Part II
喪葬
"Funeral"
Death is not a concept Yao is unfamiliar with; far from it, in fact. One does not live as long as he without soon coming to see death as an old acquaintance. Irritating, yes, but an acquaintance nonetheless. Which means that Yao recognizes the stench of smoke for what it truly is as it fills his lungs, acrid and charring; not an eyebrow raises at the sound of weeping and wailing that rings out, clearer on this side of the gate. He does not look at the wraithlike figures who gather there, however, instead frowning up at the gate where something else has caught his eye. From his side, the butterfly flutters out ahead of him, attention snared by the unfamiliar surroundings and by the figures in white. Perhaps she's never even seen fire before: her eyes are wide as she peers at the bonfire the figures huddle around, looking so utterly intrigued like a 人傑地靈 rén jié dì líng (inspired scholar in an enchanting land).
Fifteen white paper slips sway in the wind, noiseless and grim along their length of wire. Yao's lips thin. He's seen such streamers enough times to know their meaning.
"What are those humans doing?"
Yao turns at the butterfly's puzzled question. Looking at the white-clothed figures, he notes with detached bemusement that they are, in fact, human. But for whatever reason (most likely the nature of this odd dream) they appear distorted, as if he views them through rippling water. Their features are blurred and indistinguishable, though the light of the bonfire clearly illuminates expressions twisted with grief. He glances sideways at her.
"They are mourning," is his simple explanation, punctuated with a shrug. "Look at these streamers. A girl of fifteen years has died."
"Oh…"
The butterfly frowns, looking caught between sympathy and mystification. Then the crease between her brows eases and she reaches up to tug on the wire string. The paper streamers billow with a leaf-like rustle; Yao watches them with an impassive expression before turning back towards the bonfire.
The heat is palpable, even from where he stands and despite the relative smallness of the fire. Tongues of red flame snatch at the spirit money the mourners toss in, devouring colored paper with greed. Cloisonné trays offering fruit and rice surround them: the ripe colors provide a stark contrast with this despondent setting. One tray has been tipped to the ground, sliced melons and taro spilling over the earth where bent figures (servants, no doubt, what with the clear wealth of this estate) gather up the mess in their hands. The reason for the mess is collapsed nearby as a heap of white robes with a woman's voice that sobs uncontrollably.
There is a long minute in which the two companions allow the woman's cries to fill the quiet. Both Nation and butterfly merely watch the funereal burning, then the butterfly moves away from the paper streamers. She looks up at Yao and he notices how her lips turn down.
"Maybe we can go and see?"
His eyes follow her pointing hand to the corner of the flowering courtyard. At once tight-lipped graveness cements into his expression. A coffin rests there in the corner, open to the air, carved from dark teakwood and polished to a solemn gleam. There is a figure lying within that he can just make out.
The butterfly receives no answer. Yao merely follows as she flits over to the coffin. The fragrance of the spring around them seems muted all of a sudden.
Perhaps it's because she looks even younger than he thought: Yao feels a lead weight press against his chest softly when he peers down into the coffin. Not much, but certainly more than he expects to feel at all. As the paper streamers indicate, it is a young girl who lies here, though they did not quite describe the porcelain-frailty of her body, the translucent appearance of her skin. Layers upon layers of longevity clothes wrap and pad her corpse in preparation for the afterworld — yet the hands that peek out from those sleeves are slim and limp, as if fitted with paper bones. Jewels adorn her wrists and neck, and in her hair nestle pearl and gold ornaments. She clutches cakes and thick wooden sticks as deterrents for the horrors of the netherworld, but they only emphasize the smallness of her hands.
A sheet of yellow paper conceals the girl's face. Yao does not try to remove it.
His eyebrows knit. It's not unheard of for the young to die, certainly not, but still, for a bud to wither before even approaching its chance to bloom remains hard to witness. So much potential, so much life — gone. Quick and simple, like a thought or a sigh.
