Peace! Well, this is chapter one of a story about China in the twenty years prior to the cultural revolution, but it won't really focus on politics so much. As you may note in this first chapter, much of the story will contain references to Chinese religion and mythology, mostly from Taoism and Pure Land Buddhism. I think my knowledge of these beliefs is fairly extensive, but if anyone finds mistakes please tell me because I'm not Chinese and not Taoist, and I practice Tibetan Buddhism, not Pure Land, so I can't promise absolute accuracy. The names of places are traditional and pre-communism, so just keep in mind that Chang JiangYangtze, PekingBeijing, etc. Anyway, enjoy!

I always think about her on mornings like this, when the river seems to wrap around the sun itself as it appears over the face of the earth. Qing Yuan. Beautiful spring. My mother told me she floated away into the jade heavens to bring spring to the gods for all eternity. The Great Emperor called her away in the river to bless him with the beauty of fresh Chrysanthemums and light silk robes, all the good things of the season. But with this I wonder how he could deprive me and leave me with nothing but winter for every day of my life.

Qing Yuan. My sister. Soft fingers that braided my hair into a bun on New Year’s day, and long legs that I could hold onto whenever we went to the town market. Her face was smooth like the porcelain cheeks of the goddess on my family’s alter, and her face likewise painted with a jovial, but unrealistic, smile. I remember letting my tiny hands dance over the opaque silk of her dresses, thinking they must have been woven for a princess and foolishly ignoring the tattered hems. I saw her as perfect, a statue of beauty that I could always look to and admire. I was still a child, I never imagined that she would leave forever.

I was not there on the day she died. They told me the river became like a dragon and swallowed her into its depths with one fierce gulp. Though I know the swollen currents of the rainy season better than I know my own rice paper shack, I still doubt this tale. The Chang Jiang had no reason to be angry with my family. It always bestowed on us the water for soup and a pretty path to the world beyond, I know it would not hurt my sister with angry intent. Perhaps it is as they say, the Jade Emperor called her to his court in the far off heavens. In a way I wish I could believe this, but if this story be true why must we always pray for her happiness? If my mother knew where she had flown away to, then we could be sure she was living in joy.

The thing I cannot ignore is the memories that haunt me each time I stand on the muddy banks of the Chang Jiang.

“You must go to Chongqing and marry Shing Li,” my mother bustled past me, taking no notice, as I squatted behind a bag of uncooked rice. She held her head erect, her lips pursed in a manner that told everyone around that she should not be challenged.

“Niang!” Qing Yuan persisted helplessly, her voice crackling as if it would shatter at any moment.

“This is your family’s honor, daughter,” my mother bent down to meet my sister’s shaken and empty stare, and I grimaced at her icy tone. “It is a privilege for one as wealthy as Shing Li to take interest in a poor farmer girl like you. Who are you to refuse his kindness?”

My toes felt clammy as I struggled to hide them in the familiar soil that sprinkled over the floor of our house. I needed comfort, from anything with a hint of warmth. I could not stand to see my mother, usually so sweet and upright, spattering with such undignified anger. I chilled, even though her disgust was not aimed at my chattering form and racing heart. She was hurting my sister, my Qing Yuan, the porcelain goddess that watched me from her alter throne. She was smashing her apart.

“Kindness? I will be his third wife, a slave in his house!” Blood splashed her almond eyes, a staining reminder of her bitter tears. Her shoulders, once as steady as the branches of a gingko tree, now splintered and slumped.

Mother’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “And with this selfish discourtesy of your family line, what more do you expect? A seat on the throne in Peking? You will have a good life, you’ll never be hungry, and you will have more silk robes than anyone in this town.”

“But I won’t be in this town,” Qing Yuan dashed to the window, gesturing out toward a line of twelve weathered huts and a small red temple. The street we had walked so many mornings together. A road lined with chickens and puddles, and faces with understanding glances. The only place we ever knew on this earth. “I must travel far from all I love. I may never see you again, don’t you realize that Niang? Don’t you even care? I thought I would spend eternity on this patty, marrying one of the boys that played with me in the river when I was a child. But then you tell me that the women who came when I was a little child, those gnarled old fingers that prodded at my cheeks and tangled in my hair, those voices that whispered about me suspiciously and as if I was a monkey on display for amusement, will steal me away from you.”

“You ungrateful whore!” She cut her off. The tears that clung precariously to my own eyelashes spilled over at my mother biting remark. At the time I did not know what these words meant, but I could tell that they were evil with my receptive innocence. “How dare you speak of your new mother-in-law in this way! From the day they came you have belonged to Shing Li. You’re a stranger in this house, and your protests are no longer my concern. Now, wash your face and remember the training I have given you. All that you’ve learned of hospitality has been to prepare you for this life in Chongqing, do not shame my careful instruction.”

Qing Yuan’s body became frigid and lifeless, “All I am to you is a trophy of honor, is that what you’re saying? What about the shame I feel at my own helplessness. Do you forget that I am alive?” With that, she bolted. The thin walls of our home trembled in anticipation as she wrenched open the door, and I clambered to watch as she retreated down the dusty path. Her body, clothed in a vibrant yellow robe, looked as the sails of a boat retreating down the Chang Jiang at sunrise. So strong, and filled with a desperate hope of treasures beyond the whipping currents. I smiled, as I felt that she would find something softer beyond the rising sun to comfort her and wash away her painful fate. Maybe as a child I sensed in some hidden corner of my mind that she would never return.

The following day our home was filled with the chanting or prayers and the sticky aroma of incense. We lay a plate of food, a tray of all Qing Yuan’s favorite things, before a freshly-lettered tablet. Over ripe oranges and sweet cakes. I wanted to believe that she would steal through our doorway, beaming when she noted the scent of boiling dumplings as she had done so many times before, and snatch up the ornate meal. But from the solemn gestures of the priest and the muffled whimpering of my mother I knew this to be a foolish lie. She was gone, the muddy water dragon had carried her away beyond the earth to the heavens. She was where she belonged, at peace, my father warmly assured me. But if she was at peace, why did he moan in anguish when he thought I was not looking?

Now I stare at the twisting body of the river, and wonder how far her sails carried her. All I know is that she escaped what I cannot. Three years had passed, but Shing Li had not forgotten his business with my family. My mother had stalled persistently, never sending word of her tragic story to the city down the river. “They told me today that I must replace you, Qing Yuan,” I whisper solemnly, bowing my head with reverence. “How can I pretend to be you, a goddess in the heavens? Your name is too sacred to be borne away to the future you despised. Why won’t they accept that you fled that path and shall not return? I cannot become you in this way. But I swear I will not shame you, I won’t forget the freedom you found at the end of the river. But please grant me the patience to serve both you and our mother.”

I shrug uselessly, and turn away from the rising sun.