fiction - Little Scribbles

Extract 'Fishing' from The Mountain of Compassionate Clouds

Lantau, Hong Kong 1991

Song Li watched San Ko walk around the wooden stilts supporting his house. The tide was out, and debris from battered sampans and broken trawl nets gathered along the river bank. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of mackrel drying in the midday sun; racks of fish lay out on the decks of the abandoned junks.

San Ko stripped off his cotton shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his old shorts. He untied the fibreglass rowing boat from its stilt mooring and slung the thick rope over his bare shoulder. With both hands he began dragging the boat away from her, down the tidal creek. The outboard motor hung down low and furrowed a deep channel through the wet mud. Song Li followed the tracks.

San Ko pulled the rope tighter, the muscles moving in his back. 'I like to be alone when I fish.' He didn't turn around as he spoke, but picked up pace.

' But I'm good at fishing - and we'll catch more with two of us.' Song Li caught up with him and gripped the back of the boat, putting all her weight into pushing. 'I can help with the nets.'

'I'm not using nets.' San Ko continued to trudge across the mudflat in his father's waders, sweat glistening between his shoulder blades.

'What are you using then?' She let go of the boat and kicked the peeling blue varnish with her sandal. The front of the boat bumped into his calves and he stopped, turning to scowl in her direction.

'I'm spear-fishing.'

She quickly climbed over the motor and sat cross-legged amongst the tackle on the bottom of the boat. ‘I’m not moving until you tell me what you’re up to,’ Song Li continued, her voice stubborn. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her floral smock and pretended interest in her neighbours’ stilt house, the first in a long line that stretched down both sides of the creek. The sun was glinting off the corrugated roof of the pang uk. ‘Kai See didn’t come home until after curfew last night - or the night before that. I know all about the secret trips you’ve been taking.’

San Ko laughed and took a few steps back towards her. He crouched down until he was at eye level. ‘No you don’t, my little shadow,’ he whispered, ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.’ He stretched lazily. ‘Besides, isn’t this a secret trip? Does your father know you’re with me? Or your aunt?’

Song Li lifted the hair off the back of her neck and played with the red hibiscus flower tucked into her pony tail. She avoided his gaze. ‘Baba has gone out and Jiejie has the malaise. She’s taken to her rooms and closed the teahouse. I’ve the afternoon to do as I please.’ She leant forward and kissed the tip of his nose. ‘And to see who I please.’ Her hand reached inside her knapsack. ‘I’ve brought food…’

San Ko shrugged and picked up the slack rope. ‘Come then, Songbird, but this isn’t a free ride, it’s going to be hard work. I’m heading out to the north of the bay.’

Hard work was just what Song Li needed to take her mind of her aunt. Jiejie had been acting strangely of late. She seemed obsessed with a recipe for a new scented tea - a fusion of rose petals, orchid flowers and dried p'an-t'ao. Every day Song Li watched her aunt boil up variations of this tea, mixing pure spring water with the fragrant leaves. The old kitchen table had disappeared beneath sheets of baking paper covered in drying peaches. Her aunt’s concentration was so great that Song Li could slip away for hours, unnoticed, and come back to find her at the same spot in the kitchen.

The traditional clay urn Jiejie used for preparing tea had its own golden stand with feet carved into the shape of sleeping lions. Her aunt polished the lions every day for good fortune. Over the years Song Li had heard various tales of how such a beautiful pot had come to be in her aunt’s possession: it had been smuggled down the Pearl River estuary into Tai O on a timber barge loaded with electrical equipment. ‘Sshh! don’t tell your mama this is stolen goods.’ Another time the pot had survived a trip from Guangzhou along with a boat full of immigrants. ‘Hidden between their fat feet!’

That morning when Song Li had arrived as usual to help her aunt, she’d found Jiejie sitting on the floor surrounded by pieces of the broken pot.

The small boat sped over the choppy sea around the headland, following close to the rugged shoreline. Song Li sat at the front with her back to San Ko, she hooked her toes under a metal bar to stop herself from jolting in her seat and wedged her knapsack underneath. The water churned around the prow, spraying surf and cooling her cheeks. A foaming trail of white water marked their journey. Waves rolled out towards the floating buoys. She sucked on a slice of melon, the sweet juice quenching her thirst, the seeds catching between her teeth. Her fingers were sticky and every so often she would dip them over the edge into the water.

