My sister has always been the warm one, quick to smile from the moment she was born, whereas I am prickly and restless, more at home with plants than with people. I could tell the villagers tolerated my presence, but they loved Shu. She could have easily left me behind, surrounded by their adoration, yet she never forgot about me. She always shared what they gave her, defended me against their harsh words.
It’s my turn to protect her now.
I lower my head to my arms.
The girl’s voice rises keenly above the crowd: “I have wandered so far from home…”
“Here.” Something is thrust into my hand, and my eyes snap open to see a woman’s concerned face. She has a baby tucked contentedly against her, wrapped in thick fabric. The woman’s wide, dark eyes are kind.
“If you eat something, your stomach might settle,” she says.
I look down at what she gave me. A piece of dried pork, oily and red. When I bring it to my nose, the smell immediately makes my mouth water. I take a tentative bite, and the meat is both sweet and salty, with a great chew. Gnawing on it bit by bit distracts me from the mournful tune, gives me something to focus on until my head feels a little clearer.
“Thank you,” I mumble, wiping the grease on my tunic. “It was delicious.”
“First time on the ferry?” she asks, patting the baby rhythmically on the back.
Without waiting for my response, she continues, “I remember my first time traveling to Jia. How overwhelming it was. The sheer number of people! I was embarrassed because I was sick over the railing so many times I could barely stand.”
“You seem to be a practiced traveler now,” I tell her. There is something about her that reminds me of my mother. She, too, would have helped a stranger without hesitation.
The woman smiles. “I was a girl newly married then. And unknown to me, what I thought was seasickness was actually due to being pregnant with this one’s brother.” Her gaze turns lovingly toward two people standing a few steps away, one tall, one short—a man and a boy, who looks to be around six years of age.
“Now your children will grow up to be practiced travelers, too,” I say.
She laughs. “Every spring we journey to Jia to sweep the tombs of my husband’s ancestors and visit those who have moved to the capital. But I’m happy my husband was posted to a provincial town, away from the politics of Jia. It is a simpler life. One I dream of for my son and daughter.”
The capital city is where my parents met long ago. My mother returned to our village heavily pregnant, with a stranger at her side who will become her husband. Over the years she would mention the capital in passing. A wistful comment about the sound of the zither, an offhand remark on the perfume of the wisteria flowers that climbed the east wall of the palace.
Shu and I used to ask her: Why can we not go back, Mama? We would sit on her lap and beg for more stories about the beauty of the capital. She would tell us there was nothing left for her there, not in comparison to our family. But our family crumbled without her holding us together, and I’m leaving now to save what remains.
The woman kisses the wispy hair on the baby’s head with a look of contentment. The baby opens her tiny mouth to yawn, then nestles closer to her mother’s chest. This woman lives the life my father wants for me: to be satisfied with food on the table and a comfortable home, a husband who provides. Except my parents have seen the wonders of Jia and lived in its bustling depths, wanted nothing more than what waited for them back home, while I have only known our village and the surrounding countryside.
The time on the ferry passes like a peculiar dream. My companion, Lifen, welcomes me as part of her family. I bounce her baby girl on my knee, pull the boy away from leaning too far over the railing. They refuse to accept any payment for the food and drink they share with me, and my heart is humbled by their kindness.
On our route we pass several towns, picking up and depositing passengers. The journey is a boisterous affair, as the musicians continue to play and vendors sell their goods from baskets they carry on their backs or heads.
At night, I lean against the railing and watch the stars swirl overhead. Don’t be deceived, my mother once told me. The stars are not as peaceful as they appear. The astronomers are tasked with deciphering their celestial travels, prophecies that predict the rise and ruin of great families and kingdoms. They burn with as much ferocity as our sun.
“I used to dream of being a stargazer,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. Lifen’s husband, Official Yao, sits down heavily beside me on the deck and hands me a clay cup of millet wine. I sip it, and the earthy liquid burns through me, warming my chest. “Didn’t have the aptitude for it. Then I wanted to be a poet. Wrote soulful scribbles about the Banished Prince and his sequestered isle.”