White Lily

ALSO BY TING-XING YE

Three Monks, No Water
Weighing the Elephant
Share the Sky
A Leaf in the Bitter Wind
Throwaway Daughter

This book is dedicated to the memory
of my great-aunt Chen Feng-mei
.

N
early a century ago, deep in the center of the Forbidden City, China’s last emperor reigned from his dragon throne. Although he was only a boy, the imperial decrees issued in his name were shouted in every corner of the country, binding his subjects with the stout bonds of custom and law, taxes and tribute, rules and regulations. Every man was required to shave his head, leaving a single pigtail to grow from the crown down his back, symbolizing his submission to the boy-emperor. And every woman was second in importance, even in her own family, for the burdens of law and tradition weighed much more heavily on females. They were called to obey their fathers and brothers as young girls, to comply with their husbands after their arranged marriages, and to yield to their sons if they were widowed.

Into this world, one day, in a village in the lower reaches of the Yangtze River, a baby girl was born.

1

L
ee Family Village was no ordinary place. As far as the eye could see, jade-green rice paddies dotted a land crisscrossed with canals. The many quiet ponds were home to the most beautiful lilies in the nation. When in full blossom, they bathed the air with their sweet fragrance.

Nor was the newborn an ordinary girl. Her father, Master Lee, was the wealthiest man in the area, and his family the most prominent. As if to prove her worthiness to belong to such a clan, the baby cried out so lustily that she silenced the cicadas droning rhythmically in the trees, complaining
far too hot! far too hot!
Her shrill wails brought the villagers rushing to the gates of Master Lee’s house, each anxious to be the first to extend his congratulations and best wishes.

The richest merchant arrived first, followed by his wife and household. Next came Master Lee’s tenant farmers, slapping dust from their tattered trousers with their straw hats as they hurried along. Far behind waddled the local scholar, encircled by a flock of students.

“May I have the honor to make a proposal, noble Sir?” intoned the merchant when all had assembled. “I request that your beautiful child be promised in marriage to my Number One son, who is five years her senior.” He held out a red silk pouch filled with silver coins.

With the heavy pouch resting in his palm, Master Lee responded, “I accept this proposition, Sir, and from now on we are relatives.”

The crowd cheered the announcement as the head farmer stood out and made a deep bow. “Distinguished Master, we wish your precious girl good health, long life, and all the happiness in the world. May her daughterly obedience and virtue last as long as the universe!”

Behind him, the farmers pressed forward. Hens cuddled under their arms, strings of wriggling fish dangled from their hands, and fresh vegetables and fruit piled on pans were suspended from their
shoulder poles. A group of ducks scurried worriedly to and fro under the watchful eyes of a pair of white geese. All this the farmers offered as gifts to the family.

Master Lee accepted the tributes with a silent nod.

“In my humble opinion, respected Lord,” wheezed the scholar, puffing from his walk, “your baby girl is the purest among the pure and the finest among the best, like this precious flower.” He presented a single, long-stemmed lily in full, white bloom. “May I suggest she be named White Lily?”

“Then White Lily she shall be,” Master Lee declared, barely concealing his disappointment that the newborn was not a boy.

2

W
hite Lily was a happy child. She began giggling before she could stand up, and she learned to laugh, louder than her cries, before she was able to wriggle her chubby toes and walk on her own. But her happiest times were those when she pulled off her socks and scampered barefoot across the wooden floors, or outside in the courtyard where the spring sun warmed the cool flagstones. There she played with her elder brother, Fu-gui, and chased after sparrows. However, her running and jumping and shrieks of delight often earned Grandmother’s — Nai-nai’s — angry scolding, Father’s frowns and grumbles, or Mother’s gentle criticism for disrupting the household peace. White Lily was sure that it was not her beating
feet that displeased Nai-nai and upset her father, because for as long as she could remember the thump of feet was a familiar noise in their house. It came from Mother and Nai-nai.

In White Lily’s eyes, the difference between these two important women in her life was as wide as the sky. While Nai-nai was short and chubby, almost balloon-shaped, Mother was tall and slim, much like the lily stems that stood in the ponds. Mother spoke in a soft, quiet manner that would hardly startle a bird, but Nai-nai’s voice was loud and firm, as if a brass gong had been struck with a wooden mallet. Mother wore either a long skirt or a full-length robe, often in colorful prints. When she walked, her hips swung rhythmically while her pointed shoe-tips peeped in and out from under the hem. Yet Nai-nai seemed to know one color and one style only. She had chosen to wear black ever since Grandpa had passed away two years before White Lily was born. Her shapeless pants were wide and loose around the hips but narrow at the legs, wrapped tightly at her ankles with black ribbons.

