Letters in the Jade Dragon Box
© 2011 Gale Sears.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sears, Gale, author.
Letters in the jade dragon box / Gale Sears.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-60641-248-0 (hardbound : alk. paper)
1. Mormons—China—Hong Kong—Fiction. 2. Hong Kong (China)—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3619.E256L48 2011
813'.6—dc22 2011025960
Printed in the United States of AmericaPublishers Printing, Salt Lake City, UT
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Grant and Luana Heaton, for their love of China—indeed, for all the people of the Southern Far East Mission.
And to Shawn, whose mission called him home.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Author's Note
Appendix
Bibliography
Other Books by Gale Sears
Acknowledgments
I extend my deep gratitude to the many people who helped bring about this book.
To Grant and Luana Heaton for inviting me into their home and sharing stories and insights about the wonderful people of Hong Kong as well as the genesis of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in China.
Thanks to Matt Christensen, Chris Hughes, and Daisy and Gary Ma, for their help with the Chinese characters and calligraphy.
To Sandy Brown (Hu Yao-hwa), for her extensive perusal of the manuscript, concise suggestions for improvement, and help with the pronunciation for the audio book.
To Levi Sim, Ma Khe-ni, and Richard Turley Jr. for offering gems of information about the remarkable country of China with its rich history, and good people.
To Shaunna Chymboryk and Sandy Brown for being my first readers.
To my husband, George, for supporting me in many ways during a difficult time.
And finally, to the amazing team at Deseret Book, who make me believe that all things are possible.
Chapter 1
September 9, 1976
It begins with a death. Thousands of people mourn. Thousands of people celebrate. Hundreds of thousands of people precede him to the grave—a grave he dug for them in China’s sacred soil.
• • •
For Chen Wen-shan, the day began normally with a breakfast of cornflakes and a scowl from her great-uncle. But at school, things changed. Her friend Song Li-ying was absent, which had never happened in their school years together, and her teacher Mrs. Yang broke one of her own classroom rules by looking at the clock every five minutes. And at three o’clock, the school’s intercom system came screeching to life, interrupting the physics lesson. The principal’s voice, normally brusque and strong, hesitated. “Word—word has reached Hong Kong that just after midnight last night, the Chairman of China, Mao Tse-tung—died.”
Snap. The intercom went off.
Wen-shan sat very still, her hand pressed flat on her work papers. No one moved or made a sound. All eyes were on Mrs. Yang as though she would explain everything.
Mao Tse-tung is dead? What does that mean?
Someone’s pencil rolled off their desk and clinked onto the linoleum floor. The teacher’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The intercom scratched to life again and everyone jumped—even Mrs. Yang.
“School will close early today. Classes cancelled.”
Snap. The intercom went off.
One young man stood abruptly and left the classroom, forgetting his books and his jacket.
Wen-shan looked around and saw mass movement as her classmates stood. She stood with them. She gathered her books and papers into her schoolbag. Mrs. Yang stared at her watch and Wen-shan could see her jaw working to control her emotions. No one spoke to the teacher as they exited.
Wen-shan reached the outside of the school and ran. Eight blocks to her house and she ran all the way. As she neared home, she saw Song Li-ying framed by the half-moon arch of the courtyard wall. She stood by the front gate, waving a paper. She didn’t talk or call out, only waved her paper.
“Li Li, what is it?”
The paper waved again.
Wen-shan stopped to open the gate, but Li-ying shoved the note forward—a section ripped from the paper. Wen-shan read it.
“Yes, I know. Chairman Mao is dead. They told us at school.”
Her friend blinked as though the sun was too bright. “The Stone Boy is dead,” she whispered.
Wen-shan’s heart beat faster. The Stone Boy is dead.
“Where were you today?” Wen-shan asked as she shoved open the gate. The girls moved into the courtyard.
“Father found out the news early this morning. He thought it safer if I stayed home.”
Wen-shan glanced to the bungalows on the left and right of the yard, but none of her neighbors seemed to be home. She continued down the curving path to the bungalow she shared with her great-uncle. She knew he wouldn’t be home. He was at the furniture store taking care of things for the British owner.
Wen-shan moved up the steps to the small porch and unlocked the front door. Li-ying hesitated on the landing. “Come in, Li Li. He’s not here to frighten you.”
The girls removed their shoes and entered the cool interior of the house. It was dim and smelled lightly of sandalwood incense. Wen-shan put her schoolbag in her room and went to the kitchen for a snack. She found almond cookies, took a handful, and gave three to Li-ying.
“I think we should go down to the main street and see what’s happening.”