The mountains to the south of the island looked lush and green. She squinted hard at the peak of Fung Wong Shan. A thick cloud was swirling around the summit. The cloud began to take shape, first forming a sitting cobra, followed by a charging elephant. Song Li’s fingertip traced the outlines in the sky. Her aunt was a careful cloud watcher. Every morning Jiejie would take a bowl of green tea out to her veranda and observe the dawn mist at the base of the mountain.

‘The great dragon who sleeps there breathes life into the clouds.’ She told Song Li once. ‘You must learn to read these clouds and listen to what the dragon is telling you.’

For the last five days Jiejie had seen the menacing presence of Shelong, the rain dragon, in the sky over Fung Wong Shan. She had taken to sleeping in the afternoons, complaining to her niece that too much rain made her joints ache.

The sun was hot now on her bare arms and Song Li pulled down the brim of her straw hat. She wasn’t in the mood for cloud watching today. In the distance a heat haze glimmered across empty paddy fields and grazing water buffalo. The boat slowed to a gentle chug. A flock of red parakeets flew in formation over the pines on the nearby cliff top. San Ko steered into a rocky inlet and shut down the engine, letting the boat drift into the empty bay. Silver grey vines crept over the jutting rocks. A soft breeze carried the cries of black-naped terns diving for fish. The seabirds circled above them, swooping into the ocean.

Song Li dragged an old rice sack out from beneath her seat and tipped the contents onto the floor: two bait hooks, a waterproof sheet and snorkels. ‘Where’s your spear?’ She turned to San Ko who was dropping the rusty anchor over the edge.

‘Is it not there?’

‘You know it’s not.’ Song Li kicked at the empty brown sack and got to her feet. The boat tilted as she moved over the wooden slats to join him by the tiller. ‘How can we fish without a spear?’

He turned around and frowned. ‘That’s a nuisance.’ His fingers stroked the soft fringe out of her eyes. ‘And we’ve come all this way. Let’s just swim instead.’

It was getting hotter without any shade. The ocean was a clear turquoise, sparkling in the afternoon light. Song Li hooked her fingers under the hem of her smock and quickly lifted it over her head. The pink triangle of her bikini bottoms stretched over her stomach. She spat into her mask and rubbed the glass before immersing it in sea water. The snorkel was already attached and she lifted the dripping mask out and pressed it against her face, breathing through her nose until she felt the suction on her cheeks. She quickly adjusted the straps over her pony tail and placed her lips around the mouthpiece. It tasted of rubber and salt. San Ko hadn’t brought a spare set of fins so she would have to do without. He was already in the sea.

‘Come on then,’ he shouted.

She pinched her nostrils shut and stepped backwards off the stern of the boat. It was a long time since she’d snorkelled and she hit the water with an awkward splash. The shock made her gulp down seawater. When she surfaced San Ko was nowhere to be seen. She paddled in a circle waiting for the tip of his snorkel to emerge, but it didn’t. With a deep breath, Song Li dived down.

The water was calm on their side of the bay and warm in the shallows. Visibility was good. She could make out the sandy bed beneath the reef. A jelly fish was drifting over some rocks, drawing its long tentacles up against its clear body. She swam over the underwater forest of black coral, taking care not to graze her legs. Tiny pink sea anemones clung to the sides of the reef and a shoal of yellow fish darted past her mask. Her lungs felt tight. She couldn’t hold her breath for much longer. San Ko was able to stay down for minutes at a time. He was like a dolphin.

She cut through the crystal water to the surface and blew through her snorkel to clear the airway. A tapping noise echoed through the water around her. Song Li looked down and glimpsed San Ko’s luminous fins kicking up sand. After a few deep breaths she dived again.

San Ko was floating over the sea grass directly below her, his legs folded beneath him like a Buddha, his black hair fanning over his bare shoulders. In his hands he held two pieces of rock. He stopped knocking them together and scooped up a handful of sand from the seabed. Brightly coloured fish shimmered in the water around him, flitting over his pale arms and sucking little shards of shell from his open palms.

Song Li swam to his side and watched as he removed a plastic bag from the pocket of his shorts. He swept it through the water, neatly catching four fish, and sealing the bag with a knot. She shook her head and signalled for him to come up.

