“I’m sharing in your glory,” said Aling, winking at Ahan. Dengmei carried in a huge pot of soup and quietly tiptoed back to the kitchen. The pot was filled with greens in broth.

  Dengmei’s face was red, perhaps as a result of working over the stove. As she came out of the kitchen, her lips were open slightly; her eyes were half shut and her eyelashes motionless. When she turned to go back to the kitchen, it was as if neither her eyes nor her neck had moved.

  The meal was eaten in silence. Aling seemed to be the only one talking. Renhua was usually the most talkative, Renxing was usually ready to chime in, and Weimei always giggled like a half-wit. But that night there was none of that. Ahan observed their faces. Indeed, the whole family, young and old, all seemed to be behaving quite formally. There was no other movement except for eating. Their faces were all expressionless. Strangely, all the small children were also silent.

  Ahan trembled; the atmosphere in the room made him nervous. He was also tired, and then there was Renxiu’s death. He thought about death. What was a man’s life? What was there to life but the worries of earning a living, conflicts with others, unavoidable matters no one asked for, and the elusiveness of things desired? His views were beginning to change: when a man died, perhaps he had nothing, but he left behind many things without shape or form. Life was full of worries, responsibilities, and helplessness. He had managed to avoid most of that, but now that Renxiu had died, was he to take his place?

  As he ate, he decided to take a close look at Dengmei. The truth was that he had never had a good look at her. But strangely, ever since he first met her, he always thought of her when he considered his own life. He always thought of her vulnerable expression. However, after his talk with Aling, he was no longer able to visualize her; whenever he tried, she disappeared. And now the entire Peng family was there before his eyes, all but Dengmei. It wasn’t fair.

  Had she eaten? Perhaps not. What if there was nothing left for her? That should never happen—even a foster daughter is a human being. He thought of how well he would treat her. Indeed, Dengmei was nearly his. After that, she’d no longer be a foster daughter; instead, she would receive the respect due a married woman. He was pleased with these thoughts and grew more satisfied with his decision.

  Xu Shihui arrived just as they were clearing the table, and soon they were joined by Xu Shixing, Su Ajin, and Chen Afa. As they discussed the matter of land tenure, Fan Qian and Xie Atan hurried in. Fan and Xie were both tanned and robust farmers just thirty years old. The room couldn’t hold the eight family heads as well as Peng’s three sons and Ahan and Aling. The room seemed about to burst.

  It was decided unanimously that Xu Shihui was to apply for the land patent under his name and that Liu Ahan was to become captain of the guard. The sum and method of payment for the captain were quickly decided upon. Liu Ahan didn’t have much say in the matter; at any rate, he had decided that if the pay was enough for him and Dengmei to live on, he wouldn’t make a fuss. Everyone else had probably come to a similar conclusion. Ahan just focused on the discussion of the various other problems.

  From their conversation, Ahan gradually learned about the acquisition and taxation of land in Taiwan. In the past, the land of Taiwan had been held in common by the civilized and uncivilized indigenous people, and by law was considered “uncultivated land without owners.” When Koxinga took Taiwan, his clan and followers, both civil and military, were officially awarded land. In the early days, under the Qing government in China, people were prohibited from crossing to Taiwan, but it was an empty edict. Beginning in the mid-Qing there was a change of policy: the government actually encouraged people to go and open up the land. That was the origin of the land tenure system. Apart from the official lands that were passed on, those who obtained land patents were the first to legally own land in Taiwan. But they did not actually have to till the land themselves; they could recruit farmers to do it for them. Thus tenant farmers emerged. In the beginning, then, the actual tillers of the soil were tenant farmers while the land patent recipients were the landlords. That’s how the feudal system came into being on Taiwan.