Li-ying agreed and the two girls ran several blocks to the main street. They saw many people talking excitedly together—some were crying, some pressing hands to their heads in prayer and looking at the sky. There were firecrackers everywhere. Long red ropes of firecrackers hung from third-story balconies, popping and cracking, the fire climbing the bundles like a ladder. The noise was terrible and wonderful. The smoke rose, explosions shredding the delicate red paper. The friends tried to catch the paper as it floated lazily through the air, landing on the heads of the celebrators, the taxi cycles, and the rough street. So much paper. The little children kicked it into great piles.
“Wen-shan, look at that!”
Wen-shan followed her friend’s gaze. Mrs. Wong, from the Golden Door Bakery, was handing out good-fo
rtune buns. The two raced to stand in line.
“All Hong Kong is full of joy today!” Mrs. Wong cried as she held out the steaming basket. “Take one! No charge.”
Li-ying and Wen-shan looked at each other with wide eyes. This must be a spectacular day. Mrs. Wong had never given away any of her bakery goods for free. Wen-shan remembered that her friend Jun-jai always called Mrs. Wong “the crafty businesswoman.” “Ah, that Mrs. Wong—she could sell fish to the mermaids.” That was what he always said.
Wen-shan shoved the soft steamed bun into her mouth and hummed with delight as she tasted the sweet filling. Just as she was reaching for another bun, she saw the tall, lanky body of her friend Wei Jun-jai moving down the street. He held his transistor radio to his ear.
Wen-shan grabbed Li-ying’s hand. “Come on! Let’s catch up to Jun-jai. He might have news.”
Firecrackers popped at their feet, and they squealed with delight.
“Jun-jai! Stop! Wait for us!”
Jun-jai turned his head from side to side as though he had heard his name, but with all the noise he couldn’t be sure. He shrugged and continued his travels. Wen-shan shoved past several people to catch him.
“Hey!” a man in a business suit complained. “Hey, little chubby girl, stop trying to push people out of your way.”
Wen-shan grew sullen at his words. “Stop being a Capitalist Roader!” she yelled back at him as she headed for the intersection where Jun-jai had stopped.
The man spat out a rude remark, and Li-ying grabbed Wen-shan’s arm. “Wen-shan, you must not say terrible things like that to people.”
“Well, he said a terrible thing to me.”
“But you are only fifteen. You must be respectful of your elders.”
“Old-school thinking.”
Li-ying stopped; her beautiful dark eyes were full of anger. “Not old-school thinking. I have been taught manners, that’s all.”
“Jun-jai!” Wen-shan called again. “Wait!” She started forward. “Hurry, we’re losing him!”
“I don’t care. I’m going home.” Li-ying turned away.
Wen-shan swallowed her pride. It slid down her throat like bitter gingerroot. “Wait! Wait! I’m sorry. Really, I am. It’s just that he called me a chubby girl. It made me angry. You don’t know what that feels like. You are like a willow branch.”
Li-ying glared at her. “Yes, but I get insulted too, for my glasses and my crooked teeth. Does that mean I have to call my tormentors terrible Communist names?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Especially on a day like today?”
“Hey! Wen-shan. Li-ying. Were you calling me?” Jun-jai waved as he walked forward. He maneuvered around two elders who were arguing about the day’s events.
Wen-shan waved back. “Yes. We didn’t think you heard us.” She thought Jun-jai looked very hip in his American-cut pants and white buttoned shirt. He had the sleeves rolled up, and she thought that his wristwatch made him seem older than sixteen—more like eighteen. She was glad they had been friends since childhood, because if they met today, she doubted he would have even given her a glance.
As he approached, Li-ying tried to hide behind her friend. Wen-shan pulled her to her side. They smiled at Jun-jai.
“We wondered if you’ve heard any more news about Chairman Mao’s death. Do we know what he died of?”
Li-ying shook her head. “Wen-shan, how can you talk about death so offhandedly?”
“That’s not offhanded. That’s practical.”
Jun-jai turned off his radio. “Not much news. All we know for sure is that he’s gone to meet his ancestors.”
“I wonder what they will think of him?” Wen-shan’s attention was diverted by the harsh words between the two elders. “What’s their problem?”
Jun-jai turned to listen. “The one is saying the celebrations are too dangerous. There are many communists in the city who will cause problems.” He turned back. “Like the agitation in ’67.”
Wen-shan snorted. “Hong Kong is not their domain.”
Li-ying grimaced.
“Ah! Li-ying, you of all people should be glad the Stone Boy is dead. Wasn’t your family run out of China because of him?”
Jun-jai spoke up. “‘Ching Duke of Ch’i had a thousand teams of horses; but the people, on his death day, found nought in him to praise.’”
Wen-shan laughed at Jun-jai, and he laughed with her. “Ah! Jun-jai, the great student of Confucius!”
The tension was broken and a smile brushed the corner of Li-ying’s mouth. “Just like your uncle, Wen-shan. He is also a great student of Confucius, yes?”