Her legs ached and she rose through the water slowly, blowing bubbles from her nose until her ears popped. The underside of the boat swayed above her and she swam up the anchor line to the surface.

With tired arms, she hauled herself on board and removed her mask. Water had leaked through the sides and her eyes stung. She shaded them from the afternoon sun and looked at the sea. First the pink tip of his snorkel appeared, then the crown of his head. He blew water into the air like a sperm whale and grinned. ‘Why did you make me come up? I’m fishing.’

Song Li leaned over the side. ‘You know the reefs are protected. It’s illegal to take the fish.’

‘The sea belongs to everyone.’ He swam over to the boat and hooked an arm over the edge. Water glistened on his tanned forearm. He dropped a plastic bag by her bare feet. ‘There’s a store in Kowloon that will pay good money for these goatfish. The gweilo love fish tanks.’ San Ko slid back down into the water.

‘Where are you going now?’ Song Li reached for his shoulder. He shrugged her off and slipped through her fingers.

‘Back down. I’ve got five more bags to fill.’

The sun had disappeared behind the mountains. The sky was streaked with purple clouds and criss-crossing vapour trails. Song Li sat with her knees pressed together and shivered. Her toes curled over the lifebelt. It was quiet except for the lapping of waves against the side of the boat. She couldn’t see any trawlers or junks along the shoreline, just a few gulls and a red buoy. Her fingernails prised open another peanut shell. ‘Why don’t you ever talk about your brother?’ She popped the nut into her mouth and threw the shell into the sea, watching as it floated away like a tiny canoe. ‘Jiejie said he was a great sword fisherman.’

The seat shifted beneath her. San Ko was stowing his snorkelling gear underneath. He stood on a towel and peeled off his wet shorts, his bare buttocks a pale strip against his tanned skin. ‘How would your aunt know?’

‘Your baba comes to the teahouse at night to drink whiskey. Jiejie plays cards with him and they talk about what will happen after “The Handover” from the British. He’s always telling stories of your brother’s trips as a steward on one of the city bank ships.’ Song Li looked at the collection of peanut shells around her feet. She counted twenty before she felt the boat shift.

‘Are you cold?’ San Ko placed the towel around her shoulders and started to pat her skin dry. His hot breath tickled her back. ‘You smell of the sea.’ He squeezed the water out of her hair and combed his fingers through the tangles. ‘Is that better?’

She lifted her gaze and nodded. A line of dark hair ran from his navel and disappeared beneath the towel which he had replaced around his hips.

‘Ji died before I was born. I don’t talk of him, because I don’t know much about him.’ He pulled her to her feet, a distant look in his eyes. ‘I didn’t know he was a steward.’

‘I don’t know much about my mother either. Baba rarely speaks of her. At least I have Jiejie.’ The boat rocked again. Song-Li felt light headed; perhaps she needed some water?

He put a steadying hand on her arm and tilted her chin to look at him. ‘We should get you out of those wet things too.’ He leaned in, his chest touching hers. The arrowhead strung around his neck brushed her collarbone and she felt the rough edge of metal against her skin. With firm fingers, San Ko released the knot strings at her nape and stroked down her spine to untie the back of her bikini.

Song Li shook her head and held the two triangles of material in place against her chest. She could see the salt streaks across his high cheekbones and tiny droplets of water on his neck.

He slicked back his wet hair and knelt in the bottom of the boat. His warm lips pressed against her stomach, then travelled down her thighs. He continued kissing her skin until he reached the tops of her feet.

The sky was turning a slate grey. A line of burnt orange dipped over the horizon. Song Li glanced towards Fung Wong Shan and felt her heart squeeze at what she saw there: Jian: the mythical bird with one eye and one wing. But not just a solitary bird – a pair taking shape together in the clouds. Dependent on each other. Inseparable.

Husband and wife.

Slowly the birds circled the peak before dispersing into a white mist.