But there was one thing that Mother and Nai-nai had in common — their feet. They were
almost as small as White Lily’s. Mother’s and Nai-nai’s richly embroidered silk shoes were even shorter than their own outstretched hands.
How could that be possible?
White Lily wondered, looking down at her own plump feet, which seemed to grow with every passing breeze.

Besides, Mother’s and Nai-nai’s tiny feet were always wrapped in heavy cotton strips. The only time White Lily saw them unveiled was during the “feet-bathing” time at the end of each day, after the household hubbub had died down. Mother would carefully unwind the cloth from Nai-nai’s feet, which gave off a sharp and unpleasant odor in warm weather. Nai-nai would then soak her feet in a wooden basin of warm water. She often let out a long and weary sigh, so soft yet anguished that to White Lily she didn’t sound like Grandmother at all. Following the same routine, Mother tended to her own feet, but with one exception. In her basin, the water was scented with blossoms or lily petals that floated around her ankles.

“My feet are called Three-Inch Golden Lilies,” Nai-nai proudly told White Lily one night. “And I have called them that since I was a little girl.” But White Lily didn’t understand how such smelly, twisted, and wrinkled knobs could be compared to flowers. On another occasion, when Nai-nai was not around, Mother said bitterly, “These horrible, deformed things are no lilies, my dear daughter, nor are they of gold. They are teardrops. They are even shaped like teardrops. They have caused so many tears that no lily pond is large enough to contain them.”

White Lily thought long and hard about the mystery. How could Nai-nai be proud of her shrunken, knobby feet when Mother seemed to hate her own? Usually she would have asked her brother for help, because he was older and smarter since he was attending school. But how could Fu-gui know the answer if he had never laid eyes on a woman’s bare feet? Everyone knew that it was strictly against tradition for a man to be present during women’s “feet-bathing” time.

White Lily concluded that she would not find out whether the tiny feet were lilies or teardrops unless she was able to go to school and learn to read and write like her brother.

But Mother had told her earlier that for girls, schooling was forbidden.

3

O
n the eve of the Chinese New Year, it snowed, a rare occurrence in that part of China. Fat flakes descended from a quiet, black sky, unfolding a thin, white blanket across the village. “This snowfall means good luck,” proclaimed White Lily’s father. “It will surely bring us another year of prosperity, bumper harvests, joy, and happiness.”

When White Lily looked out her window the next morning, snow as thick and wet as cream capped the curved walls of the courtyard and plopped to the flagstones from the bare branches of the willow tree outside her bedroom. She bounded from her bed, threw on her clothes, and ran outside. Everywhere she went, she left behind a track of melting footprints like those of a giant.

Since it was New Year, White Lily was a year older. “You are six now,” Mother said to her after breakfast.

“But Brother Fu-gui said that I was born four years, seven months, and eight days ago, and he also said that I am still a child.” White Lily raised up her fingers: first four, then seven, then eight. “He is wrong, isn’t he?”

To White Lily’s big disappointment, Mother failed to notice her new counting skill. “Fu-gui is right. But custom says that you turn six today,” her mother replied. “Some traditions don’t make sense, and this is one of them,” she continued. “On the day you were born, the tenth of July, you were considered to be one year old. Seven months later, when the New Year arrived, you became a year older like everyone else, so you turned two. But in fact —”

“In fact,” White Lily interrupted, “I was only seven months old.”

Mother responded with a weak smile. “And he’s also right that you’re still a little girl.”

“But that’s not what Father said. He is going to let me sit with the rest of the family and the guests at the New Year dinner tonight. You told me last year that it is a treat only for grown-ups,” White Lily said cheerfully as she pictured herself seated at the grand, vermilion-painted table. It was an event that she had been awaiting for years.

Many times in the past she had sneaked into the storage room in which the huge tabletop leaned against the wall, a dustcover draped over it. On each occasion, White Lily would lift the corner of the drapery and stroke the glossy surface of the table with her palm, or admire her own reflection. She was sure that the perfect, round tabletop was even wider than the lily pond at the back of the courtyard; and she was equally certain that from now on she would be happy because she was no longer a child.