Wen-shan stopped laughing. A car sped by, and she watched it, pretending not to have heard.
“How is your uncle?” Jun-jai asked.
Wen-shan cleared her throat to blunt her irritation. “Fine, I suppose. I don’t talk to him much.”
“I always like talking to him. He is very wise.”
“Hmm. A wise man who never speaks.” She watched another car pass. “So, where were you going, Jun-jai?”
“To my auntie’s. She is having a big dinner to celebrate. Would you like to come?” He looked at Li-ying. “You’re invited too.”
“Oh . . . oh, very kind of you, Wei Jun-jai,” Li-ying stammered, “but I must return soon to my home. We also are having a family dinner to celebrate.”
He nodded and looked back at Wen-shan. “Does your uncle expect you?”
She chose her words carefully. “I don’t believe so. He is visiting at the home of his British friend. He probably won’t be home until late.”
“Then, if you’d like, come with me. You can telephone him from my auntie’s house.”
“I will not be imposing on your auntie’s generosity?”
“No, of course not, especially not on a special day like today.”
At that moment Wen-shan was not jealous of Song Li-ying and her large family. At that moment she was glad for her old uncle who rarely talked to her except to quote Confucius or some odd Christian scripture. She bowed her head several times. “I would be greatly honored to come to the dinner. Thank you for inviting me, Jun-jai.”
Firecrackers crackled nearby, and the girls squealed and jumped. They laughed and clapped their hands with excitement, thinking that September 9 was a very good day.
Li-ying took her friend’s hand. “I must be going now. I have to stop at the market and buy lychees for my grandfather.”
“Good fortune to your family,” Jun-jai said. He bowed, and Li-ying bowed quickly to cover her blushing face.
“Good fortune to your family,” she replied. She smiled at Wen-shan. “Have a good time.”
“Yes, I will. My heart celebrates with all Hong Kong.”
“And Taiwan,” Li-ying said. “The national flag must be flying high.”
Wen-shan nodded. “Yes, and no black armbands like on the day Chiang Kai-shek died.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Jun-jai interjected. “People will wear them out of show if nothing else, and some will truly mourn. They have chanted Chairman Mao’s name for a long time.”
Wen-shan shrugged. “Well, you may be right. I don’t know that much about it. I just know that I want to celebrate.”
“Yes, we should be on our way,” Jun-jai encouraged.
They waved to Li-ying as she moved off into the crowd.
Wen-shan smiled with satisfaction. An entire afternoon with her friend Jun-jai, eating good food and celebrating with other happy people. For a moment her conscience twisted as she thought of her old uncle, but he was busy at the furniture store and would not miss her. He never missed her.
• • •
Auntie Ting was a bundle of energy, scurrying from kitchen to table as she set out bowls of noodles, plates of vegetables, steamed buns, heaping bowls of rice, platters of sweet glazed chicken, deep-fried fish, and spicy pork knuckles. There were a lucky thirteen people at her table and she beamed at each one as though she hadn’t just spent the day coo
king. Wen-shan liked her face.
“Welcome! Welcome!” Auntie Ting said on a sigh as she plopped dramatically into her chair. “So glad you could all be here, and so glad for Jun-jai’s friend, Chen Wen-shan, to join us.” Wen-shan blushed. “She makes number thirteen at our table. Lucky thirteen!”
The old auntie sitting to Wen-shan’s right turned to stare and smile, and Wen-shan tried not to notice the gaps where her teeth should have been.
“Are we lucky or is she lucky?” the old auntie asked as she raised her eyebrows at Jun-jai.
Wen-shan’s embarrassment was interrupted by someone passing her a platter of bok choy. At Auntie Ting’s insistence, she filled her bowl with all the delicious food and was content to eat and listen instead of joining in on any of the conversations. Jun-jai and his brother were talking about President Nixon’s visit to China in 1972—both agreeing that Nixon had been a pawn in the hand of Mao Tse-tung. Auntie Ting complained about the cost of meat. The toothless auntie on Wen-shan’s right was telling ghost stories to a young nephew, and despite her age, the auntie’s voice was rich and expressive, and Wen-shan was captivated. The woman finished one story about a man sleeping on the bones of a skeleton and turned to catch Wen-shan listening.
“Did you like that?”
Wen-shan nodded.
“I can tell you one about an emperor and some angry peasants, if you’d like.”
“Yes, please,” Wen-shan and the nephew said together.
The auntie took a drink of tea and began. “Emperor Chan Lee was taking a trip to the province of Guangxi. He rode on his strong black horse and had many fierce guards behind him.”
When Wen-shan heard the words province of Guangxi, her stomach clenched. Guilin, in the province of Guangxi, was her birthplace and the source of many of her nightmares. She tried to concentrate on other things, but the old woman’s voice wrapped the story in such mystery that Wen-shan could not stop listening.