A
Red Pot Tale
When I was eleven my family
moved from our mountain village in the north to a seaport town on the south
coast. For weeks I moped about the new house for I had fallen in love for the
first time in my young life, fallen in love back home with a girl who lived on
the other side of the river. To soothe my unhappy heart, now so far away from
my beloved, my grandmother thought to tell me the tale of Bai and Lim.
Bai was the youngest
daughter of a most successful and esteemed businessman who kept a steady hand
on the pulse of the grain markets. His trade extended from the great growing
fields and terraces to the port city where ships from faraway locales brought
goods and left heavy with holds full of wheat and rice.
Lim, at least twice a month,
more often during the full harvest season, would be sent by his father with a
large wagonload of rice into the city to sell wherever the best price could be
found.
Bai, she with her lustrous
black hair and wise green eyes that startled visitors to her father’s trading
office, was as everyone knew an accomplished artist—painting, writing poems,
composing songs of such lyrical delicacy that locals behind her father’s back
chuckled to themselves, murmured “How does she come into this world so talented when he is so
dull?”
Did I mention how Lim could
swing an ax? No? Lim split wood like his mother butchered a chicken. Swift,
strong, pinpoint blows. Village children would run to watch him when they heard
his ax cleaving the wood. Old men would gather and nod knowingly, some even
claiming that is how they too split wood when they were younger, younger by
many decades.
Each day Bai served her
father tea downstairs at his worktable. He would always say, “Good morning,
dear daughter, what have you brought me today?” She would smile and bow and
answer, “I bring you your morning tea, dear father.”
One morning, five days past
the full moon, Lim stepped into the trader’s office. The older man looked up
and stood. “Ah, young Lim, finally you are here. Several merchants have been
waiting for your load.”
Lim bowed. “Yes. I have
brought you a very good load, our very best, long grains, clean and firm.”
“Good, good. Very good. Let
me take a look—not to doubt—merely to confirm what I already know.” The trader
gestured to the door.
Lim turned and there framed
by the doorway, the early sunlight behind her, stood Bai, tea service in hand.
I should tell you Lim was
highly regarded in his village. Strong, of course, but dignified beyond his
years in his bearing. Many older residents would seek his counsel, many a
father wished Lim would settle upon his daughter for a wife.
“This is my daughter Bai.
Bai, this is Lim who brings me a great wagonload this fine morning.”
Bai nodded—her eyes closed
for a moment—and spoke sweetly, “Good morning, Master Lim.”
As for Lim, he took a half
step forward. “Good morning, Mistress Bai.” Or at least that is what he
intended to say, but to his ears it sounded something not quite guttural,
something like a grunt. He looked into her eyes and then glanced down at the
tea service.
By the way, Lim needed to
cross into the city center after the rice sale was completed, his mother
requiring a bolt of dyed cloth from a very particular source.
When Bai was seven her
mother died of yellow fever and so the girl was a first child and an only
child. Some family members clucked how she was spoiled, too spoiled to be a
good wife. But Bai was attentive to her father, diligent in her duties, and kind
to all.
Bai stepped into the office
and stood to the side as the two men went out to conduct their business. The
trader checked only three bags and happily pulled out his purse, counted out a
large sum, and gave Lim of sheaf of bills folded once in the middle and tied
with twine.
Two bridges cross the great
river into the city center. One is the Bridge of Blossom Time. In the spring as
the great row of trees along the stone quay bloom, many a traveler and nearly
every resident stops near the midpoint of the bridge where the view can cause
even hard hearts to gasp in wonderment and so often tears are seen, the beauty
so overwhelming.
This morning Lim instead
crossed the Bridge of Sighs to purchase the cloth for his mother, and after a
late breakfast of two boiled eggs and a bowl of soup, he turned to retrieve his
ox-drawn wagon left with Bai’s father to be unloaded.
As it so happened, Bai after
her morning duties, weather permitting, strolled to the Bridge of Blossom Time
to take in the glorious sight. She knew where to stand to best watch the
flowers shimmer in sun and on the surface of the water.
Yet, as if a scent on the
breeze, something gave Lim pause, and with only a momentary halt in his stride,
he changed course and headed toward the Bridge of Blossom Time.
As Lim approached the crown
of the bridge, he saw Bai standing perfectly still, umbrella over her left
shoulder. He approached and stood next to her, surveying the scene, hesitating
to speak.
Bai glanced at him and back
to the river. “Master Lim.”
He placed his hands on the
railing. “Mistress Bai.”
“You are a long way from
home.”
“Yes. Yes, four days.”
“Do you miss your home when
you are away?”
Lim thought for a moment.
“Yes, Mistress Bai.”
“Could you ever leave your
home?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t
know. I—“
Bai turned to face him, her
green eyes fixed on his eyes. “I could never leave my home, this city.”
Lim’s face reddened. “No. I
understand—no, I guess not.”
“Perhaps we shall meet
again. May your return be safe and swift.”
Lim drew in a shallow
breath. “Thank you, Mistress Bai. Blessings to you and your father.”
The young man stepped back
and started across the bridge. Bai folded her umbrella and sat on a bench
overlooking the scene. She studied the trees, the sky, the flowers, the water.
Thoughts gathered, she heard the words in her mind: Seventeen blackbirds sit /
among the cherry blossoms. / Chatter—silence—flight.
Lyman
2021