* end of extract*

Extract 'The Wishing Tree' from The Mountain of Compassionate Clouds

San Ko spat out the piece of cotton wool. It was red. He ran his tongue over the gap where Dr. Chin had removed the tooth and plugged the blood flow. It tasted of the aniseed sweet he’d been given to suck. His jaw felt numb. He knew he should head home across the creek. She was waiting and if he wasn’t back before dark he would have to climb through the loose window at the side of the house.
     He pulled down his hat and wished for rain. Perhaps then the grey skies would disappear and the humidity would drop. In the street ahead of him the market was closing down, but the smell of raw fish lingered. He kicked a can along the road. The kerbside was littered with shredded plastic bags and coloured wrappers. Several of the stall owners had abandoned the clean-up and were grouped together playing cards. The men sat on upturned crates, in their grimy jeans and blood spattered aprons, sipping from bottles of Tiger beer and tossing coins into a pile in the centre. Dried seahorses and octopi hung on hooks in plastic bags from the canopy above his head. San Ko walked along flicking each bag. He jumped over an electrical cable on the ground illuminating tanks of squirming eels and clicking lobsters. Water from a hosepipe dribbled into a rattan basket full of shrimp. San Ko lifted the pipe to his lips and rinsed out his mouth. One of the vendors looked across and signalled him to move on.
     He stopped outside Mr Lan San’s shop. The door was covered with scribbled notices and stickers. A poster with red and white stripes said, ‘We sell Fuji film here.’ A little bell jangled overhead as he walked through the door. Inside it smelled of garlic and buttered chicken. Birds were roasting on a rotisserie next to a large vat of oil. San Ko moved to the back of the store and opened the refrigerator. He stood there for a moment and let the cold air waft under his t-shirt. Each shelf was stocked with soda bottles. He ignored the dead flies collecting on the strip of fridge lighting and pulled out a Pepsi.
     The top of Mr Lan San’s grey head was visible through the glass counter. He was sitting on a footstool, listening to the six o’clock horserace from Happy Valley. His plimsolls rested against the stool’s wheels, while his body hunched over the radio. The announcer’s voice grew louder and faster and Mr Lan San became more agitated. Suddenly he punched a fist into the air.
     San Ko placed the bottle on the grubby counter and leant over. He held up two fingers. Mr Lan San, nodded and scooted the footstool across to the heated meat counter. He slid open the side window, placed two dumplings in a paper bag and pushed himself back to San Ko. ‘Fifty cents,’ he said, putting out his hand and not looking up.
     San Ko dropped the coins into Mr Lan San’s open palm and reached down for the bag. Outside he slipped the cold bottle into the back pocket of his shorts and bit into the pastry. It was hard chewing a mouthful of shrimp on the right side of his mouth. He turned down the side alley of The Empress Teahouse. The gutter was overflowing with dirty soap suds. Canto pop music blared out from an open window. He passed the backdoor and continued into the yard.
     Song Li was lying on the only patch of grass, near the back fence, tying a bundle of pink paper together with raffia. Her black hair hung in wet tangles over her shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’ San Ko said.
     She hardly stirred. ‘I’m creating a wishing tree.’ She gathered up the paper and fixed it to the end of a piece of red cord. At the opposite end she tied an orange. ‘If this offering catches in the branches then my wish will be granted.’ Her dark eyes squinted up at the bauhinia tree rooted beside the lean-to. Its boughs overhung a corrugated roof. A chicken was scratching around on the metal, its feet stepping over purple petals.
     San Ko put his bag on the ground and took the cord from her fingers. ‘You’d better let me throw it then, I shot three hoops in basketball today.’ He gripped the orange, angled his shoulder back and aimed high. The bundle shot straight up, curved through the air and tangled between the leaves, the bright paper dangling amidst the blossoms. On closer inspection, he saw four more of her offerings, already hanging from the branches. He lay down on the dry grass beside her. ‘What are we wishing for?’

*end of extract*

Extract 'Little Snakes' from The Mountain of Compassionate Clouds

1950
Bao-Li sits on the wooden steps and pulls her boots up over her shins. Claws clatter on the corrugated roof of the porch. A small monkey swings down and leaps into the compost tank. He plays with a piece of papaya, scooping out the seeds and tossing the fruit in the air. The monkey drops the papaya and runs on to the grass under a banana tree. His tail loops around his feet while he grooms the matted fur on his arm with a paw. It scratches at a bald patch of skin. Bao-Li moves off the steps towards the monkey. The screen door slams behind her.
     ‘Come away, Bao-Li. Don’t touch the monkey. It’s diseased.’ Her grandmother’s forehead tightens into a frown. She tucks her trousers into her boots and straightens up.
     ‘But, Nai nai he looks sad.’
     ‘It will bite you. Come away, it’s going to rain and you have much to learn today.’ She places a wide-brimmed hat on Bao-Li’s head and ties it under her chin.

