fully understand what comes out of his mouth. Our culture was built over many centuries by ancestors who lived on the earth before us. How they pronounced their words a hundred or a thousand years ago is only for the ruma to know. By the time he’s done, I’m ready to have a proper conversation.

  “May I show you my village?” I ask.

  It feels natural to walk by San-pa’s side, pointing out who lives where and telling little stories about our neighbors. He takes it all in, asking questions that in all the years we’ve known each other we’ve never discussed.

  “How many brothers do you have?” he inquires. “How many sisters? How many cousins live in the main house?”

  I ask him the same questions and follow up with “How many newlywed huts does your family have?”

  “I’m the only son,” he answers. “My three sisters have already married out.”

  So his a-ma and a-ba will welcome a daughter-in-law, be happy to build a newlywed hut, and eagerly await the sounds of grandchildren in the main house.

  “I’ll visit my sisters’ villages on my way home,” he goes on since I’ve been so busy figuring in my head.

  “You’re not leaving tonight, are you?” I stammer.

  “If you’d like, I could stay for
the entire festival.”

  “I’d like that very much.” And another rush of blood floods my face.

  We circle the village and return to the swing clearing, where everyone has gathered around a bonfire for the feast. San-pa joins the other unmarried boys, and I sit with my family. Our eyes keep meeting. Our silent communication is so deep that it feels as though we are the only two people here.

  The music, singing, and dancing begin immediately after the meal. Someone hands San-pa a drum, and he joins the other men as they dance illuminated by the firelight. His body rises and falls with each beat of the drum. The warmth I feel comes not from the fire or my blushing cheeks but from below my waist. For the first time, my body fully understands why boys and girls want to go to the forest to steal love.

  * * *

  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.

  “Should I continue?”

  I take a breath and nod. Slowly, slowly, he moves back and forth. The startling pain is gone, but I don’t feel anything close to the urgency I felt before. San-pa does though, and he picks up his rhythm—just as I’ve seen all those male animals do. When he’s done, he falls onto on his back next to me, hiding the hot thing under his tunic before I get a chance to see it.

  “Next time it will be better,” he says. “I promise.” He kisses me and smooths my skirt down my legs. “Will you stay the night with me?”

  When I nod, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his chest. I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat.

  * * *

  “I was an unmarried girl too . . . once,” A-ma comments when I arrive home the next morning. “Just remember today is a day of ceremonial abstinence for the entire village. That means—”

  “I know what it means,” I retort. What I’m thinking, though, is that my sore parts will have a chance to heal.

  “You were supposed to be different with your school and your plans—”

  “None of that has changed.”

  She doesn’t believe me. “You’re no different than any other girl on this mountain. Stupid with love.” She sighs and goes back to her grain grinding.

  It may be a day of ceremonial abstinence—the requirement that we must be careful with our arms and legs has new meaning to me—but San-pa and I go to the forest anyway. “Just to talk,” he says. We return to the spot where we did the intercourse. We sit, and he tells me how he’s loved me since he first saw me at the tea collection center. He couldn’t say anything to make me happier, and he couldn’t do anything to make me happier than when he reaches into his pocket and gives me the eye of a peacock feather.

  “For your headdress,” he says.

  “How did you get it?”
I ask.

  He juts his chin. “It’s enough for you to know that I found something that might bring you joy.”

  Our future is clear. Now that he’s given me a gift, all that’s left is for his parents to send emissaries to ask my a-ma and a-ba if he can take me to his village in marriage. We’ll graduate . . . Go to university . . . Join the market economy . . .

  * * *

  The following week, I’m surprised to discover Teacher Zhang in the school yard during lunch. Rumors travel fast, and I suspect he’s come to congratulate me. I’m wrong.

  “Are you sure marriage to this boy is what you want?” he asks. “You’ve worked so hard.”

  I try to be polite. “You’ve been my greatest teacher.”

  “What about the gaokao?”

  “San-pa and I will take it together.”

  Teacher Zhang shakes his head sadly. “You know he’ll never be invited to take the test, and even if by some miracle he is invited, he’ll never pass, while you have a future. You could be the first on this mountain to go to Ethnic Normal College, or maybe even Yunnan University.”

  “You’re wrong about San-pa—”

  “If you marry him, tradition will weigh on you,” he insists. “Your families will want you to stay home, have babies, and heal like your mother.”

  He hears what he’s saying as a threat, but San-pa will never let those things happen.

  “Tell me you won’t stop studying,” he persists.

  “I won’t stop studying,” I promise. “I’ll take the test even if San-pa doesn’t.”

  Teacher Zhang nods his head three times very sharply, and then shifts his shoulders within his jacket. With that, he leaves, going back to the primary school for his afternoon class.

  I look around the yard for San-pa. I spot him sitting on a wall with some other boys, their legs dangling. I realize he’s watched my exchange with Teacher Zhang, but he doesn’t cross the yard to ask me about it.