Authors: Benjanun Sriduangkaew
Scale-Bright (24 page)
Child-obedient it goes, Chang’e-shaped, as she ties one end of the ladder to a roof finial. Knowing the length will not fail her, she tightens the knot until it no longer budges. Then she casts the ladder. It falls, and falls, until it stops taut.
Between the rough jagged rocks of the moon’s flanks she descends. The wind slices at her, flaying-sharp, scalpels driving between her vertebrae--searing the shells of her ears--infiltrating lungs and nose. Her fingers turn numb, and freeze solid to the rope. Her skin tears. With each rung she weighs heavier.
Lunar cold recedes. She is halfway, or three-fourths of the way. It becomes very warm and, off the corner of her eye, she sees sun-struck seas, she sees fruits and treetops, a sunlit day. She sees a mountaintop nearly as close to her as her own feet.
She passes through fire. On the moon slivers of her self vibrate within their wooden cage, leaping and hissing through wooden mouths. The puppet that is her, that appears skin and hair but whose core is cherry bay, clutches itself and translates her raw flesh to amphibious pain-cries.
On the other side Chang'e is charred hair and blood fruiting on her lips, she is blisters and lymph dewing on her arms. The snow mutes and absorbs the retching of her screams. When she does stand she totters and would have pitched over again if she does not remember that she is breathing freedom, tasting it with lungs, pores, palate.
She straightens: dignity, she must have that when she does this for the first time. She has witnessed Houyi doing it without thought or effort. Back then she did not imagine she would one day gain the capability to do the same, the right of any deity. She thinks east; she thinks of bringing it close.
One step, two. Her footprints are shallow in the snow. By the fifth she’s treading on sand, on the howl of tides against cliff. Saltwater laps at her waist, searing the burns on her thighs and hips. What remains of her robes drifts seaweed-heavy in the waves.
There is a little house by the shore.
Chang’e limps up the winding path she knows her wife paved: conch shells and sea-smoothed pebbles, dyed in the bright colors that Houyi loves.
The front door, double-paneled, is shut against drafts. At her touch it parts. Inside, three rooms. An enclosure for ablutions with folded screen and fish-scale tiles, an untidy workshop, and a bedroom. This last is built for two, furniture in duplicates, a pair of armoires side by side: one filled, the other empty as though in hope.
Houyi sits at the window, back straight, clad in a thin robe carelessly thrown on that leaves one shoulder bare. She turns and her breath leaves her in a long whisper. “Chang’e.”
The archer spreads burn salve over her; from the familiar vegetal smell she recognizes it as the rabbit’s work. When she can speak again without her face hurting she murmurs through cracked lips, “What did you do?” Her voice claws its way out a ruin, cold-wracked, fire-scourged.
“I found your family.” Houyi pours her lukewarm water, keeping at arm’s length as though unsure if she may touch Chang’e.
“Family.” Chang’e holds her cup, presses it to her smeared cheek for relief. “I’ve family left?”
“Your niece had children. It took me a while to track them--they spread and went away to far lands. Some never came back; it’s difficult to read their footprints.” The archer brushes away what remains of her wife’s hair. Charred handfuls fall out. “Her name’s Julienne.”
Chang’e repeats it. “What a peculiar name.”
“She is of the same blood as you. Else when she burned it the ladder wouldn’t have found you.”
“Or let me escape.” Kinship, she thinks, the surest anchor.
She looks at her wife, who has done so much, who has opened this path. “Can you,” she asks uncertainly, “take me to see this girl?”
* * *
Julienne zips up her jacket and chafes her hand, wishing she’d declined the invitation to the class reunion. Her schoolmates haven’t gotten any more interesting than the last time, and all the women remain--as far as she can tell--depressingly straight.
At her feet night club flyers rustle, garish things heavy on neon-pink and black. Tomorrow someone is going to be fined for littering. She stops at a 7-11 for chrysanthemum tea, a bar of chocolate, sanitary pads. Ordinary items for an ordinary life.