It is late June. The sky is lead grey. A funnel cloud in the distance looks like a tornado, but the air is humid and still. Her grandmother walks ahead into the grass valley, a large canister of insecticide strapped to her back. The flooded paddy fields stretch out like brown lakes covered in algae, the water swirling around the stalks of rice.
     ’This is a dike.’ Her grandmother points to a wooden lever. ‘It channels the flooding. Now watch where you step. Follow me.’
The smell of dung fertilizer sours Bao-Li’s face. She wades through the shallow water behind her grandmother. Nai nai unhooks the nozzle from the can of insecticide and works her way down the rows of rice spraying the stalks. ‘Watch carefully what I’m doing.’ She bends down and coats the green shoots in a cloudy mist. ‘We need to stop rice borers.’
                                                                               *
The rice is nearly as tall as Bao-Li. Stalks that were once green are now brown. The monsoon rains have passed; torrential downpours and high winds kept the farmers away from their crops. It’s now October and the glare of the sun glints off her grandmother’s sickle. The curved blade slices through the stalks and flattens a section, leaving behind only stubs. Her grandmother has two fields of half an acre. The paddies have been drained ready for the harvest. Bao-Li collects bundles of straw and binds the sheaf together. They work side-by side, her grandmother cutting and Bao-Li tying the racks on bamboo poles to dry. It is nearly midday and they have been in the valley since day-break.
     They reach the end of the first field. The crop looks different here. The rice stalks are thin and weak. Her grandmother puts down her sickle and crouches in the mud. She removes her glove and examines a leaf.
     ‘What is it? What’s wrong Nai nai?’ Bao-Li peers over her shoulder. The leaf is covered in grey and brown spots.
Her grandmother bends the stalk towards Bao-Li. Instead of a healthy brown, the grain hull is coated in a milky film. She moves onto her knees clasping stalk after stalk and shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand. It looks like blight.’ She gets to her feet and pushes through the next row of rice. ‘Bad things never walk alone. Check that section for Nai nai.’ She points to the next field.
     Bao-Li steps over the line of barbed wire separating the two fields. The rice stalks droop in the sun. She crawls on her hands and knees. Row after row the same film of white covers each head of grain, the same grey spots spoil the leaves. Her heart pounds as she races back over the fence. Her grandmother is sitting on the ground, her shoulders slumped, her face in her hands.
    Bao-Li hesitates then blurts out, ‘It’s over there too.’
    Nai nai looks up. Her face is grave, her voice quiet. ’The winds must have carried the spores.’ She spreads her arms wide. ‘This whole section is ruined. One bad grain and we’ve lost the lot.’

1991
蛤
Happy are the bullfrogs in the mango tree
We trade hellos, the frogs and me.
Webbed feet salute as they serenade for free
Burping out a symphony.
What is to be found in the clouds beyond?
I search for Xi Wang Mu and her lotus pond.
The frogs stare back with bulging eyes
No answer in their croaked replies.
Happy is the chorus from the mango tree
We trade goodbyes, the bullfrogs and me.

