The jar is heavy; enough to brew the tea for decades, if not centuries. ‘Thank you, Big Wang.’
‘About Yunnan . . .’
With everything that happened, I haven’t had the energy to think about my father. But now, facing the very real possibility we may find him... a small part of me has started to hope.
‘The Durands will go with you, as will Lord Aengus and Tony.’
‘They’re coming, too?’
Big Wang’s mouth presses into a grim line and his eyes glow red. ‘Tony made me a promise and I expect him to fulfil it.’ The angry light in his eyes fades as he says, ‘Lord Ma was about to have a breakdown at the thought of hosting Lord Aengus again; since he and Tony get on so well, I thought Lord Aengus could join the delegation. You don’t mind, do you?’
I shake my head, glad Tony will have a friend to keep him company.
Clearing his throat, he says, ‘I’ve been in touch with Lord Black; he will meet you in Turquoise Hills and accompany you to Niang Niang. I have a hunch she knows where to find the shrine.’
Forty-One
Grannies
The next morning, I head to the Bund where I’m to meet everyone by the jetty. Big Wang is already there, waiting with the Durands, Tony and Lord Aengus. Marianne carries a bag over her shoulder, filled with gifts for Niang Niang.
Under Big Wang’s watch, Tony doesn’t dare glare at me, though I’m fairly certain he’s watching me from the corner of his eye.
Max fidgets nervously, then clears his throat. ‘Good morning, Jing,’ he says in decent Mandarin.
Startled, I stare open-mouthed. Big Wang raises his eyebrows, reminding me of my manners.
‘Ah, yes, good morning to you, too, Max,’ I say.
Max smiles, relieved, his gaze darting to Big Wang then away.
Knowing this effort to be nice to me is Big Wang’s doing, I wrap my arms around Big Wang’s waist, barely reaching halfway. ‘Thank you, Big Wang, for helping us find my father.’
Big Wang blushes and pats my shoulder awkwardly. ‘Time to go.’
I nod and gesture down the gangway to Fisherman Lo and his sampan. Lord Aengus leads the way, followed by Max. Tony stays close to Mémère and Marianne. As we head down the metal gangway, it bounces and clanks under our feet. Mémère freezes. No matter how much Marianne cajoles, she refuses to move.
I slip my arm through Mémère’s, patting her hand. ‘I used to hate the water too,’ I say. ‘But actually, since I can hold mybreath for a really long time – days, maybe even weeks – I’ve discovered water can be quite fun. I explored the bottom of a lake once. So many pretty fish.’
Marianne translates for me with a quick trill, and it brings a smile to Mémère’s pale face, then surprise. She asks a question. Marianne translates. ‘The water didn’t pull you apart?’
I shake my head. ‘I know it’s dangerous to be in mist form in water, but I was in my regular body. The water couldn’t hurt me. Not even when my grandmother tried to drown me. She put me in a cage and dropped me to the bottom of a lake. I only had to hold my breath and wait for someone to fetch me.’
After hearing my answer, Mémère tightens her grip around my hand. With her chin held high, she allows me to walk her down the gangway and across the narrow pontoon to the sampan, Tony shadowing us. I’m glad he’s found a connection with Mémère, attentive to her discomfort.
Once we are all in the boat, Fisherman Lo pushes on the yuloh and the sampan slips into the currents of the Whangpoo. I hold Mémère’s hand tight as Fisherman Lo sculls us across the river, rocking the boat from side to side. He clamps a joss stick between his teeth and lights it like a long cigarette. The end sizzles red, plumes of blue smoke curling around his head.
‘Boh-yo-boh-lo-mi,’ he says.
A thick fog rolls over us and we emerge on the glazed waters of the Lake of Eternal Reflection.
Lord Aengus gasps, then claps his hands. ‘The beauty of Turquoise Hills surpasses my expectations.’ He launches into a long poem which I tune out.
Fisherman Lo keeps his thoughts to himself but I’m pretty sure I caught him rolling his eyes.
I point out the Pavilion of Reflection, alone in the middle of the lake and linked to the rest of the palace complex by a long wooden walkway. We sail past the pavilion, open on all sides totake advantage of the view. It was once my mother’s favourite spot. But now, devoid of furniture and left to weather, it looks neglected and forlorn.
Fisherman Lo sculls us towards the shore where the rest of the pavilions are huddled together. The entire palace complex, extending up the forest slopes, is built with silkwood, much loved by the hulijing for its highly reflective surface. Hulijing are nothing if not vain. Blue-green tiles, which match to the lake, undulate along the curved eaves.
