Father sprinkled White Rabbit candies in Min’s coffin. Mother screamed, “Let me go with my son!” If Mr. and Mrs. Chen, who lived across the stream, hadn’t held Mother back, she would have plunged into the wooden coffin Father built. He gave Mother a loud slap and shouted, “Stop it!” His eyes were red, but never shed a tear.
Shan’s sister Lan crouched next to the grave on a ground in a pile of dirt, sobbing, her whole body curled up in a ball the size of a dog. She did not look like a ten-year-old but much younger.
Shan saw through tears and stared at the White Rabbit candies. The rabbit looked peaceful on the blue and white candy wrapper. Father spent all the money he had left—30 yuan—on these candies. Was Min tempted?
Behind the funeral was the one-room mud house with a kitchen outbuilding in which Shan and her family lived. Not far away, a rough, muddy trail led out of the mountain, lined with lychee trees, a common fruit tree in the south of the Five Ridges area in China.
#
Mother banged her head against the mud wall next to the bed while she screamed, “Why? Why take away my only son? Why not my daughters?”
She whined all day and all night and only stopped when she dozed off, too exhausted from crying.
Mother’s wailing became part of the household’s routine—the animals didn’t jump or howl anymore when Mother woke up abruptly and shouted again.
It was still dark when the rooster crowed. Mother struggled to get up to feed their livestock and water the vegetable patch. Poverty denied her the right to wallow in grief.
After Min’s death, Father left to ask his mother to help with the house chores because Mother was in such a bad state that he returned to his ancestral village.
The day after Min’s burial, Shan woke holding Lan’s hand. She waited until Mother went out and got up to cook porridge. Ever since Min died, the responsibility of cooking fell to her.
A large black pot sat on a clay stove was in the center of the kitchen. A wooden bellow was next to the stove to increase the firepower and save firewood. Shan sat on a footstool. Stalks, roots, and dead leaves of the trees she collected every afternoon were stacked against the wall behind her.
Smoke and steam filled the kitchen; yellow, black, and white smoke rose from the chimneys. The bellows clacked, singing a song in a monotone. Shan was choked with tears.
She held a wooden stick, ready to put it into the fire later. She covered her nose with the end of her clothes and closed her eyes so the smoke wouldn’t sting them. Tiredness came over. In her drowsiness, she felt heat behind her. She came to herself. The half-burned wood in the stove fell to the ground and set fire to the piles of stems. The fire went up. Shan took the bucket and dashed to the stream. When she returned, she threw water on the fire. A cloud of smoke rose from the pile of timber.
Shan gasped and heard Mother sob. Turning her head, she saw Lan. She sat on the threshold stone, leaning against the wooden door, and stared at Mother crying in bed.
Lan seemed fragile, the size of a six-year-old, so much smaller than yesterday.
She crouched down beside her sister, held her hand, and said, “Did you see the ghost woman? Did she tell you to disappear? Don’t listen to her. She died in this house with resentment. She hates girls. She doesn’t try to help us. She even hated her daughter. Auntie Chen told me that after she died, her daughter also began to shrink and within days disappeared into thin air.”
But Lan never looked at her. Shan felt a sharp pain in her heart.
#
Shan used to cut wild vegetables and herbs to feed the pigs with Lan every morning, but after Min died, Shan went alone.
The last time they went out together, they went to the woods to forage. Shan cut her finger, and Lan sucked the blood out of her injured finger and said, “It will clear the dirt from the wound and avoid infection.” Those were the last words Lan said to her—Min died late that night, and she had closed up ever since.
When Shan passed the hillside, she stopped. There was a pile of stones on the grave, behind which stood a gravestone made of wood. Black ash could be seen on the soil in front of the pile.
Shan sat down, took out a butterfly made of White Rabbit candy paper, and stared at it. The year before Min fell ill, Father bought some candies for the first time for the Chinese spring festival along with three White Rabbits. When Mother gave each a White Rabbit, she told them they were so precious that only the rich and powerful could afford them. Shan and Lan put White Rabbits in their pockets and carried them everywhere they went, taking them out from time to time to smell its milky scent, similar to taffy. On the first day of the lunar New Year, when they smelled the White Rabbit again, Min burst into tears and said he wanted White Rabbit, too.
“But you already ate it,” Shan said.
“I want it! I want White Rabbit!” Min sat on the ground and wiggled, crying.
Lan squatted down, held White Rabbit in her palm, and said, “You can have mine.”
“It’s not fair. It’s yours,” Shan said. But Min grabbed the candy, peeled the wrapper, and put it into his mouth, making loud chomping sounds.