  By law, the tenant farmer had to pay a certain amount of his crops in tithes. If a tenant prospered or a landlord fell on hard times, property rights could be sold or mortgaged. As such, a landlord’s direct connection to a piece of land often grew more tenuous. In turn, a tenant farmer who prospered could lease land to other farmers and in this way eventually become a landowner himself. Those who rented farmland from other tenant farmers were referred to as sharecroppers. Thus one piece of land could be used by three groups of people—landlords, tenant farmers, and sharecroppers—paying two kinds of rent. As far as the government was concerned, the landlord was ultimately responsible for all taxes, regardless of what kind of private arrangements he had made with others. If he could not pay the taxes due, he might be forced to mortgage his land.

  The feuds between families at that time were largely between land patent holders and resulted from struggles for land. The tenant farmers and sharecroppers had no choice but to side with the landlords. The power of major Taiwanese families was greater than that of typical landlord families in mainland China.

  Once Fanzai Wood had a land patent holder, the status of the families as squatters on idle lands would become that of tenant farmers. Fan and Xie barely cultivated enough land to feed their families. They would most likely become tenant farmers on Xu Shihui’s land, which was considerable, or become sharecroppers, paying rent to other tenant farmers. If Huang Aling and Liu Ahan were to settle there, they too would face the same fate.

  Chen Afa was related to Master Ye Atian and would probably be able to look after the recently opened fields on behalf of his relative. Therefore, he was not very enthusiastic about the village plan for obtaining a land patent.

  For the other seven families, the advantages and disadvantages were equally balanced, especially for the latecomers like the Pengs, Fans, and Xies, and perhaps even Ahan and Aling. All had the same ultimate goal of complete independence. In the end they decided in favor of the plan and to complete the process as quickly as possible. However, they insisted on three conditions. First, Xu Shihui had to draw up an individual contract with each family stipulating that he as land patent holder would not seek to collect rents from the families that farmed the land and that the families would pay the taxes on the lands they cultivated. Second, they would draw up a contract for sharing the expenses for the captain and the guards. Third, they all agreed to go to the temple of Guan Ti, the god of war, at Great Lake Village and swear that if any one of them should act to the detriment of the others and go against the agreements, the god would punish them by depriving them of descendants and by striking them dead with lightning. And so their meeting was brought to a successful conclusion.

  FIVE

  •

  Love

  Work started on the house for Ahan and Aling and their families on a small plot of land between the Pengs and the Sus. One member from each of the Peng, Su, and Xu families was dispatched to help.

  The Pengs had built a pigsty near their threshing ground and directly across from the house Ahan and Aling were building. It had been a big step for the Pengs, because any family with a place in society had to keep pigs. One day, as Dengmei was carrying a pail of pig swill out to the sty, Ahan spotted her.

  He tried not to look at her but couldn’t help himself. Her slight figure dressed in gray was always there before his eyes. Even when he closed his eyes and shook his head, her slim figure remained. Dengmei was feeding the pigs. Her head lowered, she watched as the piglets greedily gobbled down the food. She always felt that many eyes were fixed on her, all of them reproving, contemptuous, and ill-intentioned.

  The previous morning, Lanmei had curtly told her of her upcoming marriage. Dengmei was confused and bewildered for a long time. Although Qinmei and Shunmei had already informed her, she thought they had been joking with her for their own amusement. She had been mocked enough recently to make her immune to it. But Lanmei was telling her that it was indeed true. In a whole year, Lanmei had not uttered so many words to Dengmei, much less consulted with her about anything.

  It can’t be true, perhaps they’re just … thought Dengmei, desperately trying to clarify things to herself, to find the real meaning behind those words. If it is true, it will never happen, was her first thought. It was clear that she was going to be a married woman from the Peng family and no longer a foster daughter. It would be a change for the better, but such changes had never been Dengmei’s lot in life. She did prefer Ahan to Renxiu, and she would be marrying outside of the Peng family—it was too good to be true.

  “Dengmei, you can help your sister-in-law at home for the next few days,” said Lanmei in a friendly tone of voice. “There’s no need for you to go up in the mountains.”

  “I ought to go work in the fields,” she insisted. Ever since Renxiu’s death, Lanmei had glared at her and scolded her through clenched teeth. Not once did she have a kind word.

  “Idiot! Once the house is built, you’ll be married. Don’t you want to get some rest?”

