Tulang

Her eyes fluttered open to total darkness. Tulang had no recollection of how she ended up here. In fact, she wasn’t even sure her name was Tulang. Was this some joke from her husband? Did she have one? If so, why couldn’t she recall his name?

She pushed at the darkness. It was heavy. She pushed harder. There were loud cracks as nailed timber came loose. Splinters leapt into the air. Light at last. Tulang sat up, then glanced down at herself. Someone had dressed her in a blue brocade jacket and matching pants, covering her in floral embroidery from collar to ankles.

Shrill cries turned her head towards an assembly of strangers. Horrified, she opened her mouth, but “stay back” came out as a screech. It sounded foreign and harsh, like the scraping of metal. A few men began advancing on her. She clambered out of her coffin, hurled it into the crowd, and ran.

The roaring wind pinned back her hair, lending it the likeness of one continuous brushstroke. Feet slapped against cobbles, dirt, grass, then foliage, until civilisation gave way to nature. Tulang seemed to recall that she wasn’t a good runner. That faint recollection did not stop her from leaving the armed pursuers in the dust.

At last, she stopped to check her surroundings. It was the middle of the night. The clouds had blocked out the stars and moon. Creatures rustled in the thickets while owls hooted with impunity. She was alone in strange lands. This terrified her, but not nearly as much as the thought of turning back and facing the armed men.

A pang of hunger, which became a twisting knife in her gut, quickly reshuffled her priorities. No matter how she gasped, she could never suck in enough air to quell the fire in her lungs. Everything that happened after that was a blur. When she finally came around, she had built a pile of deflated rats, hares, and anything else that crawled. Blood plastered hair to her face. She turned her back to the heap, determined not to look back.

Her next task was not as easy. She didn’t know why, but she needed shelter from the sun. In the end, she settled beneath a bridge arching over a creek. As the day grew bright, she became drowsy. Leaning against the cold, craggy stone, she pulled in her legs, wrapped her arms around her knees, and closed her eyes.

Father visited her during her sleep. He was a curio merchant who taught her to read and write so she could help with bookkeeping. That day, he fell ill and tasked her with delivering a precious plate to the Jin, an ancient house of demon slayers. There, she met the young man who would later become her husband. Strangely, his name and face eluded her.

Over the next few weeks, or perhaps months, given that she had lost all track of time, she continued to grow. A while ago, she summoned her first bat. Now, she could conjure dozens at a time. Wolves, instead of fleeing her, bowed their heads and whimpered obediently. Soon, she had a pack hunting for her food.

The number of angry men on her trail had increased considerably. The most troublesome ones were the monks. Their sutras rattled her brain, and their staves left purple bruises on her skin that took several hours to stop burning.

Pieces of her life came back to her. Her husband had broken his engagement to a daughter of a rival clan. Uncles of the scorned woman demanded to duel him, but he simply refused. He was a man of few words, as all Neijia masters were, apparently. His palms were always red and hot, like a hearth forever brimming with burning embers. His chopsticks moved that much quicker when his fish skin was sufficiently crisped. When she had told him she wanted a daughter, he offered incense to the gods every day. Quiet man, quiet gestures.

His face remained a blur and the name a black smudge, like an erroneous entry crossed out with a decisive stroke of her brush. Her mind began to wander. Why hadn’t he come for her? Had she done something wrong? Was he real? Would she even recognise him? Of the last question, she had no doubt. She knew, without knowing how she knew, that seeing him would cure her amnesia.

As more time passed, her yearning for a child became a gnawing obsession. Some mornings, she would wake, shaking all over, clawing at the air for a baby she was sure she had. She wanted to knit. She wasn’t much good at it, but she could learn. After all, what was a mother who could not clothe her children?

Yet, her husband remained absent and every blissful moment she spent with her daughter attracted armed men. Cursing, Tulang mounted a wolf and rode into the distance. However far she fled, a terrible voice haunted her. Wake up, Yu Tulang! You are dead!

She settled in an abandoned lakeside shack. While mouldy, she quite enjoyed the isolation. Nobody would intrude upon her family now. All that remained was to find her daughter and husband. You don’t have a daughter! Lips twitching, she swatted the thought away.

A small bat fluttered inside and sank its claws into a rafter. Flapping its wings, it squeaked that the seaside village had no temples and perhaps not even a local militia. Tulang smiled for the first time in a while. She peered through the gaps in the ceiling at the moon and nodded. Don’t do this. She went out.

And there she was, the perfect little angel, nestled in the bosom of a stranger. Tulang clenched her teeth and crept towards the house. Stop! She jumped over the wall, landing with a thud. The house, more like a box of bricks hastily covered with a straw lid, stank of fish guts. Tiptoeing as though she was a child stealing into the kitchen, she followed that intoxicating scent of innocent vulnerability.

Hands shaking with fearful anticipation, she picked up her daughter. She admired her for a moment. What pretty little hands she had. No, no, no! Tulang frowned. That horrible woman inside her head was interrupting her again. A grating scream pierced her ears. Tulang jumped, and without thinking, kicked at a wall and bolted into the night.

Stationing bats in the forest, she raced back to her waterside house. Her baby had woken and was now crying. She whistled, summoning a wolf to curl around the girl. The sobbing stopped. She looked up at Tulang, her eyes bright and curious.

“Yinhua,” she rasped, tilting her chin. “Yinhua?”

Yinhua giggled. Tulang grinned, bit her finger, and dripped blood onto her daughter’s forehead. Now, she would never lose track of her again.