Bao-Li put down her calligrapher’s brush. Just as quickly as it had started, the downpour had become a drizzle. Droplets of water ran down the leaves and dripped onto the pages of her open notebook, blurring the ink on the rice paper. She leant back against the trunk of the mango tree and placed her father’s bark painting in the notebook next to the poem. The bullfrogs continued their song. A blue butterfly, the size of her hand, darted under the green canopy.
     She inhaled deeply. The mountain air tickled the hairs in her nostrils and cleared her head, but the fragrance of peaches was still with her. The higher she had climbed, the stronger the scent had become. It carried on the breeze and mingled with the smell of wet leaves.
     Despite the cooling rain, her skin felt flushed. The back of her neck was clammy. She tucked loose hair under her straw hat. There hadn’t been time to think about what to wear when she’d left the house. She was still dressed in the white vest and shorts from that morning. She turned up the collar of her rain jacket and gazed at the peak of Fung Wong Shan. It felt good to be outside and free.
     The night before she’d watched her brother drop a lobster into a vat of boiling water. Its black eyes had stared right at her; a claw waved in the air. ‘Save me,’ it had seemed to say. Many a time she’d been part of such preparations and remained detached, but in that instant she’d felt a kinship with the lobster.
     She’d walked away from the stove, but she could still hear its body jerking in the water and see its long antennae twitching over the side of the pot.
     ‘Cover him up.’ Her brother had passed her the lid.
     She’d taken it from him, but found herself compelled to look inside.
     Bubbles had risen from the silent body. The lobster had turned bright red and shrunk to fit the pot, its legs curled up against its belly. That is me, she’d thought. I am shrinking within these walls.
     For days she had observed her brother’s routine, hoping for an opportunity to slip out and be by herself. He was like a cockroach; everywhere she turned he was under her feet. The teahouse remained closed and when her brother was not upstairs he sent one of the family to sit with her, usually Song Li.
     That afternoon when her niece had come to check on her, Bao-Li had feigned sleep. She’d waited half an hour, lying in her bedroom, until luck smiled on her. The screen door creaked open and clicked shut. She’d leapt out of bed, fully-clothed and grabbed her bag. Through her window blind she’d seen Song Li walking fast in the direction of the market.
     Bao- Li had just taken the time to grab some food before leaving through the backdoor of the teahouse.

Mud squelched beneath her boots. She drew her legs into her body and rested her chin on her knees. She’d already made quick progress over the rough terrain and was now at the first lookout point on the trail up Fung Wong Shan. From there, the path narrowed and began its steep incline towards the mountain peak. An ancient wall followed the trail for several miles and provided a clear marker on the hillside.
     On one side of her, green hills, dotted with shrubs and slash pines, rolled down to the ocean. Here and there, the rugged coastline was interrupted by coves and rocky outcrops. The South China Sea, a murky brown, stretched out as far as she could see. On the other side, mountain ridges and slopes led to canyons and ravines covered in camphor tree plantations and clumps of saw-edged grass.
     As the rain had nearly stopped she began packing away her water bottle and notebook. The drone of an aeroplane approaching disturbed the quiet. Bao-Li searched the grey sky. The wings of a jet dipped in and out of the clouds above Fung Wong Shan.
     It had been twenty years since she’d flown in an aeroplane. Even then it had only been on a short flight to Beijing, to visit her father’s specialist. She hadn’t been prepared for the return approach to Hong Kong and Kai Tak airport; the terrifying sweep through the skyscrapers to the runway. She also hadn’t been prepared for the nausea that had lead to her emptying her stomach over the passenger next to her. And nothing had prepared her for what the specialist had had to say; that her beloved father, at 53, was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. They could no longer pretend that his memory loss was forgetfulness or that putting tins of food in the laundry basket was a game.
     Nai nai’s saying came to her again. ‘Bad things never walk alone.’ Her grandmother had been right; the year after her rice crop failed Nai nai died of colon cancer. And now, all these years later, the family thought it was Bao-Li’s turn to be sick - that she was inflicted with the same condition as her father. It was not true, and she was not delusional. The peaches were a message, the recurring dreams too.
     Her father was trying to communicate with her; warn her of something.
The story of the queen, Xi Wang Mu, was hers by heart. A ladder between heaven and earth extended down from the palace in the clouds. Spirits and shamans travelled the ladder. They could take on any shape or form, like the raven. She needed to get further up the mountain. Something or someone was waiting for her.
     She checked her shoelaces and straightened up. Her vision blurred for a second and she steadied herself. Only a few hours of daylight remained. She would be missed before long. She must press on.
     The aeroplane was overhead now. Bao- Li stretched out her arms and propelled herself down the hill track, her feet picking up momentum. The familiar green and white fuselage of a Cathay Pacific plane appeared over the summit. She could hear the whir of engines as the flaps on the undercarriage opened and the landing gear dropped. The jet turned right and so did she. The mountain path levelled out and she leapt over a rock.
     At the bottom of the hill she slowed down and caught her breath. The empty track rose steeply in front of her. It was the wrong time of year for hikers and her footsteps were the only sound on the mountain path. With the fading light came a cooler evening. She would need her torch and jumper before long. Her mouth was dry, her stomach empty, and she realised she hadn’t eaten since the morning.
     In the side pocket of her rucksack was a rice cake. It wasn’t much, but it would ease her hunger pangs. She lifted it to her lips. The path was getting rockier, the vegetation sparser, and every now and then she came across fresh pellets of goat dung. The backs of her calves ached and she felt a twinge in her right hip. She rounded a bend in the trail and saw with relief a spring gushing from a crevice in the rocks.
     She knelt in the mud to unscrew the lid of her canteen, and swept it through the clear water. Fresh trotter prints in the riverbank followed the spring to where it widened out into a stream. She looked downstream and searched for any movement in the tall reeds. Wild boar were a rare sight, but unpredictable. They were known to charge and their tusks were sharp. It was quiet amongst the grasses. The tracks disappeared, but something else caught her eye.
     Shoots of bamboo sprung up from the water’s edge and a few feet away the grass was shorter. She got to her feet and walked along the stream. In the low ridges of mud, the flat bank was interrupted by a long mound covered in rocks and lichen. Grass grew up through the rocks and a large stone stood at one end. Looped around the stone was a piece of fishing twine strung with mussel shells. A cold shiver travelled down her spine as she realised the significance of the mound and its position overlooking the water. The mountain slopes behind were south-facing.
     Good feng shui dictated such a location for the dead…

