Lisa See - Snow Flower And The Secret Fan

The next morning, the butcher left for the day and his mother went back to her room. I helped Snow Flower wash and dry the dishes, bring in firewood, haul water, slice the vegetables for the midday meal, go to the shed where the sides of pork were kept to fetch meat, and attend to her daughter. Once all this was done, Snow Flower set water to heat that we could use for bathing. She carried the kettle back upstairs to the women’s chamber and shut the door. We had never had any inhibitions. Why would we now? The air in that little house was surprisingly warm even though it was the tenth month, but goose bumps rose on my skin behind the path of Snow Flower’s wet cloth.

But how do I say this without sounding like a husband? When I looked at her I saw that her pale skin—always so beautiful—had begun to thicken and darken. Her hands—always so smooth—felt rough on my skin. Lines were etched above her lip and at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was pinned back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Strands of gray threaded through it. She was my age—thirty-two. Women in our county often do not live beyond forty years, but I had just seen my mother-in-law go to the afterworld, and she had still looked very handsome for a woman who had reached the remarkable age of fifty-one.

That night, more pig for dinner.

I DIDN’T REALIZE it then, but the outer realm—that tumultuous world of men—was pushing its way into Snow Flower’s and my lives. During my second night at her house, we were awakened by terrible sounds. We met in the main room and huddled together, all of us, even the butcher, terrified. Smoke filled the room. A house—maybe a whole village—was burning somewhere. Dust and ash settled on our clothes. The clatter of clanging metal and the beat of horses’ hooves pounded into our heads. In the dark of night, we had no idea what was happening. Was it a catastrophe in just one village or was this something much worse?

A big disaster was coming. The people who lived in villages behind us began to flee, leaving their farms for the safety of the hills. From Snow Flower’s window the next morning, we saw them—men, women, and children—on hand-drawn or oxen-pulled carts, on foot, on ponies. The butcher ran to the edge of the village and shouted to the stream of refugees.

“What’s happened? Is it war?”

Voices called back.

“The Emperor has sent word to Yongming City that our government must take action against the Taipings!”

“Imperial troops have arrived to drive out the rebels!”

“There’s fighting everywhere!”

The butcher cupped his hands and yelled, “What should we do?”

“Run away!”

“The battle will be here soon!”

I was petrified, overwhelmed, and dazed with panic. Why didn’t my husband come for me? Again and again I berated myself for choosing this time—after all these years—to visit Snow Flower. But this is the nature of fate. You make choices that are good and sound, but the gods have other plans for you.

I helped Snow Flower assemble bags for her and the children. We went to the kitchen and gathered together a large sack of rice, tea, and liquor for drinking and to treat injuries. Finally, we rolled four of Snow Flower’s wedding quilts into tight bundles and set them by the door. When everything was ready, I dressed in my silk traveling outfit, went outside to stand on the platform, and waited for my husband, but he didn’t come. I looked up the road to Tongkou. A stream of people were leaving there too, only instead of going up into the hills behind the village they were crossing the fields, going toward Yongming City. The two trails of people—one going into the hills, the other going to town—confused me. Hadn’t Snow Flower always said that the hills were the arms that embraced us? If so, why were the people of Tongkou going the opposite direction?

In the late afternoon, I saw a palanquin leave the Tongkou group and veer toward Jintian. I knew it was coming for me, but the butcher refused to wait.

“It’s time to go!” he bellowed.

I wanted to remain behind and wait for my family to get me. The butcher said no.

“Then I will walk out and meet the palanquin,” I said. So many times sitting at my lattice window I’d imagined walking here. Couldn’t I now go toward my family?

The butcher chopped his hand through the air to prevent me from saying another word. “Many men are coming. Do you know what they will do to a lone woman? Do you know what your family will do to me if anything happens to you?”

“But—”

“Lily,” Snow Flower cut in, “come with us. We’ll be gone for only a few hours, then we’ll send you to your family. It is better to be safe.”

The butcher lifted his mother, his wife, the youngest children, and me into the cart. As he and the eldest son began to push us, I looked back across the fields behind Jintian. Flames and plumes of smoke billowed into the air.

Snow Flower kept passing water to her husband and eldest son. It was deep into fall now, and when the sun set the chill came down on all of us, but Snow Flower’s husband and son sweated as if it were the middle of a summer day. Without being asked, Spring Moon hopped down from the cart, taking her little brother with her. She carried the boy on her hip, then on her back. Finally, she set him on the ground, took his hand, and kept her other hand on the cart.

The butcher assured his wife and mother that we would be stopping soon, but we didn’t stop. We were part of a trail of misery that night. At the time of the most forbidding darkness just before dawn, we hit the first steep hill. The butcher’s face strained, his veins bulged, his arms shook with the effort of trying to push the cart up the hill. Finally he gave out, collapsing behind us. Snow Flower slid to the edge of the cart, hung her legs over the side for a moment, then let them drop to the ground. She looked at me. I looked back. The sky behind Snow Flower was red with fire. The sounds that traveled on the wind pushed me out of the cart. Snow Flower and I tied two quilts apiece to our backs. The butcher slung the sack of rice over his shoulder and the children carried as much of the other food as possible. I realized something. If we were only going to be gone for a few hours, why had we brought so much food? I might not see my husband and children for several days. In the meantime, I’d be out here in the elements, with the butcher. I put my hands over my face to collect myself. I could not let him see my weakness.

On foot we joined the others. Snow Flower and I took the butcher’s mother’s arms and pulled her up the hill. She weighed us down, but how like her rat personality this was! When Buddha wanted the rat to spread his word, the wily creature tried to get a free ride from the horse. The horse wisely said no, which is why the two signs have not been a good match ever since. But on that terrible path on that hideous night, what could we two horses do?

The men around us wore grim faces. They had left behind their homes and livelihoods, and now they wondered if they would return to piles of ash. The women’s faces were streaked with tears of fear and from the pain of walking farther in one night than in their entire lives since footbinding. The children did not complain. They were too frightened. We had only just begun our escape.

Late the next afternoon—and we had not stopped once—the road narrowed to a path that wound up steeper and steeper. Too many sights bruised our eyes. Too many sounds scratched our ears. Sometimes we passed old men or women who had sat down to rest, never to get up again. In our county I could not have imagined that I would see parents abandoned in this way. Often, as we went by, we heard mumbled requests, last words spoken to a son or daughter and repeated now as final sustenance: “Leave me. Come back tomorrow when this is over.” Or, “Keep going. Save the sons. Remember to set an altar for me at Spring Festival.” Every time we passed someone like that, my thoughts traveled to my mother. She could not have made this journey with only her cane for support. Would she have asked to be left behind? Would Baba have deserted her? Would Elder Brother?