The MTR station is quiet, dead last-train hours and closed convenience stores. She hopes that the one night of oddity in Che Kung hasn’t ruined her for a lifetime of normalcy. In a way Julienne resents that woman--whoever or whatever she was, for surely she was not
that
Hau Ngai--for disrupting her life. She tries not to dwell on it as she waves her card at the turnstile, goes down the escalator, and into a front carriage. The only other passenger is an older man, dozing. Yesterday’s issue of the Apple Daily flutters by his side.
The smartphone in his shirt pocket chirps and shakes at the next stop. He wakes groggily, disembarks, and Julienne finds herself alone.
A hand falls on her shoulder, jerking her out of the white-noise zone born of electrical glare and the ghost of her own reflection foregrounding the tunnel rushing by. Julienne looks up to find two women. One tall, in suit and slacks. The other, astonishingly, in cheongsam. Pearls in her hair, either a net or secured by supernatural means.
The goddess is known to be exquisite.
Julienne realizes her mouth has fallen open. She shuts it.
Seung Ngo cups Julienne’s face in her hands. She startles to find that the goddess’ palms are not velvet; they are rough, harder than her own, as though she is a woman who works with her hands. The most menial Julienne’s ever gotten is with keyboards. Carefully, as if speaking Gwongdongwa for the first time Seung Ngo says, “My wife was wrong. I do see written on you my mother and Third Niece.”
Finding her voice finally she says, a little irritably, “Not my parents, I hope.”
The goddess--her ancestress--lets her hands fall away. “You’re your own, mostly. Will you introduce me to the rest of our clan?”
Julienne splutters a laugh. “I don’t think they can take the shock.”
“They don’t have to know everything. And you, of course, will always be my favorite.”
“Do I get the thickest red envelope?”
“Insolent child,” Seung Ngo says fondly. “I’ll stuff yours with gold.”
A cool female voice announces that the next station is the end of the Island line. Julienne tries to imagine New Year and Chingming with all their family obligations. She’s refused to show up for several years now. “Next Zungcauzit my cousins in Indonesia and Singapore are coming home. You’re supposed to be on the moon by then, but…”
Seung Ngo laughs. “I’ll be with you, not to worry. I’ve never tasted mortal-made mooncakes.”
“We put ice-cream in them now. All sorts of fillings. You can even buy them off-season.”
“Oh, my,” the goddess says.
“But until then I’ve got photo albums. Of--the family. Baby pictures too. Do you want to see?”
“I’d like nothing more.”
The two immortals take each of Julienne’s arms, clasping her between them, and somehow they exit without needing either octopus card or ticket. Julienne knows that this year she’ll attend all the family gatherings. Perhaps they won’t go very well. But she will have two divine aunts with her, and isn’t that worth something?
Very different, if nothing else. And never boring.
“It feels like I’m continuing a story,” Julienne breathes. “You might’ve heard of it before.”
Hau Ngai tilts her head. “And which one is that?”
“On the moon,” she begins, grinning, “there’s a lady with a rabbit...”
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Carmelo Rafala, who published the hardback edition of this book through his Immersion Press, and who's been excellent throughout. Gratitude to my sisters for their patience and encouragement. I'd also like to thank Lavie Tidhar and Aliette de Bodard for their infinite kindness, and Ann Leckie for her innumerable acts of generosity, one of which was publishing the story which gave rise to
Scale-Bright
. Likewise Scott H. Andrews, whose publication of "The Crows Her Dragon's Gate" marked one of my first milestones as a writer.
Last but not least, to the very special person: for always being there, long before this book began and through the wonderful, dazzling journey I've undertaken since. I've failed to dedicate my work to you before; this is for you.
About the Author
Benjanun Sriduangkaew lives in Hong Kong, where she is inspired to write love letters to strange cities, history, and the future. She writes fantasy mythic and contemporary, science fiction space operatic and military, and has a strong appreciation for beautiful bugs.
Her short fiction can be found in Tor.com,
Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Phantasm Japan, Dangerous Games, Solaris Rising 3
, various Mammoth Books and best of the year collections. She is a finalist for the Campbell Award for Best New Writer and her stories have made appearances on the Locus Recommended Reading List.
She can be found online at
beekian.wordpress.com
and
twitter.com/bees_ja
.
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