Shan stamped her foot and shouted, “You are such a noisy eater! Your chewing sound drives me mad. Stop it!” She bit her lower lip and said to Lan, “Take mine.” Lan replied, “No, you eat it and tell me what it tastes like. Remember, I am the eldest sister and should care for my siblings.” As Lan peeled the wrapper, it squeaked. She put the White Rabbit into Shan’s mouth. Immediately, Shan tasted the rich milky fragrance.
Lan folded two pieces of the candy wrappers, wrapped a hair band as a cord around the middle, and secured it. She twisted the ends of the cord to form the butterfly antennas and gave it to Shan. Instead of carrying the candy, Shan took the butterfly with her every day.
As Shan stared at the butterfly, she put her thumb in her mouth and nibbled at the flesh beside her nail. She didn’t want to let her sister go. She wanted to meet the ghost woman and told her to stay away from her sister, but Auntie Chen said only girls who wanted to disappear could see her. She didn’t want to vanish—she wanted to be with Lan. Lan fed and bathed her when she was too young to take care of herself. Min belonged to Mother, and Father was scary and distant. Lan was the only one she was close to.
Shan bit hard at the flesh, feeling the sting from her fingertips and tasting the salty, rusty taste in her mouth. She sucked on her nail.
A black and white butterfly flew around Shan as if trying to get her attention. Shan thought it must be Min coming back to see her. Should she hide? If Min saw her, would he miss his family and use her for his reincarnation?
The grass behind the grave rustled—out came a white dog. It stood still and stiff with ears forward and bared its teeth. Startled, Shan stared.
The dog growled, and its hackles raised. Shan slowly stood up and forced herself to look at Min’s gravestone to avoid looking at the dog’s eyes; otherwise, the dog might feel threatened and attack her. She saw the dog crouching from the corner of her eye.
They remained like that until the dog got bored and lay down to nap, lying on its side with its legs extended.
#
After foraging, Shan passed through the forest. The path twisted and turned, bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, grass, wildflowers, or trees. Crickets sang, alternating the rhythm.
Shan’s and the Chen families were the only two hiding in the mountains to evade the one-child policy. Before Father left, he had asked them to look after his family.
Shan crossed the stream from some large rocks and reached the Chen family. They were having lunch. Although the sun shone outside, it was dark inside. She paused at the door, embarrassed to ask if they had any extra food.
“Shan!” Wen, the ten-year-old daughter, trotted toward Shan. Mr. and Mrs. Chen stood up and waved at her. Shan noticed that Mrs. Chen’s belly bulged in her Indigo dress.
“I…I almost burned the kitchen this morning. I was wondering if—” Shan murmured.
“Come and eat with us. We can bring lunch for your mother and Lan later,” Mrs. Chen said.
Wen took Shan’s hand and pulled her towards the table.
Only two dishes were on the table, one with stir-fried lettuce and the other with scrambled eggs. A dozen flies circled the dishes, buzzing, and some had landed in the eggs. Mrs. Chen waved her hand over the dish to keep the flies away. She put some scrambled eggs in Shan’s and Wen’s rice bowls. Soon, flies landed in the dishes again.
“My mum made the best scrambled eggs in the world,” Wen said.
Mrs. Chen took down a grain of rice stuck to the corner of Wen’s mouth and put it into her mouth. “Wen, look at you. You are almost eleven, but you have rice on your face,” she said with a smile.
“But I am still your baby daughter,” Wen beamed.
Realizing she had never had that kind of moment with Mother, Shan felt a knife piercing her heart. She tried to block the pain and felt suffocated.
A scent of spring rain wafted from that mother and daughter, a mixed smell of freshly turned earth, grass, and flowers of all kinds.
After eating, Mrs. Chen carried a big bowl of food and walked with Shan toward her shack.
“Auntie Chen, my sister is shrinking,” Shan said.
“I noticed. She must have seen the ghost woman. At that speed, she will be gone in a week or two.”
“I don’t want her to vanish. Would you please talk with her?”
Mrs. Chen stopped and said, “You know what kind of life awaits you as a girl?”
“I know life is hard.”
“No, you have no idea.” Mrs. Chen leaned down, looked Shan in the eye, and said, “If you love your sister, you should be glad she has this painless way out.”
Shan felt the weight of a boulder on her chest, too heavy to breathe.
#
The sunlight streamed through the half-open door and fell on rotting boards and crumbling walls. It also shone on Lan, who sat motionless on the threshold stone, her bleached turquoise dress a corner of the summer sky.
Mrs. Chen entered the house. Shan went after her.
