For weeks after the boy’s disappearance, Ai Ling forbade herself to think of him, putting a tight rein on her thoughts. She had glanced at the short newspaper report before putting it away, and the news soon trailed off; with that, the boy was gone a second time. Ai Ling went through her days at work as if in a daze, moving at a much slower pace, one simple task at a time. She taught new songs, words and games to the children, and wrote down their progress in the little blue books for their parents. She helped them put on their shoes and wiped them down after they dirtied themselves during mealtimes. She comforted those who were hurt and patted the shoulders of those who needed encouragement. She waited with them if their parents were late, and told them stories and fairy tales to pass the time. She did everything right, and the children adored her.
It was only in her dreams that Ai Ling was able to find the boy and bring him home with her and Wei Xiang; the boy would take to this new life with such joy that even Ai Ling was surprised by it. She would cook elaborate meals and give him any toy he wanted. She would watch over him, pat his head, and comb his curly hair. Even in her dreams, Ai Ling could feel the texture of his hair; the lightness and colour, the thickness and the darkness slipped through her fingers, like cool ribbons of water. How beautiful his laughter, chiming in Ai Ling’s ears. She would hold the boy, and the feeling that stirred in her was as natural as breathing, and as vital too. Yet the dreams always ended with the boy leaving her; she would turn her head for a second, and he would be gone, disappearing into the world, leaving not a single trace. Every dream had felt like a small death.
Ai Ling soon got used to these dreams and gradually they began to occur less frequently. Over time, her memory of the boy became fainter, receding further and further into her mind, until it became nothing more than a broken fragment of her past, one that no longer caused her unwanted pain.
13
CHEE SENG
I look out of the hut into the courtyard, narrowing my eyes against the morning glare. Drawn by the light, I step out of the hut, into the heat of the day. The old woman glances over at me, and returns to her chore of sweeping and weeding. I stretch out my arms, and turn my gaze to the shed beside the hut. The dead boy must still be in there.
The night before was a page torn out of time, and even as I try to recall aspects of it, everything feels unreal, impalpable: the old woman bending over the dead boy, her expression severe and watchful, motionless for a long time. Stunned with incomprehension, I stood frozen on the spot, failing to understand what was going on. Who was the boy—her kin perhaps, a grandson, or a stranger? Where had she found him—in the forest, or near the sea? What did she intend to do with the body?
The old woman unfolded the blanket from the boy’s body as if she were peeling a relic from its protective wrapping. The hard, marble-like skin, speckled with patches of dirt, shone with a luminescence in the light cast by the kerosene lamp. Eyes shut and mouth open, one could mistake the boy being in a deep slumber; his tousled hair, long eyelashes, and a tiny nub of a nose that held a disarming fragility. The deep, long scar.
Taking up a rag, the old woman wetted it in the bucket beside her and began to clean the body, starting with the face. Then she moved down the chest and stomach to the legs and feet, unhurried in her ministrations, as if she were executing a difficult task in precise, calculated steps. The old woman tried to pry open the fingers of the boy’s clenched fists, but they were closed as tight as a vise. Then, she tried to prop the boy’s body upright, struggling with his ungainly frame. Motioning in my direction, she gestured for me to hold up the body while she cleaned his back. I hesitated briefly before squatting down. The unyielding coldness of the hardened flesh was shocking; it was bewildering to imagine how the body of such a small boy could possess such a severe degree of rigidity.
I mustered the strength to not flinch and let go of the boy’s shoulders. The old woman finished cleaning his back. With a broken-toothed comb, she smoothed out the wild tangles of his hair, removing bits of sand and gravel. She hummed a song under her breath, timing each stroke of the comb to the rhythmic beat of it. Then she poured a coconut-smelling liquid from a bottle onto her hands and applied it to the boy’s hair from scalp to tip. Even after the hair shone from the strange oil, the old woman kept running her fingers through it, humming as if soothing a child to sleep. Patting down the stubborn screw-ends, she created a part on the left side, a tiny path through the mass of black hair.
Then taking up another bottle of oil, this one smelling of eucalyptus and sandalwood, she emptied the contents onto the body, rubbing it evenly over his skin, transforming him into a slick being, as if he had just been reborn into the world. With a nod, she signalled me to lower the body back down. In the dim light, I could not take my eyes off the boy’s face. The old woman cupped a palm over his eyes and uttered something that sounded like a chant or perhaps a prayer, authoritative yet hypnotic at the same time.
The timbre of the old woman’s voice coursed through the very marrow of my bones, resonating with a deep, ancient truth. In the silence between her words, I felt that I understood everything. Life begins, life flowers, and life ends: an endless cycle. I imagined her voice filling the shed as a physical thing, and then drifting away into the night, into the dark forest, to the edge of the sea and then over the waves, to distant, forgotten lands.
When she finally stopped, the shed fell into a deep silence. I was seized by a strange, crippling ache in my chest. The old woman started wrapping the boy in swathes of white cloth, binding his body tightly, leaving only the face exposed. Then, standing back, she looked at him for some time, before covering him with the blanket. She picked up the lamp, stepped out of the shed and nodded at me as she passed. I took a last backward glance at the dead boy, then followed her out.
What did the old woman plan to do with the boy? Did she intend to bury or cremate him? Or perhaps leave his body out in the forest? It was impossible to imagine leaving him in the shed for long, in this humid weather. In a day or two, even the strong smell of the oils would not be able to camouflage the rotting smell of death. Something would have to be done.
Stretching my arms to ease the tension in them, I push these thoughts to the back of my mind. The morning sun, warm and intimate on my skin, has lifted my spirits. I shuffle over to the garden plot, which consists of neat rows of flowering plants, adorned with green calamansi limes and bullet-shaped red chillies. I bend down and help the old woman with her tasks: sprinkling a fine layer of fertilizer on the topsoil, removing the weeds, watering the plants. Despite my weakened body, once my hands touch the damp earth, they slip smoothly into motion, and in no time, I’m working up a sweat. When I feel light-headed, I sit back and rest to gather my strength; the old woman scoops water from the bucket beside her in a cup and makes me drink it.
At midday, we have a meal of gruel, stir-fried long beans and salted cabbage. Then we are back in the garden again, picking up where we left off. Working silently, we manage to complete all the tasks by mid-afternoon. The old woman fetches a pail of water from the well, and we wash our hands and feet as best as we can—the dirt is encrusted under my nails, and has made its way into some of my wounds. The old woman gestures at me to take a break, and I retreat to the shade under the eaves of the hut. Even after the hours of labour, the old woman does not display any sign of fatigue as she starts cleaning out the coops, feeding the chickens and sweeping up their faeces. The chickens, alert to the scattering of dry feed on the ground, come rushing to the old woman’s feet. She reaches down and, in one fluid motion, grabs the chicken nearest to her. The other chickens go about their business, nonchalant, unbothered by the slight disturbance.