Another time Miss Zhao asks if I’m looking forward to seeing Meiling. “You’ve always been close,” she says. “This will be a way for the two of you to spend time together.”
And because she’s known us for so long, I’m able to confide my moment of jealousy about Meiling’s appointment. Miss Zhao’s expression is unreadable when she says, “I’m disappointed in you. You were born into a good family. Your only tragedy was the death of your mother. A hair off your arm is thicker than a man’s waist when compared to someone who started out as poor as Meiling. You should be happy for her success.”
Miss Zhao’s words remind me of one of a Snake’s worst attributes: envy. I feel color rising in my face, but she isn’t finished.
“A friend without faults will never be found,” she recites. “Many women call themselves friends, but one day the wind blows east and the next day the wind blows west. I never thought you would become a fickle or petty person. Especially not with Meiling.”
For a moment I’m taken aback. Who is a concubine to criticize me? But of course I know the answer. Miss Zhao is the closest person I’ve had to a mother in my life.
“Thank you, Miss Zhao. You’ve reminded me of an important lesson. Distance tests a horse’s strength; time reveals a person’s heart. You’ve always been loyal and kind to me. Please know I’m grateful.”
Her response is yet another lesson. “You’ve placed that aphorism on the wrong person. Perhaps you should think of it in regard to Meiling. When she was sent thousands of li away from home, who did she think of first to share in her good fortune?”
* * *
When we first began traveling north the changes in the landscape were gradual. Now, three weeks into our journey, each day the weather is colder and wetter. The few villages we pass look small and sad. There is little grass, and no evidence of the five grains planted. Poppy has become so bored with the scenery that she prefers to stay in our room. Not me, even though the rain pours down. I need fresh air. Miss Zhao and I dress as best we can against the weather and join the tiller woman under an oiled canopy, where she steers the boat. I’m surprised when she addresses me directly.
“I’ve overheard your bodyguards speak of you as a doctor,” she ventures.
It’s a strange turn of phrase. “Speak of me?” I ask.
The tiller woman raises a shoulder, conveying that the men were not talking about me with respect. She lets me absorb the wordless message, and then asks, “Would you ever consider treating a woman such as myself?”
I worry that the bodyguards might report me to my husband and mother-in-law and decide this would not be a prudent idea, but Miss Zhao says, “Of course she will. Doctor Tan looks at a woman and sees a woman—no matter her status. I speak from experience.”
I’m not sure what touches me more—that Miss Zhao has called me Doctor Tan or that she appreciates the relationship we built after Respectful Lady died.
“I have no way to pay you,” the tiller woman confesses.
Again, Miss Zhao speaks on my behalf. “You can thank her by giving us safe transport.”
As I begin the Four Examinations, I realize I’ve taken in more about the tiller woman than I was consciously aware. This tells me that I’m observing and absorbing even when I’m not focused. Grandmother would be pleased.
My questioning reveals that the woman recently turned forty, so she is still in her rice-and-salt days, as I am.
“What’s your main complaint?” I ask.
“I’ve had numbness in my hands for six years.” She pulls one of her hands from the tiller, holds it up to my face, and squeezes it into a fist, then releases it, repeating the movement several times in a row. “I’m on this deck through every season. Sometimes I’m in the north during brutal freezes. Summer heat should bring relief, except that on most days I’m standing in the drenching rains of the monsoon.”
“Has anyone or anything helped?” I ask.
She tightens her jaw. “I have seen street doctors only.”
A couple more questions and a few minutes feeling her pulse give me a possible answer. “The numbness in your hands is a Wind-Damp ailment. When we stop at the next station, come to my room.”
The next time our vessel docks and the boatmen are occupied with bringing new supplies aboard, the tiller woman visits Miss Zhao and me in my cabin. The way she looks around at the modest accommodations suggests that she’s never been allowed to enter a passenger’s room, let alone sleep anywhere so nice. I have her lie down and treat her with moxibustion on eight points to warm her channels, dry her dampness, and stimulate her qi and Blood. When I announce that the treatment is complete, she sits up.
“I feel better?” That she asks this as a question—as if she doesn’t believe the relief she’s feeling—confirms for me that the treatment is already working. “How can that be?”
“When there is pain, the body has no freedom of movement. Without pain, the body is free. My grandmother taught me that.”
The tiller woman stares at her hands uncertainly as she opens and shuts them. “Will it last?”
I lift my chin. Of course.
At the door, the tiller woman bows formally as if she grew up in a fine household. “A woman who helps others helps herself.”
To which Miss Zhao adds, “Our dear doctor has yet to take this lesson fully into her heart.”
* * *
Five weeks after leaving Wuxi, we’re rowed into Beijing as night falls. On the wharf, men and animals haul heavy loads. Guards in military dress carry torches, while others stand at attention with their spears and swords on display. They are far outnumbered by beggars, who crowd every cranny. The air stinks of manure and garbage. And it’s brutally cold. Miss Zhao steps onto the dock, trying to conceal her distaste. I do not need the skills of a spiritualist to read her mind: This is not Shanghai.
An hour later, we’re presented to Lin Ta, the eunuch in charge of the Lodge of Ritual and Ceremony. “You will answer to me when you are here or within the palace walls,” he says. “Do you understand?”
Miss Zhao and I nod. Poppy is somewhere, already unpacking our trunks.
“Those of us who run the lodge not only select doctors, midwives, and wet nurses to serve in the Forbidden City but also dispatch punishment,” he continues.
I keep my eyes lowered out of respect and because I’m afraid I would stare too hard at the eunuch. My few dared glimpses show me he matches the descriptions I’ve heard whispered about his kind. Without his three precious things, his voice is high. Although Lin Ta is tall and thin, his flesh hangs loose on his face and his opulent robes can’t hide the layer of fat that droops from his waist as though he were a woman who has reached sitting-quietly days.
“Do not steal,” he intones. “Do not lie. Do not gossip. Do not think too highly of yourself.”
Miss Zhao and I don’t say a word.
“Most important,” he goes on, “do nothing that might inflame or arouse undesirable emotions in the ladies of the imperial household—”
“We would not do that.” I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in such a dismissive manner, and the words have flown from my mouth before I could stop them.
Lin Ta ignores my outburst. “Punishments include expulsion from the palace, flogging, and beheading. Your family will be required to pay restitution, as well as reimburse the palace for all expenses accrued during your visit to the capital—whether you are dead or alive.” He looks us over. “You are protected here, so your bodyguards will remain on your boat until I receive the order to send you back to Wuxi. Do you have any questions?”
Miss Zhao and I shake our heads.
“Tonight I will send food to your room,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be taken to the Great Within—those rooms in the palace reserved exclusively for women. Please dress appropriately. Now follow me.”
I’ve been told that eunuchs have a peculiar walk that makes them recognizable even from a great distance. This turns out to be true. Lin Ta leans slightly forward. He keeps his thighs close together as he takes short, choppy steps, with his toes turned outward. We women trail an aroma from our feet. Lin Ta smells of leaking urine.
Once he sees us to our room and closes the door behind him, Miss Zhao whispers, “I’ve heard that the Great Within has the largest private gathering of women anywhere in the world. The empress, the ladies of the royal family, and thousands of concubines all serve the Imperial Presence. The spoutless teapots guarantee that any child born in the Great Within is the emperor’s alone.”
“I’ll never be as informed as you, Miss Zhao, but please don’t repeat the words spoutless teapot again. Or tailless dog. Even I know these are the worst things you can call those creatures. Maoren says eunuchs are powerful—”
“They are watchdogs and spies!”
“So refrain from using either epithet while we’re here as we don’t know the punishment for insulting a eunuch.”