“Min, oh, my son, my baby,” Mother lunged forward, gripping Shan’s arms, her eyes sparkly. But when she realized she was Shan, she squeezed her harder, her nails digging into Shan’s flesh. Shan couldn’t help but let out a cry. She tried to free herself from her, but Mother slammed her against the wall.
Mother screamed, “Why did Min die and not you?”
Mrs. Chen pulled Shan away from Mother and said, “Go away. Hurry.”
Shan stumbled out, and Lan began to whimper. “Shut up!” Mother screamed behind her.
#
That night Mother continued wailing. Shan was exhausted but still held Lan’s hand tightly. She drifted off.
Shan and her siblings caught butterflies in the lawn before Min’s grave. They searched every grass, every flower. A white butterfly flew over like a fairy, gently showing its beauty. Min crept toward it. Getting closer, Min finally saw the back was milky white, and the belly was light yellow, with one or two black spots on the wings and black tips. On its small and exquisite body, its slender limbs kept playing with the flower bud, and a pair of tiny antennas stood on its small round head. Min stepped forward on tiptoe. He almost touched its wings, but it flew away.
Lan said, “Butterflies landing on the grass tip are easier to catch.” Min did as his sister told him but slipped and burst out crying. Shan pulled him up and said, “I will catch you a big one.”
She spotted a black butterfly, approached it, and grabbed its wings. The butterfly struggled, a row of white spots on the lower half of its wings forming a white jade band. It was so beautiful that Shan couldn’t take her eyes off it. Its long antennas quivered as if saying, “Please let me go.” Shan had no heart to hurt it, so she released her fingers, watching it fluttering away.
Shan still heard her siblings laugh until a noise stirred her: amid Mother’s crying, a burst of sad laughter in the distance punctuated by sharp yaps.
Shan rose above her own form and floated out of the house. The night was pure with cool air. She looked up into the sky with tiny stars that melted into the light. An owl flew by; its mournful cry floated out of the encroaching darkness that sounded like a bleak laugh.
She heard a dog whimpering. The white dog ran wildly around Min’s tombstone, barking and whining. It struck Shan that the dog was probably just as hurt, lonely, and desperate as she was. She fluttered down in front of the dog and looked at it. It slowly approached Shan’s form and sniffed. When Shan locked eyes with the dog, it raised its eyebrows, and its eyes looked larger and more appealing. That look instantly reminded Shan of Min, who always stared at her with big watery eyes whenever he wanted her to play with him.
Roosters began to crow. The sky was not pure black but black through a vast expanse of deep blue stretched out into the distance. As the day was dawning, the land became shadowy and covered with silver-gray gauze. A bird’s cry cut through the silence. The eastern sky floated a fish-belly white for a while, and the earth gradually brightened. The sun peeped from behind the green hilltops, and the warmth of its first rays mingled sweetly with the coolness of the dying night.
#
When Shan gathered wood in the afternoon, she took a few baked sweet potatoes. She would give them to the dog, who chomped on them. Shan chuckled—the dog was such a loud eater.
It took until the third time she fed the dog boiled eggs, which she saved from her meals, and it approached her. Shan was not scared. She extended the back of her right hand to the dog, and the dog smelled it. Slowly, she stroked the sides of its body.
Another time before Shan went near Min’s tomb, the dog appeared, head shaking, running excitedly towards her. Shan wondered: had the dog been waiting for her? Shan hadn’t felt liked and needed for a long time, and she felt a warm current flow through her body. As they sat together, the dog put her paws on Shan’s feet and leaned her head against her.
Suddenly, the dog barked at the grass. Shan was startled and involuntarily took a step back. A large snake slithered on the ground; two black stripes behind its eyes extended to the neck, like black eyebrows. Shan recognized it was a non-venomous snake. It curled in an S-shape, a little red tongue sticking out as it crawled and hissed. The dog arched its body, raised its tail, and growled. It rushed forward and bit the snake, which immediately opened its mouth to fight back. The dog released the snake, jumped to one side, and stepped on its body with its paws. The snake shook its head and tail, raised its head, and bit the dog in the leg. The dog whined, but its mouth firmly bit the snake’s head. After a long time, the snake stopped moving. Shan rushed forward to examine the dog’s wound. Tears welling up, she hugged the dog. If she had been as brave as the dog and fought against the snake, the dog might not have been hurt. She decided not to be a coward anymore.
When she returned home, she saw Father, Ms. Chen, and an old woman in black. Father put his luggage into the house. He wiped the sweat off his face with his hand and said to Shan, “Greet your granny.”
“Granny,” Shan muttered.
“Lan, why do you have such a bitter face? That will bring bad luck.” Granny was lean, her features dry, her voice shrill and rasping.