  “There’s no need. I can work in the fields.”

  Lanmei heaved a sigh and looked closely at her for a long time. Her expression was kind and friendly, something Dengmei was not accustomed to. It was the same expression she wore when speaking to Renxiu, Defu, and Dexin. Dengmei had seen it only from a distance; it had never been directed at her. But that was only natural; after all, she was just a foster daughter, someone who had been purchased. Therefore, her foster mother’s behavior left her at a loss.

  She suddenly felt warm all over and trembled. She wanted to rush forward and seize her foster mother’s hand or fall into her arms.

  “Dengmei, you’re crying. What’s the matter?” Lanmei was taken aback, and her expression changed to one of indifference. Dengmei gave a start and shuddered. She felt she had been too presumptuous. Once again, she lowered her head and assumed an air of timid obedience.

  “Witch!” grunted Lanmei. Her expression changed from indifference to anger and disgust. She turned and walked away.

  Why was her foster mother like that? Would she never understand? Was it always to be an issue without resolution? But there was an answer; the mistrust had always been there, and she herself had already accepted it. But she could not rid herself of that feeling of resentment, even when she was consciously aware of it. And so it went, back and forth, round and round, never ceasing.

  I’m only eighteen, she would think to herself. A widow at eighteen? But whatever happened, she would never acknowledge that Renxiu was her husband. Her foster mother and sisters-in-law had indicated that she belonged to Renxiu and that she had been responsible for his death. Now she was Renxiu’s wife—widow. I’m not a widow, she thought, and her gentle, timid heart began to swell with courage. It was as if she were looking for a fight, but with no one but herself.

  She recalled what had happened the night before the third weekly ritual after Renxiu’s death. It was an evening like those preceding the first and second rituals. Standing before his grave, dressed in her hemp mourning garments and hat and holding three sticks of incense, she had implored the departed soul to return. “Renxiu, Renxiu, get up! Renxiu, it’s the third week, you must return!”

  At Renxiu’s grave, she bowed and “called his soul.” Xu Rixing had taught her, and after imitating her foster mother, she learned quite quickly how to do it properly. Renxiu had died after reaching adulthood, so someone had to burn incense for him. Since he had no children, his wife had to call his soul home. Without a wedding ceremony, her status in the family had been fixed. “Renxiu, turn the corner, take care. Renxiu, cross the bridge, take care. Renxiu, climb the slope, turn the corner, don’t fall. Renxiu, you are home, don’t step on the threshold, come in.”

  From within the house came the sound of weeping. Her chest felt so constricted that she could scarcely breathe. As she took a breath, she too wailed. Why was she crying? Was she sad? Did she feel grief? Was she resentful? Was she afraid? Perhaps it was all of these feelings, perhaps none. She developed a fever that lasted several days, and she couldn’t stop coughing. Before dinner she sat in front of the stove dozing. She knew she needed a long quiet sleep if she were to get better. But she couldn’t lie down; all she could do was lean against the wall and doze.

  “Dengmei, it’s time to light the incense.”

  The soft sound of sobbing continued to be heard from the main room. Several smoking sticks of incense had already been placed in the bamboo incense burner. Dengmei hurried forward, lit three sticks, and, holding them before her, knelt and kowtowed nine times. Then she stepped back and stood in a corner of the room.

  “Dengmei,” said Lanmei in a clear voice, “tonight you must sleep in Renxiu’s room, in his bed.”

  After Renxiu died, her foster mother insisted that she must spend the night in the “bridal chamber” and sleep in Renxiu’s bed. Dengmei didn’t have the courage for that; nor did she have the courage to say no. She could only hide in the kitchen and lie near the stove as everyone else went to bed. Her “improper” act was discovered and resulted in a severe scolding, but no one forced her to stay in Renxiu’s room. However, that night Lanmei was insistent.

  “Dengmei, did you hear me?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid? Afraid of your husband?” Lanmei then ordered everyone to go to bed early. “Off to bed. If you hear footsteps or some other sound, don’t make a fuss. Just watch quietly.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked the half-wit, Weimei.

