Lisa See - Snow Flower And The Secret Fan

“It’s too precious to waste on someone so weak,” she said. “When he dies, we will all be relieved.”

I looked at the boy. He was eleven that year, the same age as my eldest son. He stared at his grandmother with sunken eyes, too pathetic to fight for himself. Certainly Snow Flower would say something on his behalf. He was the first son after all. But my old same did not love that boy the way she should have. Her eyes, even in that terrible moment when he was being consigned to certain death, were not on him but on her second son. As clever, resilient, and strong as the second boy was, I could not let this happen to an eldest son. It went against all tradition. How would I answer my ancestors when they asked how I had let the child die? How would I greet that poor boy when I saw him in the afterworld? As the eldest son, he deserved more food than any of us, including the butcher. So I began sharing my portion with Snow Flower and her son. When the butcher realized what was happening, he slapped the boy and then his wife.

“That food is for Lady Lu.”

Before either of them could respond, his rat mother jumped in. “Son, why give food to that woman anyway? She is just a stranger to us. We must think of our own blood: you, your second son, and me.”

No mention, of course, of the first son or Spring Moon, both of whom had survived this far on scraps and had become frailer with each passing day.

But for once the butcher didn’t buckle under his mother’s pressure.

“Lady Lu is our guest. If I bring her back alive, there may be a reward.”

“Money?” his mother asked.

Such a typical rat question. That woman could not hide her greed and acquisitiveness.

“There are things Master Lu can do for us that go beyond money.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed to slits as she considered this. Before she could speak, I said, “If there is to be a reward, I will need a larger portion. Otherwise”—and here I twisted my face into one of the spoiled grimaces I remembered from my father-in-law’s concubines—”I will say that I found no hospitality from this family, only avarice, inconsideration, and vulgarity.”

Such a tremendous risk I took that day! The butcher could have thrown me out of the group right then. Instead, despite his mother’s never-ending complaints, I received the largest amount of food, which I was able to share with Snow Flower, her eldest son, and Spring Moon. Oh, but how hungry we were. We became little more than corpses—lying still all day, our eyes closed, breathing as shallowly as possible, trying to harness whatever resources we had left. Maladies considered mild at home continued to reduce our numbers. With little food, energy, hot cups of tea, or fortifying doses of herbs, no one had the strength to fight these nuisances. As more succumbed, few among us had the strength to move the bodies.

Snow Flower’s eldest son sought my side whenever possible. He was unloved, true, but he was not as stupid as his family believed. I thought of the day that Snow Flower and I had gone to the Temple of Gupo to pray for sons and how we wanted them to have elegant and refined tastes. I could see these things lay dormant in the boy, though he had received no formal education. I could not help him learn men’s writing, but I could repeat what I had overheard Uncle Lu teach my son. “The five things the Chinese people respect the most are Heaven, Earth, the emperor, parents, and teachers. . . .” When I ran out of lessons I could remember, I told him a didactic tale carried by the women in our county about a second son who becomes a mandarin and returns home to his family, but I changed it to fit this poor boy’s circumstances.

“A first son runs by the river,” I began. “He is as green as bamboo. He knows nothing of life. He lives with his mama, baba, younger brother, and younger sister. The younger brother will follow his father’s trade. The younger sister will marry out. Mama’s and Baba’s eyes never rest upon their eldest son. When they do, they beat his head until it is as swollen as a melon.”

The boy shifted beside me, moving his eyes from the fire to my face as I went on.

“One day the boy goes to the place where his father keeps his money. He takes some cash and hides it in his pocket. Then he goes to where his mother keeps food. He fills a satchel with as much as he can carry. Then, without a single goodbye, he walks away from his house and through the fields. He swims across the river and walks some more.” I thought of a faraway place. “He walks all the way to Guilin. You think this journey into the mountains was hard? You think living outside in winter is hard? This is nothing. Out on the road, he had no friends, no benefactors, and only the clothes on his back. When he ran out of food and money, he survived by begging.”

The boy colored, not from the heat of the fire but from shame. He must have heard that his maternal grandparents had been reduced to this life.

“Some people say this is disreputable,” I continued, “but if it is the only way to live, then it takes great courage.”

From the other side of the fire, the butcher’s mother grunted. “You’re telling the story wrong.”

I paid no attention. I knew how the story went, but I wanted to give this child something to hold on to.

“The boy wandered through the streets of Guilin, looking for people who were dressed as mandarins. He listened to how they spoke and shaped his mouth to make the same sounds come out. He sat outside teahouses and tried to speak to the men who entered. Only when his speech became refined did someone look his way.”

Here I broke with the story. “Boy, there are people who are kind in the world. You may not believe it, but I have met them. You should always be on the lookout for someone who can be a benefactor.”

“Like you?” he asked.

His grandmother snorted. Once again, I ignored her.

“This man took the boy in as a servant,” I resumed. “As the boy served him, the benefactor taught him everything he knew. When he could teach no more, he hired a tutor. After many years the boy, now a grown man, took the imperial exam and became a mandarin—only at the lowest level,” I added, believing that such a thing was possible even for Snow Flower’s son.

“The mandarin returned to his home village. The dog before his family home barked three times in recognition. Mama and Baba came out of the house. They did not recognize their son. The second brother came out. He did not recognize his sibling. The sister? She had married out. When he told them who he was, they kowtowed, and very shortly thereafter they asked him for favors. ‘We need a new well,’ his father said. ‘Can you hire someone to dig it for us?’ ‘I have no silk,’ his mother said. ‘Can you buy some for me?’ ‘I have taken care of our parents for many years,’ the younger brother said. ‘Will you pay me for the time I have spent?’ The mandarin remembered how badly they had treated him. He climbed back into his palanquin and went back to Guilin, where he married, had many sons, and lived a very happy life.”

“ Waaa! You tell these stories and ruin an already ruined boy’s life?” The old woman spat into the fire one more time and glared at me. “You give him hope when there is none? Why do you do that?”

I knew the answer, but I would never tell it to that old rat woman. We were not under normal circumstances, I know, but away from my own family I needed someone to care for. In my mind, I saw my husband as this boy’s benefactor. Why not? If Snow Flower could help me when we were girls, couldn’t my family change this boy’s future?

SOON ANIMALS IN the hills around us became scarce, driven from their homes by the presence of so many people or dead—as so many of us died—from the cruelty of that winter. Men—farmers all—weakened. They had brought only what they could carry; when that ran out, they and their families starved. Many husbands asked their wives to go back down the mountain for supplies. In our county, as you know, women are not to be hurt in wartime, which is why we are often sent to find food, water, or other supplies during upheavals. Harming a woman during hostilities always leads to an escalation of fighting, but neither the Taipings nor the soldiers in the Great Hunan Army were from around here. They did not know the ways of the Yao people. Besides, how were we women, weak from hunger and frail on our bound feet, to go down the mountain in winter and carry back provisions?