“Every day I come to the same conclusion,” Snow Flower admitted, as she looked out over the deep valley below. “But then your aunt comes into my mind. Lily, think how she suffered and how little we cared for her suffering.”
I responded with the truth. “She hurt terribly, but I think we were a comfort to her.”
“Remember how sweet Beautiful Moon was? Remember how demure she was even in death? Remember when your aunt came home and stood over her body? We’d all been concerned about her feelings, so we wrapped Beautiful Moon’s face. Your aunt never saw her daughter again. Why were we so cruel?”
I could have said that Beautiful Moon’s corpse was too horrible a memory to place in a mother’s mind. Instead, I said, “We will visit Aunt at the first chance. She will be happy to see us.”
“You perhaps,” Snow Flower said, “but not me. I remind her too much of herself. But know this. She reminds me every day to endure.” She thrust her chin forward, took one last look out across the misty hills, and said, “I think we should go back. I can see you are cold. And besides, there’s something I want you to help me write.” She reached into her tunic and pulled out our fan. “I brought it with me. I was afraid the rebels might burn my house and it would be lost.” Her eyes stared into mine. She was fully back now. She let out her breath and shook her head. “I said I’d never again lie to you. The truth is, I thought we’d die up here. I didn’t want us to be without it.”
She pulled on my arm.
“Come away from the edge, Lily. Seeing you stand there like that scares me.”
We walked back to our camp, where we improvised ink and a brush. We took two half-burned logs from the fire and let them cool; then we scraped at the charred parts with rocks, carefully preserving what came off. This we mixed with water in which we boiled some roots. It wasn’t as black or opaque as ink, but it would work well enough. Then we loosened the edge of a basket, extracted a length of bamboo, and sharpened it as best we could. This we used for our brush. We took turns recording in our secret language our journey here, the loss of Snow Flower’s little boy and unborn baby, the cold nights, and the blessings of friendship. When we were done, Snow Flower gently closed the fan and tucked it back inside her tunic.
That night the butcher did not beat my laotong. Instead he wanted and got bed business. Afterward she came to my side of the fire, slipped under her wedding quilt, curled up beside me, and rested her palm on my face. She was tired from so many sleepless nights and I felt her body soften quickly. Just before she drifted off, she whispered, “He loves me as best he can. Everything will be better now. You’ll see. He has had a change of heart.” And I thought, Yes, until the next time he throws his grief or his anger into the loving person beside me.
THE NEXT DAY we received word it was safe to return to our villages. After three months in the mountains, I’d like to say we’d seen the last of death. We had not. We had to pass all those who’d been left behind during our escape. We saw men, women, children, babies—all badly decomposed from exposure to the elements, from animal feasts, and from the natural decomposition of flesh. White bones flashed at us in the bright sunlight. Garments brought back instant identification, and too often we heard cries of recognition and remorse.
If all this were not enough, many of us were so weak that death was inevitable—now, at this last stage, when we were almost home. Mostly it was women who died on the way down the mountain. Balancing on our lily feet, we were top-heavy. We were pulled toward the abyss that fell away to our right. This time, in daylight, we not only heard the screams but saw the flapping of women’s arms as they futilely fought the air. A day earlier, I would have worried for Snow Flower, but her face was set in concentration as she carefully placed one foot after the other before her.
The butcher carried his mother on his back. Once, when Snow Flower faltered, drawing back uncertainly at the sight of a mother wrapping the decayed remains of a child to take home for a proper burial, he stopped, set his mother down, and took Snow Flower’s elbow. “Please keep walking,” he pleaded with her softly. “We will be at our cart soon. You will ride the rest of the way back to Jintian.” When she refused to tear her eyes away from the mother and her child, he added, “I will come back in the spring and bring his bones home. I promise we will have him nearby.”
Snow Flower straightened her shoulders and forced herself to step reluctantly around the woman with her tiny bundle.
The hand-drawn cart was no longer where we’d left it. This and so many things that had been discarded three months ago had been taken, either by the rebels or by the Great Hunan Army. But as the land flattened we were drawn to our homes, forgetting our aching, bleeding, starving bodies. Jintian was unscathed, as far as I could tell. I helped the butcher’s mother into the house and went back outside. I wanted to go home. I had come so far that I knew I could walk the last few li to Tongkou, but the butcher ran to tell my husband I was back and to come and get me.
As soon as he set off, Snow Flower grabbed me. “Come,” she said. “We don’t have much time.” She pulled me into the house, even as my eyes yearned to watch the butcher as he loped up the road to my village. When we got upstairs, she said, “Once you did me a great kindness by helping me with my dowry. Now I can repay a small portion of that debt.” She opened a trunk and pulled out a dark blue jacket with a pale blue silk panel woven in a cloud pattern on the front. That silk panel I remembered from the jacket Snow Flower had worn on the first day we met. She offered it to me. “I would be honored if you would wear this when you see your husband again.”
I saw how terrible Snow Flower looked, but I hadn’t considered how I might appear to my husband. I had worn my lavender silk jacket with the chrysanthemum embroidery for three solid months. Not only was it filthy and torn, but looking at myself in the mirror as water heated so I could bathe, I saw three months of living in the mud and snow under an unforgiving sun at high altitude upon my face.
I had time to wash only those places that he would see or smell first—my hands, arms, face, neck, armpits, and that place between my legs. Snow Flower did the best she could with my hair, pinning the grimy matted mass into a bun and then wrapping it in a clean headdress. Just as she helped me step into her dowry pants, we heard a pony’s hooves and the creaking wheels of a cart coming near. Quickly she buttoned me into the tunic. We stood face-to-face. She placed the palm of her hand on the square of sky-blue silk on my chest.
“You look beautiful,” she said.
I saw before me the person whom I loved above all others. Still, I was troubled by what she had said before we came down the mountain about my pitying her for her circumstances. I didn’t want to leave without explaining myself.
“I never thought you were”—I struggled to find tactful words and gave up—”less than I was.”
She smiled. My heart beat against her hand. “You said no lies.”
Then, before I could say anything else, I heard my husband’s voice calling me. “Lily! Lily! Lily!”
With that, I ran—yes, ran—downstairs and outside. When I saw him, I fell to my knees and put my head at his feet, so embarrassed I was by how I must have looked and smelled. He lifted me up and enfolded me in his arms.
“Lily, Lily, Lily . . .” My name came out muffled as he kissed me again and again, oblivious that others watched our reunion.
“Dalang . . .” I had never before spoken his name.
He took me by the shoulders and pushed me back so he could see my face. Tears glistened in his eyes; then he pulled me close again, crushing me to him.