*end of extract*

Extract 'The Wishing Tree' from The Mountain of Compassionate Clouds

1989
In a few hours it will be the year of the horse. In her aunt’s bedroom Song Li stands by the open window and watches Mr Lan San across the street paint brushstrokes of red along the door frame to his store. He crouches to one side and lets his wife sweep bad luck out of the entrance.
     It is nearly time for the celebrations.
     On the bed, wrapped in tissue paper, her silk dress waits for her. Her bathed skin smells of pomelo leaves. She plaits her long hair into a braid and draws her cotton slip up over her head. The evening breeze cools her naked limbs.
Voices drift up from the street below.
     The front door to the teahouse squeaks open and bangs shut.
     At the foot of the bed she unfolds the tissue paper and reveals the crimson sash dress. It has a brocade neckline and butterflies embroidered around the hem. She holds it against her body and bends down to step into the dress, sliding the zip up her spine.

     The material glides over her small breasts.
     Downstairs the teahouse is alive with the smell of citrus fruits and burning wax. The tables are decorated with paper lanterns and sprigs of peach blossom. On each one a centrepiece of three dishes is arranged on a bamboo mat. A pyramid of oranges fills one plate and a mountain of turnip cakes another. She sits on the counter between the steaming bowls of soup and pokes a spoon at the balls of rice floating beneath the surface.
     Jiejie is standing on a stool in a backless gown of red and gold sequins, hanging decorations. She balances on tiptoe, her painted toes pressing into the padded cushion. Dr. Chin leans towards her and passes her a plastic koi fish with a beaded tail. Her forehead creases in concentration, her fingers fumbling as she pins the cord to the wall. The knotted tassel dangles in the window and joins a curtain of hanging fish. She turns - and claps her hands together. ‘Song Li, your dress is so pretty. You look beautiful.’
     Dr. Chin’s gaze remains on Jiejie’s exposed back. ‘I agree,’ he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He looks away and picks up four cardboard signs. A frown appears on his broad forehead. ‘Where would like these couplets, Bao-Li?’
     Her aunt’s voice is soft with wine. ‘Hang two on either side of the front door, Sami. I’ll take the other two.’
     ‘I’ll help.’ Song Li slides off the counter and takes the couplets from her aunt’s hands. She tapes the first one to the wall above the cooker.
     ‘May you be blessed with peace and safety in all seasons.’
She fixes the second one beside it.
     ‘May you be blessed with peace and safety wherever you are.’
     ‘Time to open the door,’ says Jiejie. She places a garland of dried lime peel over Song Li’s head. ‘For luck. And to ward off mosquitoes.’
*
‘So, have you kissed her yet?’ Her brother’s voice comes from the backyard. Song Li stops on the stone steps.
     A second voice says, ‘She’s your sister. Do you really want to know?’
     ‘Well, have you?’
     ‘Yes.’
     ‘When?’
     ‘Lots of times.’ San Ko clears his throat. ‘Pass me that piece of string, Shrimp.’
     ‘Lots of times, when?’
     ‘You know I overheard Dr. Chin, at the surgery, on the telephone.’ San Ko deepens his voice. ‘“Kissing is like drinking salted water: you drink and your thirst increases.” He was talking to your aunt.’
     ‘Lizard shit!’
     Song Li rounds the corner. The two boys sit on empty tea sacks, packing a powdery substance into stems of bamboo. They straighten up with guilty expressions on their faces. San Ko brushes powder from his shorts, Kai See hides a pot with his feet. She walks over to the lean-to.
     ‘Hi, Song Li. How are you?’ San Ko blurts out and offers his hand to shake.
     Kai See laughs.