Her joy proved as fleeting as the stars melting into the morning. The wolf, whimpering, woke her from her slumber. Someone horrible was coming. She had to move. Barely conscious, she allowed the beast to drag her away.

“Yinhua!” cried Tulang when the sun passed its zenith.

The shack was empty. Tulang roared, setting the forest birds aflutter. She growled at the sun, commanding it to fall below the horizon. When the moon finally rose, Yinhua’s scent grew thick. She’s not yours! Grunting, she raced towards the village again.

Kicking down the fences, Tulang stomped into the front yard, her eyes A man wielding a meat cleaver barred her way. His teeth chattered and his knees wobbled. Snarling, she bared her fangs.

“Yinhua!” she screeched. “Give!”

“B-back!” he cried, his voice breaking. “Stay--”

Tulang tore off his arm. He screamed. Then she tore open his midsection. The screaming stopped. What have you done? She lapped up blood and felt a pleasing shiver course through her veins. But Yinhua came first. The walls became a mere suggestion before her fists. Storming past a woman cowering under a table, Tulang picked up a crying Yinhua, kissed her forehead, and left.

Returning home, Tulang left a wolf to play with Yinhua as she dived into the lake. It was time to make dinner. The thought of fire, however, terrified her. No. She’d have to be brave now that she had a daughter.

A bat came, squeaking plaintively. An intruder had slaughtered its cauldron. Frowning, Tulang tipped her chin at the wolf, who galloped out. This time, she would not run. She was going to stand her ground.

The wolf pack never returned.

With fingers sharper than knives, she filleted the fish at a pace that would make the best cooks jealous. Tossing away the bones, she began mashing the meat. Yinhua was not ready for solids yet. Perhaps she should try and make a fire outside—

A shadow stretched into her doorway. Tulang scooped up Yinhua, clutched the girl to her bosom, and hissed at the intruder.

“Mine! Mine!”

She ventured a look over her shoulder. It was a man. He seemed familiar.

“T-Tulang?”

Wugan! She smiled. He had come! He was finally here! His square jawline, downturned eyes, and thin lips pierced the amnesiac fog. He was every bit as handsome as she remembered. She lifted Yinhua up. Surely, he’d want to hold his daughter too.

“Ours,” she said.

Wugan wrapped his arms around Yinhua. Tulang inclined her head. He didn’t seem happy. Had she done something wrong?

“Yinhua,” she said. It was a beautiful name. “Yinhua.”

He was crying.

“Tulang, Tulang!”

She made to caress his chin when something pierced her chest. Tulang staggered until the wall hit her back. Her legs gave way. Dropping her gaze, she saw a slender, glistening stake, slick with red. The air turned to fire. Screaming, she tried to pull it out but her hands refused to move.

A woman strutted into the cabin, twirling more stakes in her hands. Tulang studied her through eyes narrowed by pain. Her pale complexion and curves made her appear more porcelain than woman. There was a quiet confidence about her movement and posture, similar to how Wugan carried himself.

“That should’ve killed her,” the woman berated Wugan. “This is what happens when you let demons feed. If you can’t stand it, get out.”

Tulang sensed her strength fading away and, with it, her bloodthirst. That woman in her head no longer seemed an obstinate stranger. Let me talk to them.

“It’s okay...” she said feebly. “Wugan.”

He looked at her as if he didn’t recognise her.

Tulang pointed at the woman. “I want to… talk to her, alone.”

The woman bristled. “There’s nothing to talk about, demon.”

“Please,” pleaded Tulang, wincing. She had to speak while her mind was clear. “I... don’t have time.”

The scowling woman dropped her arms.

“Fine. Let’s hear it.”

Tulang watched Wugan lumber out of the room. Her attention lingered on the doorway for a bit.

“You must be Bai Ruihwa.”

“I am.”

“I... owe you an apology.”

“You don't.”

“Do you hate me?”

Ruihwa did not answer.

“Do you still love him?”

“That doesn’t concern—”

“He doesn’t know how to look after himself,” said Tulang. “He needs a wife, and it can’t be me anymore.”

“Something we agree on.”

“I know it’s more than I deserve,” whispered Tulang, inhaling sharply, “but I’d be more at ease if he had you.”

“He never wanted me.”

“May I have a moment alone with him?”

Ruihwa made a face. For a moment, it looked like she would deliver the final blow. Instead, she folded her arms, tucking away her weapons like a magician, and strode out. Moments later, Wugan stumbled back in, knelt by her side, and reached for the stake in her chest.

“No...” said Tulang, catching his hand. “This way, I can talk to you.”

He clasped her hands. Tulang smiled. He was just as warm as she had remembered.

“You were a fool to have left her,” said Tulang.

“Perhaps.”

“She still loves you.”

He lowered his head.

“I can’t stay anymore.”

“Why not?” he shouted.

Feebly, she lifted a hand to his chin.

“You haven’t been eating properly.”

“I—”

“You’re drinking too much.”

He chuckled.

“I killed someone.”

“I know.”

“I... don’t want to do that again.”

“I know.”

“Do it.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Wugan reached for his gourd. Tulang tugged at his sleeve, stopping him.

“You don’t need that.”

Wugan heaved. Trembling, he lifted a hand and formed a claw. His movements, usually so effortless and fluid, had become rigid.

“Take your time.”

The claw fell. Tulang lurched forward, coughed blood, and slumped to the ground. As her world faded, she cast a final look at Wugan. She smiled.