The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane

  Not only is Deh-ja persistent with her chanting but she’s also already memorized the rules for the introduction of her baby into Spring Well. She’s been careful not to curse or eat on an uncovered porch—both of which would draw too much attention to herself. When she recites, “Ci-do and I will refrain from the intercourse for ten cycles after our son is born, as is proper,” her mother-in-law beams proudly and comes back with the proper and happy response: “I bless you with an easy birth.”

  “It’s good to see that Ci-do has also been doing his part,” A-ma says as she pours tea for everyone. “He’s avoided climbing trees, because the world knows that this might cause the baby to cry easily, which not one person in the village desires.”

  “And he engages solely in men’s activities, especially hunting,” Ci-do’s a-ma boasts, “to make sure his firstborn comes out a son.”

  “Then all should be well,” A-ma concludes, although I’ve overheard her express concern about Deh-ja’s size to the sisters-in-law.

  Third Sister-in-law has ignored this entire exchange. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she counts my stitches for a second time—not a good sign. Her needlework is considered to be the most excellent in Spring Well. Her headdress is covered with embroidered and appliquéd designs of different creatures with special meanings: a frog and a monkey at play to show harmony; a bird with a worm in its mouth to signify her maternal love; and a butterfly whose head is embroidered to look like a lavender and yellow crab. Because she is so good at her handiwork, she can show off her expertise and creativity just for the fun of it.

  She finally looks up from her examination and tosses the piece of cloth back in my lap. “You’ll need to pull out every stitch and do them again.” Third Sister-in-law is my favorite, but sometimes it feels like all she does is boss me around. She’s the mother of a son and one day I’ll marry out into my husband’s home, which is why A-ma tolerates it. But then Third Sister-in-law goes too far by showing her sharp snout and critical tongue. “You’ll never get a marriage proposal if you have to rely on your needlework.”

  A-ma shoots up a hand to keep her from uttering another word. Nothing so untoward should be spoken directly.

  “Let her be,” A-ma says in a manner designed to end all further conversation on this subject. “The girl will go to her marriage with a precious dowry. She will find someone willing to marry her, if only for that.”

  It’s a small room, and surely A-ma sees the looks that pass between the three sisters-in-law and our neighbors. I have a dowry, true, but it’s hardly precious. It’s a remote tea grove high, high, high on the mountain and handed down by the women in her family. Its location is a secret because of tradition and because the grove itself is said to bring bad fortune to trespassers. Some might even call it cursed . . .

  “Come sit with me, Girl,” A-ma continues into the awkward silence. “I want to give you something.”

  Could it be her most prized and valuable possession—the silver bracelet with the two dragons facing each other nose to nose—which has been handed down by the women in her family? No, because she reaches up and lets her fingers dance lightly over her headdress. She’s worked on it for years, adding beads, silver balls, bells, and beetle wings. Third Sister-in-law’s headdress may have the finest needlework, but A-ma’s is truly the most exquisite in our village, befitting her status as midwife. Her fingers find their destination. Using small scissors, she snips, then conceals the treasure in her hand. She repeats the process another two times before setting down the scissors. The silence in the room deepens as the others wait to see what she’s going to do next.

  “Now that I’ve passed the age of forty-five, when women should no longer be considering childbearing, it’s time that I concentrate on my only daughter and the woman, wife, and mother she’ll become. Give me your hand.”

  The others crane their necks like geese flying across the sky. Without revealing what else she has hidden, A-ma drops one of the prizes into my outstretched palm. It’s a silver coin decorated with foreign writing on one side and a miniature dreamworld of temples on the other.

  “This coin is from Burma,” she explains. “I do not know what it says.”

  I’ve seen Burma on the map at my school. It’s the country closest to us, but I have no idea what the Burmese characters mean either.

  “Next, here is a shell.”

  Across the room, First Sister-in-law hisses air through clenched teeth. She’s complimented A-ma on this shell many times. I suspect she always thought it would come to her. Disappointment paints her face, but she and the other sisters-in-law should not be divvying up the charms on my mother’s headdress just yet.

  “This last is one of my favorites. It’s a feather that caravanned on the Tea Horse Road from Tibet to our mountain. Think, Girl. These things have traveled over oceans and rivers, across mountain passes, and along trade routes. Soon you’ll be able to attach them to the headdress you’ve been training to make, which will mark you as a girl of marriageable age.”

  My heart beats with tremendous joy, and yet I know that the only reason she did this was to swerve the conversation away from the unlucky land that is my dowry.

  * * *

  One week later, word passes through the village that Deh-ja has gone into labor. Her mother-in-law is attending to her, as she should in the early hours. A-ma spends the morning looking through her shelves, grabbing medicines and tools from various baskets and boxes, and placing them in her satchel so everything will be ready when Ci-do comes to fetch her. The cautious quiet is broken when someone runs up the stairs to the men’s veranda. Even before Third Brother can knock on the wall that divides the two sides of the house, A-ma has risen and picked up her satchel. First Daughter-in-law waits at the door ready with A-ma’s cape made from bark and leaves.

  “Give it to Girl,” A-ma says as she grabs another cape from a hook. Her eyes find me. “You’ll come with me today. You’re old enough. If you are to become a midwife, you must begin to learn now.”

  The three sisters-in-law regard me with a mixture of pride and fear. I feel the same way. The idea of wearing A-ma’s cape makes my skin tingle with excitement, like I have ants running up and down my arms and legs, but helping her with a birth?

  “Ready?” A-ma asks. Without waiting for an answer, she opens the door to the women’s veranda. Ci-do has come around to our side of the house and stands in the muddy track that divides the village, rubbing his hands together with such urgency that I have to fight my desire to run back inside. A-ma must sense this, because she orders, “Come!”

  The omens are particularly worrisome. It’s the season of spirits. It’s raining. And Deh-ja’s baby is coming earlier than expected, even though her belly has been huge for many cycles now. The only propitious sign is that it’s Rat Day, and rats live in fertile valleys, which should help Deh-ja in the hours to come.

  As we near Ci-do’s family home, I spot Ci-teh peeking out the door. Her brave smile momentarily boosts my confidence. A-ma and I continue on to the hut for newlyweds. Ci-do leaves us at the foot of the stairs. It’s a Sun and Moon truth that if a husband sees his wife give birth, he might die from it. Once inside, Ci-do’s elder aunt helps us out of our capes. A-ma shakes the wet from her head as she scans the room, which is even smokier from the fire than ours. Ci-do’s mother squats on the birthing mat, her hands under Deh-ja, massaging.

  “Move.” A-ma has whittled her words down to almost nothing, having put away those parts of herself that are daughter, sister, wife, mother, and friend. She’s here as the midwife.

  In what feels like one movement—as three trees bending together in a storm—Ci-do’s mother slides to her right and off the birthing mat and my a-ma drops down to it, pulling me along with her. I was curious about what Ci-do’s mother was doing when we came in, so my eyes automatically go between Deh-ja’s legs. Blood and mucus have pooled beneath her. Waaa! I wasn’t expecting that! Blinking, I raise my eyes to Deh-ja’s face. Her jaw is clenche
d in pain, her face red with effort, and her eyes squished tightly shut. When whatever has been happening seems to ebb, A-ma’s hands move swiftly, first prodding between Deh-ja’s legs and then moving up and over her belly in a series of squeezing motions.

  “Your son is giving you a hard time,” A-ma says.

  I don’t know if it’s A-ma’s words—your son—or the pleasant way she’s spoken them, as though Deh-ja’s situation is no different from that of any woman who gives birth on Nannuo Mountain, but Deh-ja responds with a smile.

  A-ma spreads a piece of embroidered indigo cloth on the birthing mat. On this she places her knife, a length of string, and an egg.

  “Deh-ja, I want you to try a different position,” A-ma says. “Move onto your hands and knees. Yes, like that. This time when the pain comes, I want you to take a breath then let it out slowly. No pushing.”

  Three hours later, nothing much has happened. A-ma sits back on her haunches and twists the dragon bracelet on her wrist as she considers.

  “I think we need to call the spirit priest and the shaman.”

  Ci-do’s mother and aunt freeze like they’re barking deer spotted in the forest.

  “The ruma and the nima?” There’s no mistaking the panic in Ci-do’s mother’s voice.

  “Now. Please,” A-ma orders.

  Ten minutes later, Ci-do’s a-ma returns with the two men. No time is wasted. The nima goes into a trance, but Deh-ja’s pains not only don’t ease, they intensify. Her eyes remain closed. I can’t imagine what horrors she must be seeing on the backs of her eyelids. Red agony. Part of me is relieved to know that not every woman goes through this.

  Finally, the nima returns to our plane. “Wrong cannot be hidden. An outside spirit is insulted because Deh-ja made a mistake in one of her ancestor offerings.”

  The nima doesn’t specify the injustice, but it could have been anything. We make offerings to the mountains, rivers, dragons, heaven. We also make offerings every cycle to our ancestors. All of them involve food, so maybe an offering wasn’t divided properly or a dog grabbed some of it and ate it under the house.

  The ruma takes over. He asks for an egg—not the one on the birthing mat, but a new one. “Uncooked,” he demands. The egg is brought, and he passes it over Deh-ja’s body three times as he addresses the spirit. “Don’t eat or drink in this house any longer. Go back to your own place.” He puts the egg in his pocket, then speaks directly to Deh-ja. “You’ve been in labor so long, we’re now on Buffalo Day. Buffalo help humans in their work. Now the spirit of the day will help you sweep the room clean of malevolence.”

  Deh-ja groans as her mother-in-law and A-ma help her to her feet. She cannot stand upright. Deh-ja is dragged across the room to the broom. I open my mouth, words of objection forming. A-ma catches sight of me and gives me such a stern look that my mouth snaps shut. I stand there helpless as the nima and the ruma make sure Deh-ja sweeps every corner. She’s naked under her tunic, and bloody liquid snakes down her legs.

  When the nima and ruma are satisfied the room is free from the bad spirit, they leave, taking gifts of money, rice, and the egg in the pocket. “Do you have the strength to squat?” A-ma asks as Deh-ja sinks to the birthing mat. Deh-ja whimpers as she gets into position. “Think of your baby slipping out of your body as wet and slick as a fish.”

  The sounds that come from Deh-ja are awful—like a dog being strangled. A-ma keeps encouraging her and massaging the opening where the baby will come out. Everything is too red for me, but I don’t look away. I can’t, not after already disappointing A-ma. She’s given me this gift, and I must try to show her my worthiness. Deh-ja’s entire body contracts, pushing hard. Then, just like A-ma said it would, the baby slides out and flops onto the mat. Deh-ja collapses on her side. The older women stare at the baby. It’s a boy, but no one moves to touch or pick him up.

  “A baby is not truly born until it has cried three times,” A-ma recites.

  He’s much smaller than I expected given how big Deh-ja was when he was inside her. We all count: ten toes, ten fingers; his limbs match—two legs, two arms, equal sizes; no harelip; no cleft palate. He’s perfect. I’ve heard whispered what would happen if he were a human reject. Ci-do would have to . . .

  Finally, the little thing cries. He sounds like a jungle bird.

  “The first cry is for blessing.” A-ma speaks the ritual words.

  He pulls air into his new lungs. This time his cry is even stronger.

  “The second cry is for the soul.”

  Then comes an ear-piercing wail.

  “The third cry is for his life span.” A-ma smiles as she picks him up and hands him to his grandmother. A-ma ties the string around the baby’s cord and cuts it with the knife. Deh-ja pushes a couple of times and what A-ma calls the friend-living-with-child—a gooey red blob—squeezes onto the birthing mat. This is put aside for Ci-do to bury under his parents’ house right below the ancestor altar.

  A-ma takes a breath—ready to give the baby his temporary name so that no bad spirits will claim him before he’s awarded his proper name by his father—when Deh-ja suddenly moans. The expressions on the older women’s faces tell me something is terribly wrong. Deh-ja draws her knees to her chest, curling into a ball. A-ma feels Deh-ja’s stomach then quickly draws back her hands as though they’ve been scorched.

  “Tsaw caw,” she utters. “Twins. Human rejects.”

  Ci-do’s aunt covers her mouth in shock. Ci-do’s a-ma drops the first baby on the floor. The way he sucks in the smoky air sounds frantic, and his little arms jab into space as though he’s searching for his mother. And Deh-ja? She’s in so much pain, she’s unaware that the worst thing that could happen has happened. Ci-do’s mother and aunt leave to give Ci-do the dreadful news. I shift on the mat, getting ready to bolt, but A-ma grabs my arm. “Stay!”

  The firstborn baby lies alone, naked and unprotected. The second baby—a girl—comes out quickly. We don’t touch her. We don’t count her cries.

  “Twins are the absolute worst taboo in our culture, for only animals, demons, and spirits give birth to litters,” A-ma tells me. “Animal rejects are contrary to nature too. If a sow gives birth to one piglet, then both must be killed at once. If a dog gives birth to one puppy, then they too must be killed immediately. None of the meat can be eaten either. The birth of twins—which has never before happened in Spring Well—is a calamity not just for the mother, father, and relatives of the babies but for our entire village.”

  From outside, I begin to hear shouts and wails.

  Ci-do enters the room. His tears mingle with the rain on his cheeks. He carries a bowl, his fingers kneading the contents in an awful rhythm.

  “You know what you have to do,” A-ma says sorrowfully.

  Ci-do looks down at Deh-ja. His face is as pale as hers. She tries to swallow her sobs. It doesn’t work. I can barely make out her words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Ci-do kneels by the first baby.

  “Close your eyes,” A-ma instructs me. “You don’t need to see this.”

  I’ve been shown mercy at last, but my eyelids refuse to shut.

  Tears drip from Ci-do’s cheeks onto the baby boy, who still squirms and cries in his strange hiccuping way. Deh-ja watches her husband with eyes that are pools of sorrow. I also stare, aghast, as he scoops a mixture of rice husks and ashes from the bowl and tenderly tucks it into his son’s mouth and nostrils. The baby writhes for a few desperate seconds. My whole body rejects what I’ve seen. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened.

  Ci-do moves to the baby girl.

  “No!” I sound small, tinny.

  “Girl!” A-ma’s voice is sharp.

  “But, he can’t—”

  A-ma’s open palm comes at me so swiftly and surprisingly that when it meets my face I’m nearly knocked to the ground. The stinging pain is shocking, but not as mind-numbing as the slap itself, because children are not beaten, kicked, or hit in our culture.

  “We are
Akha,” she says harshly. “These are our rules. If you are to be a midwife, you must—must—follow our customs. Human rejects need to be sent to the great lake of boiling blood. This is how we protect the village from idiots, the malformed, or those so small they’ll only prolong their own deaths. It is us—midwives—who keep our people pure and in alignment with the goodness of nature, because if human rejects are allowed to do the intercourse, over time an entire village might end up inhabited by only them.”

  Her words are directed at me, but they also give Ci-do courage. As he kneels by his baby girl, I hide my face in A-ma’s skirt. Her hand on my shoulder feels like it weighs ten thousand kilos. The baby girl dies quicker than her brother, which doesn’t make it any less horrifying. If every living thing has a soul, as I’ve been taught, then didn’t Deh-ja’s twins have souls? If God created a tree to represent each and every Akha, have two trees now toppled in the spirit world? Shouldn’t we be hearing the echoing crashes, the sputtering of birds, the howling of startled monkeys? When A-ma finally lifts her hand, I feel so light that maybe I could float up to the ceiling, right through the thatch, and on to the stars.

  She reaches into her basket, removes a length of cloth, and gives it to Ci-do. He silently spools out the cloth, places the infants side by side, and rolls them up. How does he know what to do? How has he known what to do for any of this?

  “Ci-do, repair your face!” A-ma demands. “When you go outside, you must show our neighbors how angry—furious—you are at the spirits, who’ve allowed this hideous occurrence to curse you and your family. It is custom. Following it will help you.”