    ‘Everyone is heading down to the sea.’ Song Li looks at the pile of bamboo sticks on the grass. Each stem is packed with white powder and a short string fuse. ‘Where did you get gunpowder? Firecrackers are illegal, even those poor imitations.’
     ‘You always spoil everything.’ Kai See strikes a match and the flame travels down the fuse of one stick. He throws it up over the fence. The gunpowder ignites. A loud ‘pop pop’ fills the backyard and a shower of sparks falls to the ground. ‘Catch you later, San Ko.’ He jumps up and walks across the yard to the alleyway.
     The screen door slams.
     ‘It was just a bit of fun.’ San Ko pulls her down onto the empty sack. They sit in silence beneath the banyan tree. He draws a crescent in the red earth with his toe. ‘I like your hair.’
     Song Li touches the orchid spray Jiejie fastened on a clip above her ear. ‘Thanks.’
     He looks at his dusty feet. ‘Shall we join the others?’
    ‘I guess so.’ She gathers the folds of her dress together and moves onto her knees.
     ‘Wait,’ he leans forward and turns her face to his. His lips bump against hers. The tip of his tongue darts into her mouth – circles from side to side, then retreats. Their teeth knock together.
     A clanging sound, followed by a squawk separates them. The grey head of Dr. Chin appears from behind the metal bunker at the back of the house. He holds a hand up in apology. The other hand grips a large cage covered in a black sheet. He tugs the cloth up to reveal two clawed feet and the beady eye of a fat chicken. ‘I think I woke it,’ he calls out with a rueful smile. He shuffles out from behind the bunker and fits the cage under one arm. ‘It’s a present for your aunt. I kept it hidden behind here.’
     Song Li gets to her feet. ‘Shall we join the others?’

A parade of lights travels down from the temple of Tin Hau to the waterfront. A few yards from the shore the moored junks bob on the sea, their empty lobster cages hung over the side among streamers of red and paper fringes of gold. Colourful lights illuminate the masts and rigging. A small crowd gathers on the mudflat eating steamed dumplings and drinking spiced rum. Abandoned money envelopes litter the ground between their feet.
     Song Li shouts, ‘Here they come.’
     Mr Lan San and Dr. Chin march onto the mudflat, dressed in yellow shorts and white vests. On their shoulders they carry a long canoe with a papier mâche dragon head fixed to the front. The spike of the tail is missing. They lower the boat into the sea and wade through the shallow water and flotsam.
     Once seated in the canoe, Dr. Chin strikes up the ceremonial gong. Mr Lan San begins to paddle, his short arms turning the oars. His voice carries across the water. ‘Sami, your drumming is out of time with the rowing!’
     It’s the same every year.
     The beat of the drum gets faster and the dragon boat accelerates through the murky water towards the flotilla of junks. Mr Lan San turns the blade of the paddle in shallow rapid strokes, until the canoe hits a piece of driftwood and upends them both into the sea. They return to the shore to resounding applause. Jiejie wraps a towel around Dr. Chin’s shoulders and pulls a piece of seaweed out from his hair. She hands Song Li a bag with her lantern in. ‘Where’s your brother, tonight?’

Song Li is the last to go. With her back to the crowds she holds the fire lantern in her hands.
     San Ko stretches the tissue paper out over the bamboo frame. He leans in and kisses her cheek. ‘I like hanging out with you. – Ready?’ He waves a burning match under the paper wick. ‘Take it high above your head, now run!’
     Her feet slap through the wet mud. Hot air fills the lantern. The paper billows and lifts from her fingers. It drifts over their heads and catches in the reeds then slowly ascends. Her lantern floats higher until it joins the others. They glide away from the shore, over the tops of the boat masts, higher and higher until they become tiny fireflies dancing over the dark ocean.