Li Ang - The Lost Garden

She smiled with relief.

“So Zhu Feng didn’t kill anyone,” she said. “I’m going to tell Luohan and Mudan.”

“That’s not entirely true either.” Father was searching for a good explanation. “The pirates were going after cargo, so it was unavoidable that weapons would be involved, and it was also inevitable that they would kill or be killed.”

As he continued, his eyes began to sparkle.

“Ayako, I’m going to tell you a story passed down by our ancestors. Once, when Zhu Feng dispatched a dozen seafaring ships to surround a Dutch fleet, he dealt the redheaded Dutch such a resounding defeat that they had to abandon their ships. Just think, Ayako, back then he had a few dozen seafaring ships and the Dutch called him the China Captain.”

Fragrant flowers blooming at various times year round filled the garden’s terraces, pavilions, and towers. In hot and humid subtropical Taiwan, the heady fragrance of the many varieties of summer flowers and the subtly aromatic lilies from the big pond seemed even more redolent, as they fused with moist air until the combined effects of the flowers lingered in the air for a long time and created an intoxicating effect.

“China Captain, the Captain of China, Ayako. China Captain,” Father continued in his usual Japanese. “We must remember that only a real man like Zhu Feng, who was used to riding the wind and sailing the ocean, who was not afraid to die, could be the ancestor of immigrants across the Taiwan Straits to open new routes and help maritime trade grow.”

She nodded earnestly to show she would never forget what he had said.

“The early immigrants to Taiwan relied on the guidance of the pirates and even sailed in their ships for safe passage across the Straits. You must remember, Ayako, that not all the early immigrants were poor, nor were they all refugees. In fact, there were quite a few adventurers like Zhu Feng, who tried to find a paradise in a faraway place blocked by the ocean. Taiwan was their newfound paradise.”

Father paused and asked solemnly:

“Ayako, do you know what Formosa means?”

“Beautiful Island.”

She was able to answer promptly because of his instruction in the past.

“Yes, Beautiful Island, a rich island with fragrant flowers the year round, with emerald-green plains and snow-capped mountains.”

Then, in the powerfully intoxicating aroma of flowers, Father began to speak slowly, looking at her in the utmost serious and solemn way:

“Ayako, you must remember that Taiwan is not a copy or microcosm of any other place on earth. Taiwan is Taiwan, a beautiful island.”

It was early summer, after the spring rains, when gardenias began to spread their perfume, and Father began renovating the “dragon wall” behind Lotus Pavilion in order to separate the pavilion from the eastern side of the garden.

A “dragon wall” is a fence that follows the contours of the land; like other common walls, it is higher than a person of average height. The only difference is the dragon that sprawls along the top; the clay dragon’s head is raised high, while its long body is made of semicircular roof tiles that are fitted to look like real dragon scales from the side. The scaly dragon body coils and spreads over the undulating wall, resembling a true, auspicious dragon.

“This kind of wall has a name; it’s called ‘cloud soaring dragon wall.’ It’s not commonly seen in ordinary people’s houses because dragons are traditionally considered to be the symbol of the emperor and a taboo for commoners.”

Standing by the wall and dwarfed by its height, Father looked frail owing to his medium build and his recent recovery from a long illness. The dragon wall helped create a square courtyard behind Lotus Pavilion, while also serving as a barrier for a copse of trees to the east. Like the average fence, there was a moon gate for passage, framed by the giant, clay dragon heads, with their fangs and claws circling the top of the gate, while their bodies extended away with the wall. Following the custom of garden architecture, their tails were hidden among the next rows of terraces and pavilion, a place where they could not be easily detected.

“The ancestors who built the garden wanted to use the ‘cloud soaring dragons,’ but were afraid to offend the emperor by using his symbol, which was why they created a creature that resembled a dragon, but wasn’t one.”

Father led her to a spot below the wall, where he pointed to a clay dragon head that had turned blurry from the elements.

“See, this dragon has fish scales, shrimp eyes, an ox nose, deer antlers, and eagle talons. At first glance it looks like a traditional dragon, but, Ayako, look carefully and you’ll see that our dragons have only four talons, not the normal five.”

Still a child at heart, Yinghong raised her slender index finger to count.

“One, two, three, four. It really has only four talons.”

That drew a smile from Father.

“The ancestors who built the garden were the richest men in Taiwan back then. Taiwan was far from the Central Plain, a true manifestation of ‘the sky is high and the emperor is far away.’ They wanted to use the dragon, but didn’t dare overdo it, and that is how our four-taloned dragon came into existence. With one less talon than the emperor’s golden dragon, they showed they didn’t dare consider themselves his equal, and if anything were to happen because of it, they would have a way out.”

She nodded, not fully grasping the import of what he had just said.

“Ayako, we should be happy that we’re no longer like our ancestors. Now we live in an era without an emperor, and we can create a golden dragon with five talons.”

Then he sighed and his face darkened.

“Even so, when will Taiwan gain democracy?”

Despite his heavy heart, he was cheerful as he located an old master to renovate the cloud soaring dragon wall. The decaying dragon heads received a new coat of paint and the broken tiles of the bodies were replaced. He even asked the skillful master to give the dragons an additional talon each, making them true golden dragons.

“Let’s consider the additional talon as the beginning of democracy for Taiwan. It’s better than nothing.”

He smiled bitterly as he examined the newly renovated dragon.

The garden was more or less fully renovated when masons finished repairing the cloud soaring dragon wall. The woodwork was repaired and repainted in the spring of her second year in junior high. On the day the work was completed, Father personally planted the last tree, a Cape lilac, in Lotus Garden.

The Cape lilac, called “bitter berry” by the locals, was planted in a wide-open space near Yinghong Pavilion. After watering it for the first time, Father said in his preferred language of Japanese:

“Bitter berry is the name I want; it means longing and experienced bitterness.” Looking at the people around him, he continued, “I hope we’ll never forget the bitterness or this experience.”

A plant in the silk tree family, the Cape lilac, though having bitterness in its local name, grew into a tall tree with flowers so pretty they could only come from a dream when they bloom. Every spring and summer, it was covered in white flowers that gave off an unusual but pleasant fragrance, one with a hint of bitterness that wafted like lingering silk thread, as Father had said.

The tree covered with white flowers seemed shrouded in mist. Unlike flowers formed by petals, Cape lilacs have long, thin whiskerlike white stamens and pistils that radiate from the center, giving them a dreamy, puffy cloudlike appearance. When the tree is in bloom, it looks as though a patch of wayward clouds has temporarily stopped at the tips of the green leaves. Without the usual petals, the flowers, with their threadlike stamens and pistils, seem loosely connected and almost unreal, as if one of the island’s frequent typhoons could blow them out of sight.