  No one answered her, but Renhua’s wife whispered to Dengmei, “Don’t go to sleep. He’ll come back at the end of the third week. If you go to sleep, you will surely see him.” Spirits of the dead always manifested themselves at the end of the third week.

  “Oh!?” Dengmei’s eyes grew round with fear.

  “You won’t do it? Are you afraid?” The pain in Lanmei’s heart turned to anger. “Those who ought to die, don’t. Renxiu will appear tonight. He’ll appear. He’ll seize you and kill you!”

  “Ma …”

  “Enough, enough of such goings-on,” said Peng Aqiang, stamping his foot and glaring at everyone.

  “Cry? You dare to cry? Your crying will be the death of the Peng family.” Lanmei herself was in tears now. “Get in there, get in there this minute!”

  “I can’t.”

  Peng Aqiang could no longer tolerate his wife’s behavior. Renjie also intervened. In the face of such opposition, Lanmei became even more distraught. No one could stop her as she forcefully shoved Dengmei into the bridal chamber.

  Already feverish, Dengmei could not cope with the situation any longer. Everything went black, and she collapsed in a heap in the doorway.

  When she came to, it was pitch dark all around. A faint light could be seen from the slatted bamboo window. A wave of despair swept over her and tears flowed down her face.

  I must be lying in Renxiu’s bed, she thought. She recalled the entire scene just before she fainted. Strangely, she now felt no fear, as if her fainting spell had changed everything. Her poor foster mother, she thought. Each time after Dengmei was beaten and the pain had subsided, she would feel nothing but pity for Lanmei. She only had to see her foster parents’ grief and she would feel sad herself, and guilty. Maybe Renxiu really will appear any moment now, she thought. Hadn’t he told everyone before he died that she was not to blame and that they shouldn’t persecute her? She knew if he were to appear, she would see him. From the look in his eyes before he died, she knew that he did not hate her and perhaps actually loved her, just a little. If he appeared, maybe he would take her with him. Living was so hard; everyone suffered. If she went with Renxiu, perhaps there would be an end to the pain. As she considered the idea, her fear vanished, replaced by a mysterious sense of longing and hope, a hope that he really would come and take her away. But all was still. Time seemed to move like the wind over the grass, coming in waves and disappearing, leaving nothing.

  Lanmei’s admonition was still fresh in her mind: “If anyone wants to die, do so far away. Don’t pollute this place.” Peng Aqiang had also told everyone that if they no longer wished to go on living they should leave and die far away where no one could find their body. It looked as if Renxiu was not going to appear that night. Could it be that her calls had been inadequate? Perhaps his soul had lost its way. She decided that she would find it herself. She was determined to take her own life. The vague idea of suicide must have been in the back of her mind for years, but after Renxiu’s death, for which she had been blamed, it had been brought to the forefront. But she thought of death with a mixture of fear and trepidation. At the bottom of her heart she realized that a huge gulf separated the idea and the fact. She had considered the idea of death to take her mind off the persecution.

  She sat up on the bed and remembered that there was a mirror on the wall. With no light, there would be no reflections except those of spirits and ghosts. She knew that Renxiu’s spirit would not appear that night. She felt something was missing, but she also felt as though she had achieved a small victory. She rubbed her face with both hands and touched her disheveled hair. The meager plaits of her dry hair had come undone, so she pulled off the ribbon and let her hair hang down.

  I expect ghosts must look the way I do, she thought, smiling. She pushed open the door and went down to the threshing ground. The sliver of a new moon was hanging from the branch of a tree. Even in early summer the nights were still cold. She heard a fox bark behind the house. Foxes were spooky animals. She seemed to smell their musky scent and broke out in goose bumps, which were a sign of fear; but her fear was tinged with a certain pleasure, strangely alluring. After a moment of hesitation, she pulled open the gate and stepped out. She walked down the slope and paused for a moment in front of the temple. Putting her hands together, she bowed several times. For no apparent reason, tears welled up in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks.