There were five of us at the start: mother, father, Ren, Penelope, and me. And now there is only me.
Since mother and father passed, the garden’s upkeep has been lacking. They gave us enough knowledge to maintain the garden, but not enough to allow it to thrive. And since Penelope left, more than one ancestor has been rotting beneath the soil. I can’t tell if their bone roots are withering with so many passing, or because I’m not competent enough.
At night, their rusty voices groan about both their roots and my lacking ability, and in the morning, their demands nip at my heel until the sun sets.
“Stop staring at those horrific lights, child,” Grandmother’s voice looms from behind. Her bones curl around my wrist, tight, but just so—a warning. “I don’t understand what the appeal is. Just look at our garden. Such a healing, calming sight.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” I say. I linger on tiny outlines of buildings, how different the interiors are from the temple, and where Penelope might be.
I head back inside the temple, kneel on the sooty floors, burn paper money, light the incense, and wait for the ashes to collect before sifting them into a black bottle, filling the rest with pond water, and bringing it into the garden. I spray the grey flecked mixture over the base of each ancestor tree, the tangles of vines, and low standing bushes.
The heads of our ancestors are the roses and buds on trees, vines, and bushes, their hair the petals and leaves, eyes blooming to watch my every move in the morning, and then closing, yet never entirely, so they can squint at me during the night. Their bones are like protruding thorns that open the windows when I close them.
But that is as far as they’ll go.
At least within the temple, I have peace, no matter how slight.
I hold my breath until I spray the rest of the bottle beneath Grandfather’s watchful eyes, wondering when the hands of my ancestors might dart my way, hold me down, punish me for some accidental mistake.
They never have, not since Ren, but I always expect it, just in case.
Near Ren’s tomb, my parents are still growing, and I wonder when their faces might join the ancestor ranks in dictating my every breath, like they had done when they were still alive. I can’t tell if the familiarity will be soothing or suffocating—maybe both.
Below the mountain upon which our garden rests is the city I was told that Penelope has fled to almost a decade ago, and as the city lights grow brighter, the quicker the firefly-lit paths of our ancestors’ garden dim.
The rusty voices of our ancestors always call before I can stare too long, my mind wandering too far, my desire to leave the garden becoming too insatiable to contain, before I can dare the question my brother asked and was silenced for.
Our ancestors did not take his life for his treachery—for he was far too precious to them—but they took his tongue: Grandfather, his ancestral form as a bonsai tree next to the temple entrance, extended, whipping toward fifteen-year-old Ren, slipped his bone right into Ren’s mouth, slicing through his lips, splitting the tongue in two before ripping it out altogether. Within the clutches of his bone, he withdrew back to his position next to Grandmother, seemingly inanimate once more. While everyone was focused on Ren, Penelope snuck away.
I’m not sure what Grandfather did with the tongue, but I don’t dare ask.
Not long after, I buried voiceless Ren behind the temple, the bone branch arms and bone vines of our ancestors wrapped around the stone of his tomb. Even in death, he can’t escape.
Penelope is the lucky one, but I dare not voice this. The thought itself is enough to rattle my spine. Sometimes it feels as though the ancestors can hear me, and sometimes it feels as though they refuse to listen.
Today, I take one step too close to the gates that separate us from the long stretch of bare grassed mountain that leads to the city.
“How can you have time to daydream when our roots are rotting, child?” Grandmother tsks, slicing a bone across my ankle, releasing a thin thread of blood. The cut itself is painless, but the wind bites at the open wound as I hurry back to the temple.
She’s right. I’ve been selfish. The external pain is nothing compared to the internal guilt the recovery scar will bring.
I think of Ren, of Penelope, and as much as I want to be free like them, I cannot abandon my duties. I will not have the garden’s death on my hands.
I walk to the back of the temple at night. There is a small library of books—parchments bound and dust-covered–books I’d been avoiding because there hasn’t been a need for them until now. I wonder if our ancestors might consider moving to the city if these remedies prove futile.
Unlikely.
I blow away the dust, cough as the specks lodge in my throat, then spread the books out. Among the laid-out stack, there is one book with a neat script I recognize as Penelope’s. It is the only one written in English—a language forbidden in the garden and temple, a language our ancestors do not, and refuse to, understand—where the others are in Chinese.
I stretch, arching my back the way I often do in the morning when I wake, and check behind me, knowing the ancestors are watching, and angle myself so they cannot see the contents of the text. My eyes first land on her remedy for rot; an ash mix with fresh rainwater and minced fruit. Below are words so small they could be mistaken as an unintended stroke; Penelope’s mixture for inanimation, one that will render the ancestors motionless forever: boiling water, vinegar, baking soda, salt.
The kitchen has all five; usually used to make the buns, vegetable dumplings, soups for my daily consumption, or the cleaning solution for the temple.
Before Penelope left, she visited our parents’ grave. I wonder if she’s the reason they have yet to join the ancestors in the garden.
Below the inanimation mix is a single five-letter word: leave.
She left me with a way out, even though she abandoned us all. Sweat breaks out wherever fabric covers skin, and my hands shake at the prospect of leaving the garden, breaking away from the dull routine, the anxiety of Grandmother and Grandfather’s scornful gaze, the small daily aggressions that remind me of my lack.
In the morning, I mix the ingredients in a large bowl and wince at the potent scent of vinegar drifting out the window.
A portion of the mixture sloshes out the side at the sound of Grandmother’s voice. “You’re forgetting the flour, child.” Her bones drift by the window, tapping at the frame, the sound like the nails of gnarled fingers against wood, then scraping, gently yet menacingly, too close to the opening near my face.
I duck under the sink and bring the bowl with me, quickly filling the opaque spray bottle with part of the mixture before tossing in cups of flour. When I rise again, I hold back a gasp as Grandfather’s splintered bones hovers in the middle of the open window as though he has been staring at my every action this whole time.
I continue to mix, waiting.
He says nothing.
I shape each bun.
Grandmother remains silent.
I fill the pan with oil and deep fry each ball of dough—the sizzle like the whispers of bees.
The silence of my ancestors is normal, but today, it chokes.
After the ashes, which I allow to flutter onto the temple floors, I hold the bowl of pond water over the lip of the spray bottle. I count the seconds it usually takes to fill the bottle, but only a few droplets enter, before securing the cap once more.
I can’t start with Grandmother and Grandfather first, because I always complete my daily route through the garden with them last. I can only hope they won’t notice anything amiss.
I spray under the faces of each ancestor I pass first, in fear they might speak and warn my grandparents of my betrayal, before I quickly spray their limbs.
The mixture works quickly, rendering inanimate all that the liquid meets.
Guilt chews up my throat, but I swallow and continue. The ancestors won’t forgive me, but I will sacrifice the regret for freedom. Assuming Penelope is still alive, she must have been able to cope with her guilt successfully. The image of her smiling, carefree face is enough to give me strength to continue. Even if it’s an illusion, it’s too late to halt now.
I’m only a few ancestors from Grandmother when a bone darts from behind, knocking the bottle from my hand. I scramble to pick it up again, to use it as a weapon, but Grandfather catches my leg, forcing my body to crash against the grass. I hold the bottle in front of me and spray aimlessly. The grip on my leg loosens, but Grandmother is quick to replace it, and with a different bone she rips the bottle from my hand and tosses it aside.
“Please!” I yell.
“Look what you have done to your ancestors!” Grandfather’s rage echoes, mingling with Grandmother’s wails.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I plead.
Grandmother’s bones crawl up my body, binding me in lace until my struggle is only in my mind. She drags me toward where her and Grandfather grow. I see before I feel my tongue pried from my mouth, and I realize now where Ren’s tongue has gone. Nestled under Grandmother’s tongue is Ren’s, and now under Grandfather’s tongue is my own.
“We thought you might come to realize your mistakes, but we were wrong,” Grandmother and Grandfather say in the forbidden tongue. “Do you think the smell would escape us so easily? So foolish, like Penelope.”
Their words, their implications. I had not witnessed Penelope escape. Had it always been a lie?
They drag me to the back of the temple, where Ren and my parents’ grave lay. The surrounding ancestors pull back the leaves of a bush to reveal Penelope’s hidden tombstone.
They had used her own mixture against her.
My thoughts squeeze from my mind as my grandparents’ bones tighten further around me, cutting into the skin, drawing blood, before releasing only enough for me to breathe. No, they are letting go.
Grandfather screeches and Grandmother moans.
Ren.
Ren, the darling son; Ren, the never forgotten child; Ren, the one always forgiven and mourned, has finally risen.
Rather than a new sprouting, it seems Ren has remained dormant, awaiting this moment. His newly vined limbs dart from his grave like a thousand thick fingers shooting in all directions. They drag Grandmother and Grandfather away from me, and though parts of my skin and flesh rip away with their bones, I slump back with relief.
“Leave,” Ren mouths in Mandarin.
My body aches from the release and the sudden need to propel itself upward again. I lurch and scramble on all fours, flying toward the gate as Grandmother, Grandfather, and the remaining ancestors flail against Ren. He won’t be able to keep a hold of them for long, even if the ancestors’ roots are rotting. They are wise; they will soon figure out his weaknesses; strength and the driven youth will mean nothing in a matter of seconds.
I run, stumble, and reach for the city lights in the distance, and before I push past the iron gates, I mouth in the forbidden language: “Goodbye.”
Then I fall.
Always a second too late; always a step behind.
A bone snakes around my waist, binding my arms behind me.
The spray bottle Grandmother threw earlier is only meters away, right by the gate, but I watch as the distance between us grows.
As I’m being dragged back, Grandfather whispers in my voice, “Zaijian.” In the forbidden language of English, it translates to both “Goodbye” and “See you again.” In delirium, I want to laugh at the irony, but all that leaves me is the sound of wordless choking.
Originally published in What Draws Us Near, edited by Keith Cadieux and Adam Petrash.
