The Prohibition

Yi-yun noticed it, though she could not quite put her finger on what was different.

Her grandmother’s voice sounded as it always had, calm, even and unhurried.

And yet something had changed.

The pauses were longer now, sentences ended sooner than usual, certain details were only brushed over and left unexplained.

They sat at the kitchen table, fine steam once again rising from their teacups.

Yi-yun watched Shu-fen for a while, then tilted her head.

“Grandma?”

She looked up.

“Yes?”

Yi-yun hesitated, then asked quietly, “Is everything all right?”

For a brief moment, Shu-fen looked almost caught off guard.

Then she smiled and waved the question aside lightly, as though to scatter it.

“Of course,” she said gently. “Why do you ask?”

Yi-yun shrugged. “You’re telling it… differently today.”

Shu-fen lowered her gaze to her cup.

“That happens sometimes,” she said after a moment. “You see, Yi-yun, when old people like me speak about the past, we often stir up things that have been resting for a very long time.”

Yi-yun frowned, as though she didn’t quite understand.

“I try to put it this way,” Shu-fen continued calmly. “When you speak about such times, you don’t only remember what you yourself did. You also remember what others did. And those were not always good things.”

Yi-yun looked at her attentively.

“Other people?”

“People we knew,” Shu-fen said. “Friends. Relatives. People we thought we understood.”

She paused.

“Many of them did not behave the way one might expect today.”

Yi-yun blinked. “Because people were different back then?”

“Because it was a difficult time,” Shu-fen replied quietly. “And difficult times do not always bring out the best in people.”

Yi-yun thought about that.

“Then… you don’t want to continue the story anymore?”

Shu-fen smiled again, this time more softly.

“I do,” she said.

She reached across the table and rested her hand briefly over Yi-yun’s.

“The memories simply make me a little… tired. That’s all.”

Yi-yun nodded slowly, satisfied.

For a moment, they sat in silence.

Then Shu-fen lifted her gaze and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, as though considering how the story continued.

And then she went on.

᯽᯽᯽

It was some time after I had begun working with your grandfather in Taihoku.

One afternoon, my father sent for me.

The moment I entered his study, I knew what this was about.

He stood behind his desk, his back to me, both hands braced against the dark wood.

When he spoke, his voice was calm, but sharp.

“Would you care to explain to me,” he began, “why I had to learn at a market stall that my daughter has been secretly undertaking work for the Imperial Army in Taihoku?”

He turned around.

“Do you have any idea what that makes me look like?”

I had been expecting this conversation for some time. It had only been a matter of time when he would find out.

“Father, I...”

“No,” he interrupted me, unusually stern. “You will listen.”

He stepped closer.

“You are unmarried,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are the heir to this house. When people see you alone in the city, without escort, without my knowledge, it reflects poorly on our family.”

His gaze hardened.

“And that is not even the greater problem.”

I pressed my lips together, since I knew what was coming.

“The greater problem,” he continued, “is who you were seen with.”

He didn’t say his name.

Something tightened inside me, though I had been expecting this.

“He asked me for professional advice,” I said carefully. “Regarding storage conditions. Nothing more.”

My father gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Do you truly believe that is what people see?” he asked. “Do you believe anyone cares why you were there?”

He turned away briefly, then back to me.

“I should have confined you to the house after the first meeting,” he said quietly. “After the way you spoke there. After the attention you drew with this... ridicolous invitation!”

He exhaled.

“But it seems I have been too soft with you. Perhaps I indulged you too much after your mother’s death.”

The words struck harder than I had expected.

“I did what benefited this plantation,” I said, my voice still even. “And I did it well.”

“That is not the point,” he replied sharply.

He stepped closer again.

“Do you even know why they call him The Devil of Xiaofeng?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“I have heard rumors,” I said at last.

His expression darkened.

“They say he did things in China that cannot be excused,” he continued quietly. “He was responsible for countless deaths. Women. Children.”

He paused and fixed me with a penetrating look at the last word, as though to impress its meaning upon me.

“This is not a man you want your name tied to.”

My heart began to race.

How could what he was saying be true?

The man I had come to know did not seem capable of such atrocities.

“You don’t know him,” I said at last, softly but firmly.

“And you believe that you do?” my father replied calmly, shaking his head.

“This ends now,” he said. “You will not meet him again. I forbid it. End of discussion.”

I stood there for a long moment, motionless, and for the first time I did not know what to say.

When I left the room, I only realized once I was outside that I had been holding my breath.

I stopped for a moment, my hands clenched at the sides of my dress, and forced myself to breathe slowly.

The courtyard lay in the afternoon sun, familiar and unchanged.

The workers moved between the buildings as they always had, baskets carried, voices calling short instructions.

And yet everything felt different.

I went over to the drying fields, where freshly harvested leaves lay spread out.

Distraction was all I wanted.

I knelt down and ran my hand over one of the mats, as though I needed to reassure myself that the world still functioned.

“Miss Lin!”

I looked up.

Mei-Hua stood a few steps away.

She was one of the older workers and had been here since I was a child.

Her face was weathered by the sun, her movements calm and assured.

“If it stays this hot and dry, we can turn the next batch tomorrow,” she said, setting down her basket.

I nodded. “Yes. Good.”

For a while, we worked in silence.

It was familiar, almost comforting.

Until she started talking.

“Your father spent a long time in his study this morning,” she said at last, seemingly offhand.

“Mhm.”

“He… worries about you.”

I paused, my hands still.

“He always does.”

Mei-Hua glanced at me but said nothing.

Instead, she picked up a few leaves and let them fall again.

“There is already a great deal of talk,” she said quietly.

My hand froze.

“About what?”

She hesitated. “About you and that... Japanese.”

A faint pull tightened in my chest, and something inside me went taut.

“So?” I asked more sharply than I intended.

She raised her hands placatingly.

“Perhaps… it is not the best association. I do not mean to presume, but...”

I straightened.

“Then you should leave it at that,” I snapped, feeling heat rise to my face.

“I only meant to say...”

“That’s enough. I can decide for myself what I do,” I interrupted.

I turned away before I could see the expression on her face.

Then I walked on, past the buildings and up the narrow path between the tea bushes.

Only there did I stop and sink down into the tall grass.

The leaves rustled softly in the wind and the air smelled of green things, of earth, of everything familiar to me.

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath.

My father.

Mei-Hua.

The gossip.

Devil of Xiaofeng.

A name that followed him wherever he went.

I pressed my lips together.

The man I knew did not fit that title.

And yet I had nothing to counter it with but impressions, conversations and glances.

I thought of Taihoku.

Of the hours we had spent in warehouses and depots, of the quiet, measured conversations we had shared.

Of the way he held my hands, when he showed me what he felt, even without words.

When I opened my eyes again, it struck me that I knew only one thing:

I had to see him again.