But such thoughts are troublesome on their own. Exhaling, Yao turns and watches the butterfly for some time. Naïve as she is, she at least seems to understand death. A sorrowful expression lies across her features as she alights on the rim of the coffin. Her robes seem too bright against the dark of the wood, too colorful. With a soft sound, she blows the perfume of flowers over the dead girl's hands. She touches the blooms in her hair, plucks a blossoming hydrangea to tuck by the girl's temple. This goes on for a while until at last, the butterfly looks up at Yao again. Her wet eyes clash with his cool, dry-eyed gaze.
"Why do the humans burn paper so sadly…?" comes her soft question. A scoff and then a wry smile twists at his lip. Of all the things she decides to ask, she chooses the one about the spirit money and not the corpse beneath her.
"For her," he says, gesturing to the dead girl with one hand. When the butterly only stares at him with an uncomprehending look, he sighs, elaborating. "If you must know… They say that when a human dies, their soul splits into three. One part stays with the body, to rest in the coffin or wherever the burial place is." She peers down at the girl at that with a surprised expression, as if trying to see that soul. Yao smiles just a little.
"The other two parts go on separate journeys. The first will roam and then enter her ancestor tablet once it is dotted, and will be worshipped and honored with the rest of her dead family. The last, however, goes on to be judged. To the afterlife. She will need that 'paper' and so they burn it for her." He states all this in a calm voice, as though reciting a bland script.
She blinks and glances at him. "There is life after?"
That question makes Yao pause. For a long moment he simply stares at her, then shifts his gaze to the dead girl. Colored string winds around her legs and waist, probably put there by the women of the household, to keep her body from leaping about as her souls roam. A fresh spring breeze strokes the flowers in the coffin, stirs at the paper covering her face. With an unreadable expression, Yao reaches out to hold it still. He looks at the butterfly.
"I wonder, sometimes."
That is all he says. The butterfly tilts her head but does not press for more. Instead, she asks, "Will they…burn her, too?"
A noncommittal hmm escapes him in reply, and he tips his head back to gaze up at the clouds. "Some humans do with their dead. Others bury them, return them back to the earth they believe they come from. With this one… I don't know what they plan for her." There is a moment before a dark smile crosses his face. "Ha… 眼不見，心不煩 Yǎn bù jiàn, xīn bù fán (What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't worry about). You can say it is their way of coping, yes? Of dealing with what is inevitable. Putting death in a nice little box and tucking it away where no one has to see... 'Dust to dust' is but a small part of it, I think."
The butterfly sighs at his bitter tone and frowns at the ground. A thought flickers through Yao's mind that she and the dead girl appear rather alike.
"A butterfly?"
Yao lifts an eyebrow while the butterfly jumps, startled by the white-robed figure standing near them. This close it's a little easier to pick out certain features: the thin silhouette of a woman, the shadow of long hair, grief shading the face like a personal twilight. The figure shivers like a mirage but she faces the butterfly on the coffin, apparently able to see her.
"Oh, butterfly, why do you come now?"
A shuddery moan issues from the white figure and she hunches, barely holding herself together in her grief. Yao just stares at her with eyes narrowed, and the butterfly's eyes are locked on her as if under a spell. The woman sees the butterfly but not him, then?
"Long life you promise, warmth and joy — but what of that matters now?" she is murmuring, perhaps half to herself. "Make good on what you are supposed to promise. I do not care that you are not a crane, but speed her on to the netherworld safely, nevertheless. Ah—" The woman shakes her head, bowing. "Joy and life and love… Seeing you only brings me closer to tears. Farewell, farewell. Speed her on."
With that the woman meanders off, white robes brushing over the ground: the train of a ghost. The butterfly stares at her receding form. Seemingly unaware of even doing so, she drifts closer to Yao's side as he watches in amusement.
"What did she mean…?"
He chuckles. "Poems and superstition. To humans, you butterflies signify most of what is good in life. Longevity, joy, love… Things of that sort. I suppose she is the mother of this dead girl or something like that. Either way, seeing you only reminded her of what the girl cannot have and so grieved her further. Though I'm not quite sure how you are supposed to carry out that charge of hers."
"I take this girl to the…to 'after'?" the butterfly says slowly. Yao lifts one shoulder in a dismissive shrug.
