Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

I looked up to the vendor. “I really like it. But… I don’t think I could afford a treasure like this.”

He lifted my wrist. “Miss, only a small piece like this will suit your small wrist. If it’s bigger, even if you want it it’s no use. I’d say this piece has been waiting for you to claim it.”

I thought for a while. “All right, then, how much?”

“One thousand. I give you big bargain, so no bargain.”

This was someone’s whole year salary in China!

I caressed the off-white, luminous texture, smooth like silk and soothing as a massaging hand. “Why is there a red streak in the middle?”

“From tomb. It absorbed some of the dead person’s blood.”

Now the red seemed to undulate slightly before my eyes. Although I doubted it was real blood, the idea intrigued me. Maybe one day I could open my yin eye to communicate with the owner during one of his or her many incarnations centuries ago under a full, blue moon.

“Where did you get it? I hope that you didn’t…”

“I didn’t take it from the grave, if that’s what you mean. To disturb the dead would bring bad luck to my family for generations. My family got it from someone else.”

“Then where did that someone else get it?”

He paused to clear his throat. “All right. Thirty-odd years ago, when the government dug up a piece of land to rebuild, the workers found a grave underneath. Inside was a woman’s skeleton with this bracelet around her wrist. It was sent to a museum, but when the museum ran out of money it sold its collection. My grandfather, a rich man, bought this for my grandmother, who gave it to my mother and then my mother to me.”

“Then why are you selling it now on the street?”

“I need the money. My son has been waiting for a kidney transplant.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Then buy this bracelet and save a life.” He took out his wallet, pulled out a picture, and showed it to me. “Me and my Baobao, nine years old.”

The picture showed the vendor with a bright-eyed boy in front of a mud cottage.

“But your son doesn’t look sick at all.”

“That was taken long time ago. I didn’t take any pictures of him since he’s got sick.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope he’ll get well someday.”

“I hope so, too.”

I slipped the bracelet onto my wrist, and it fit perfectly. But I asked, “Don’t you think it’d be bad luck to wear someone else’s blood around?”

He laughed, squinting at me. “No, on the contrary, it’s good luck.”

“How?”

“You kidding? Because the blood will enhance the circulation of your blood!”

His comment reminded me of my mother’s fondness for cooking me pig’s brain soup. Almost all older generation Chinese believe in yixing buxing—one shape boosting another similar one. Thus chicken feet are to build dexterous fingers; animals’ bones, your bone (especially menopausal women); pigs’ kidneys to strengthen your kidneys; chicken heart, your heart…

As a child, I bitterly hated this creamy, white, yucky pig’s brain soup but was forced to drink till not a single, precious drop was wasted. Didn’t it ever enter my mother’s mind that eating pig’s brain might turn her child’s brain into a pig’s?

I asked, “Then why don’t you save this for your son?”

“It’s too small for him. Besides, it only works when the bracelet has direct contact with one’s flesh.”

“All right, I’ll take it.” Even though I thought what he’d said about the blood was sheer nonsense, it was nonetheless a very titillating concept. So I took out my purse, pulled out ten bills, and handed them to the vendor. Then I took off the bracelet for him to put inside a silk pouch.

“Thank you very much.” He looked very happy, but his tone was chiding. “Miss, next time don’t just show your money like this. I’m an honest person, but not the others around here. When people see that you’re a cash-carrying tourist, I can assure you that their brains will suddenly heat up.”

I chuckled. “Thanks for the advice.”

“All right, you take good care of yourself.” He lifted up the four corners of his blanket and tied them into a thick knot. After that, he threw the bag over his shoulder and hurried away before I had a chance to say, “You, too.”

As I stood up to walk, I felt a lead weighing on my heart. Would my meager one thousand really save a child’s life? I couldn’t help but take the bracelet out of its silk pouch to take another look at it. Now the red streak conjured in my mind the image of the desert’s setting sun, the blood from a wounded prince on a battlefield, one of Lop Nor’s most treasured herbs….