“But I am Shan, not Lan.”
“Nonsense! You are the eldest daughter.” Granny spat on the ground and walked away.
Shan saw Ms. Chen converse with Father.
“You said you would ask your mother for help.”
Father replied, “I did, but my mother wouldn’t come, so I turned to my mother-in-law.”
“Your daughter has barely drunk or eaten for days. She will die. Please ask her to have some porridge,” said Ms. Chen.
Granny just nodded. When she saw Lan on the threshold stone, she snapped, “Go play with your sister. Don’t get in the way.” She walked toward Mother and said, “Get up, you pathetic woman. Do you think wailing would bring back your son?”
Mother paused to glare at Granny and yelled, “You never loved me. Why do you care now? Go away!”
“Do you think I would come if your husband hadn’t begged me? I’d rather take care of my grandsons at home. I told you to give away your daughters when they were born, but you wouldn’t listen. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have to hide in this terrible place, and Min wouldn’t get sick and die. Girls only bring bad luck.”
“Shut up and go away!” Mother shouted at the top of her lungs.
“You think I want to be so hard on you? You must pull yourself together. You already lost your son; you must get strong to give your husband another.” Granny’s voice was as sharp as a knife grated across a plate.
A wave of mixed emotion welled up in Shan, so strong that she did not know what attitude and feelings to hold towards Mother. She had always believed that Mother did not want her daughters and that they should stay away so that she would not be upset by the sight of them. But Granny’s words made her realize for the first time that Mother would rather hide in the mountain than abandon them and that she once wanted to protect them.
Lan began to cry. Shan picked up Lan, who was as small as a toddler. She patted her on the back, muttering, “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m here.”
#
Granny got up before dawn, and the sound of Granny sweeping the yard with a broomstick woke Shan. She went out and found Granny already busy in the kitchen, who, on seeing her, snapped, “Lazy girl! Get up earlier tomorrow. Can’t you see I’m busy? Come and fan the flames.” After breakfast, Granny strode to the vegetable patches, saying, “Hurry up!” Shan trotted to catch up.
Not far away was Min’s tomb. Shan said, “Min’s spirit is back. Every time I visit his grave, a butterfly flutters around me.”
Grandma nodded and said, “The soul of a loved one who died within 100 days would turn into a butterfly and return to visit the family.”
“Why didn’t he visit Mother—”
“Cut the crap and get over here and help water.”
Granny stayed for a week. Before she left, she told Shan, “I lost two sons, my husband died young, but look at me, I raised five kids on my own. Your mother and sister are weak, but you are different. The world is harsh on women, so you must be harsher to survive and protect your mother and sister.” Shan nodded.
Lan was as tiny as a half-year-old baby. Shan fed her porridge, bathed her, and carried her in a sling wherever she went.
When she sat before Min’s gravestone, she said to Lan, “This is our brother Min’s tomb. He sleeps underground.”
An unspeakable sadness engulfed Shan. When would Lan be gone? In two days? Or three days? Mrs. Chen’s belly got bigger and rounder. If she gave birth to a son, her family would move away. Then Shan would be all alone. She cuddled Lan and clung to her. Her head was bowed, her sparrow-thin shoulders shaking.
Feeling Lan writhing in her arms, she looked up and locked eyes with her sister, who gave her a big smile. Lan still loved her.
A gust of wind blew, and Shan felt a chill. She suddenly realized summer had passed, and it was now autumn. She was already nine. The leaves were still green, but the breeze had become cool. She noticed the absence of cicadas chirping. The sun set behind the mountain, and the sunset painted the blue sky with shades of red, orange, and purple. A swarm of tiny bugs flew around Shan’s head, but she knew they wouldn’t bite.
She saw a brown leaf in the grass with an irregular dark stripe and a white L-shape in the center. The leaf moved and lay flat its wings. It was a butterfly. The front sides of the wings were orange-yellow with scattered black spots and blue, pink spots near the tip.
Was it Min? What did Min want to tell her? She reached over. Instantly, the butterfly flew over the depths of the grass. Out came the dog walking with a limp. Shan looked at the dark brown wound on its leg, which had crusted over. Instantly she remembered how she should have been brave.
She took out her blue-and-white butterfly and told baby Lan, “My dear sister, you made this butterfly for me, and now you should carry it. The butterfly will protect you. Min wants me to protect you, and I will. We are stronger than you thought. We will grow up together and leave here. We will have lots of White Rabbits. I promise.”
Lan giggled, with one hand holding the butterfly, stretching out her other hand toward the dog. Shan also reached over and petted the dog. A smile lit up her face, the first in months.