"I suppose. But like she said, you are no crane with access to the heavens. Shall we move on? There seems little else of interest to us here," he sighs, turning. The butterfly trails after him and her lips part as if to say something, but then her gaze lowers to something before them and the color drains from her face. Sensing her alarm, Yao whips around, dark eyes icing over into black slivers.
The dead girl stands before them, though her body remains in its coffin. Wide childlike eyes stare at the two; her cheeks are painted white and azure kingfishers and willow leaves tremble across the fine gauze of her longevity clothes. She looks from the butterfly to Yao, whereupon those eyes become frightened and she leaps back with a shriek. She throws spirit money at him then turns to run.
"餓鬼 Èguǐ! (Hungry ghost!) Get away!" The girl may have fled if not for the butterfly, who jumps out to block her path. Her long water sleeves are held out in a gesture of placidity.
"Don't run! Don't be afraid! We are not going to harm you," says the butterfly. The girl stops, shaking with fright as she looks at them. Yao huffs a bit; it seems like it's more because they'd trapped her against the walls of the compound than because the butterfly appears particularly comforting.
"Hungry ghost," hm…? Ha, well, that's not quite far off from what I have been called.
Indeed, that is a fairly tame name for one who has been called a demon.
"He has no shadow…"
"What?"
Yao looks up to see the girl pointing at him fearfully. Her skirts pool around her feet and, raising an eyebrow, he notices that she doesn't cast a shadow either. The butterfly, however, throws a tiny shadow on the ground beneath her.
"W-What is he but a ghost, if he has no shadow?" the girl whispers, wiping at her cheeks.
"He is a very nice man," the butterfly replies stubbornly and moves so that she blocks Yao from the girl's view. (Yao has to grin to himself at that. A nice man? Him?) "And I am here to bring you to after."
The girl slowly raises her eyes and gazes at the butterfly's human shape, slim eyebrows knitting. She glances back and forth between Yao and the butterfly. "…A…butterfly? But I thought it was cranes who carried souls to heaven…"
"A lady of your household asked this one to escort you personally," Yao speaks up at last. He folds his arms across his chest and lifts a brow at how the girl cringes at his movement.
"饥不择食 Jī bù zé shí (The starving can't choose their meals). Either you accept us as guides or go alone. Or perhaps you prefer to travel the netherworld by yourself?" The man gives her a once-over, dark eyes cold and sharp as arrows. The girl sidles away from the needle points of his gaze. "You must have died recently, if you have yet to roam so far. Ah, no… You are afraid, aren't you? A girl like you, sequestered and frail… Even living, you've never wandered far from your rooms. Forty-nine days of liberty, of free reign to roam, yet you remain in your home."
She musters enough courage to glower at him. "I am not brave or bold, but I was happy in my silk rooms and frost gardens. Besides, I want to watch over my family like this for as long as I can."
Yao just smiles. "Hmph. As you like. What is your name, girl?"
"It is…" she begins, then falters. He almost laughs: even in death she strives to be filial and civilized, balking at giving her name to a male stranger.
"Come, girl. I am no hungry ghost, no evil spirit — though many might disagree with me. Give me your name, else I have nothing to call you but 'girl' from now on."
The ornaments in her hair tinkle softly as she turns to frown at him. Rosy lips press together before she relents. "It is 霞 Xiá (Daybreak)."
"阿霞 Ā Xiá," the butterfly echoes, adding a term of affection to her name and so bringing a smile to said girl's face. Powdered cheeks dimple, and for a moment wonder flits across Yao's mind at just how young she truly is.
But the thought quickly dampens, like a candle put out. She is just one of many, after all. And, when he looks over at the butterfly as she smiles back at Ah Xiá, he realizes she is, too.
Yao tucks his hands into his sleeves and sighs.
A clatter rings out behind him. Turning to glimpse over his shoulder, Yao observes a servant-figure chase after a rolling platter. Bean cakes and ceramic bowls of rice splatter over the ground.
He narrows his eyes when he notices that the spirit money Ah Xiá had thrown at him has vanished. Then his gaze flicks upward, where a tattered shadow scurries away through the arc gate.
His skin prickles with cold.
Hungry ghost.