The next day I took a train, then a donkey cart back to the little village. Once home, I hid the two fakes inside the tire, then got a bucket of water from the communal tap and washed myself. Feeling refreshed, I took out my bracelet to appreciate, caressing the ivory’s texture, marveling at the streak of red, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of the antique silver clasp. As I enjoyed my new treasure, my exhaustion and fear seemed to vanish into thin air.

I slipped the bracelet onto my right wrist, then swung it around to feel its solid weight and silky texture. In a happy mood, I brewed tea, ensconced myself on the tire sofa to comfortably sip the steaming amber liquid, then studied my map to plan my trip to the fortune-teller.

A few minutes later, however, I found myself unable to concentrate with a slight headache coming on. I sipped more tea, massaged my temples, took several deep breaths, and resumed reading. But now I couldn’t focus at all. Words on the pages blurred together, like dead ants floating on an oil-filled wok. And my headache escalated. I sensed an anxiety attack coming on, but this time it was real, not surreal like the one at Floating Cloud’s temple.

A loud sneeze, “Haqiiiiii!” exploded from my nose and mouth, followed by my eyes and nose running, then by more “Haqiiiiii! Haqiiiiii!” like a musical motif.

I tried to go to bed, but as soon as I stood up my stomach was ambushed by pangs so severe that I had to plunge back down on the tire. Worse, I also started to cough violently, and my temples throbbed like a ghost frantically knocking as it tried to re-enter the yang world. In less than ten minutes I had become a complete mess! Then an unspeakable fear seized me: Had I caught some horrible, contagious disease from the bazaar?

“Please, I don’t want to die. My worldly business is not yet finished!” My voice sounded desperate in the desert air, which remained adamantly unresponsive.

Despite my extreme discomfort, I rummaged around in my backpack and managed to find the small bottle of medicinal oil. Once I had rubbed the strong, mint-smelling liquid on my temples I felt a little better. I decided to ask Keku for help.

Keku’s expression looked as if she were encountering not me, but my departed soul.

As she led me inside her cottage, she exclaimed, “Oh, heavens, what happened? Did you just have an interview with the King of Hell?!”

I was dizzy; my voice came out weak and breathless. “I don’t know, I just don’t feel well. Do I really look that bad?”

“Yes, your face is as white as a ghost!”

Now Keku’s three women friends all dashed up to gather around me, their strong fingers probing my forehead and cheeks and pinching my third eye. One held her fingers under my nose to see if I was breathing and alive—or a ghost. Thrown off balance by the sudden, overwhelming hormonal attention, my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the floor. Screams and confusion flew around me like bees buzzing in all directions. In my semiconscious state, I felt my body being lifted onto the bed. After that, medicinal oil and hot towels were passed and applied, hot tea was forced down my throat, and thick blankets were thrown over my shivering body. Their improvised movements were surprisingly orchestrated.

While they fussed over me like vultures over a dead body, a loud scream “Oh, heavens, no!” shot out from Keku’s lips and exploded in the room, followed by a succession of rapid mutterings in the same manner from the other women.

I tried to get up but was immediately pressed down by eight strong arms. One pair rubbed something extremely pungent under my nose and onto my third eye, another made small chopping movements up and down my torso, yet another gesticulated wildly while emitting unintelligible utterings.

“Why…?” I started to ask, but before I could finish my sentence, I fell into a deep sleep.

It was night when I woke up. The house was eerily quiet, except for some soft banging of pots and pans. While Keku must have been busy preparing dinner, her son, Mito, was sitting on a chair next to me, watching me intently with his innocent brown eyes.

As soon as those dutiful eyes saw that their exotic Chinese friend was coming back to life, the little boy began to scream at the top of his voice. “Mama! Mama!” I wondered how such a loud, high-pitched voice could possibly be generated from such a tiny body.

Something dropped in the corner with a metallic bang, then Keku’s face appeared in front of me, her fleshy hand on my forehead, and her finger across her mouth. “Shhh…”

After a few moments, she asked tentatively, “You OK now?”

I nodded.

“Thank heavens that the spirit finally left you! Evil spirit!”

I looked around the small house. Besides Keku and her son, there were no other people. “What spirit? What are you talking about?”