“A Long Walk Through Tall, Dry Grass” by N.J. Chan

China 1937

The Japanese are coming. A current of unease strokes my skin under the constant thrum of commerce beneath the canopy of the open-air market. In the streets as I hold Mother’s hand, it is inscribed on the faces of passing strangers as we nod our neighborly acknowledgments. Silent exchanges between my parents at home confirms it is so. The Japanese are coming.

They’ve come all the way from Manchuria, their army. They snake their way down from over three thousand miles away, brutal like fire through forest, fear and famine riding its winds. Beijing, Shanghai, and Nanjing all have fallen by the close of 1937. And on our small farm in the Panyu district of Guangzhou city where we grow sweet potatoes, greens for drying, and rice, we work and we wait, knowing we are next.  

At twelve years old, I let the country keep its misery while I keep my dreams. I am embarrassed to say they are not very original. It is the same young dreams of the older girls who have already escaped the village for city life.

I listen, envious, to their familiar stories. A neighbor’s niece, promoted to head girl at a textiles factory, makes enough money to send home. Pretty Lian, my sister’s friend, marries an herbalist with his own shop. Hong Shu, the granddaughter of the old man who trades for firewood with Father, leaves to live with relatives who runs a profitable bakery. They sell their goods to upscale restaurants, delivered in their very own trucks. 

I tally up my prospects in comparison and it’s close to zero. Well, that’s not quite true, is it? There’s Tak of course. Li Tak. A year older than me, he is sweet enough. His thick strands of hair, rust-coloured in the sunlight. He once bought me a small bag of chestnuts, the best from Pantang, and I like it very much when he brings me a basket of eggs from his family farm.

He rides over on his squeaky too-small bicycle, and we sometimes speak for a few minutes by the front fence. I thank him for the treats and watch as he shakes his head and his hands insisting it’s no trouble at all. He is bashful and it makes me blush.

Months back, he told me I was as pretty as a peach blossom that bloomed in March. He waited, his words hovering between us and in the end, I pretended not to hear him. It was the only compliment he ever offered me and I was sad for it. But what would be the point in encouraging such things? Life is bigger than compliments.  

The day after Mother gave birth to me, she went out to the fields to work beside my siblings. Father was bedridden with a bad case of gout, and besides, she said, weather and time reigned supreme, never so for the poor farmer, and certainly never so for the poor farmer’s wife.

She placed me beside her in a basket under the sun and on her hands and knees she toiled, rags still stuffed in her pants from the bleeding. Her story did not trouble me, but what did, was her tone. A flat practical acceptance of suffering that curdled my insides.

I heard my heart whisper to my head that day. It whispered a stubborn no. No to that kind of life. The tricky thing is any street-corner fortuneteller can tell you one’s fortune is not one’s to write. I don’t know. If it came to it, could I cheat fate if I had to? I made a promise to myself that I would try. 

I come home one day, dirt and sweat covering me impressively, skin and clothes alike. It is planting time and I stink like a pig.

Out of our house, Mother rushes, her strides graceless, goose-like. She honks, “There you are, Daughter! I’ve been waiting for you to come home!” Her brows furrow as she takes me in. “You look terrible!” She sniffs me. “Go clean yourself! Hurry! Hurry! Re-braid your hair too! Put on the nicer pants and vest you wore to last year’s festival.”

I am too confused to budge.

“Aiya! Suddenly you are a legless mute? We have visitors! You must look presentable.” She returns to the house in the same frantic manner.

I hasten to the wash area, wondering casually if they are matchmakers with a proposal of a pairing. Perhaps Mother has noticed me talking to Tak a little too happily and a little too much. But this does not make sense. My parents surely have no dowry to offer.

I think I have much to offer though. I am strong, big-boned, healthy, and accustomed to hard work. Tak’s mother once said I was a good girl with a pleasant smile and of wonderful character. My childish pride carries the memory of that praise and although I still hold tight to my own grand plans, I am now curious and unexpectedly excited. I make sure to braid my hair carefully before heading to the house. 

An old woman, and one younger, around Mother’s age, sit cross-legged at our low table, tea and steamed taro cake set out. Mother notices me, shy by the entrance. “Daughter! What took you so long! Come, come. Come meet acquaintances of Cousin Cheung.”

The women turn as I greet them, and I know then that they are not the matchmakers I had assumed. It was a stupid, stupid thought from a stupid, stupid girl. Tak’s family is less poor than mine, but even families like his do not participate in such costly traditions. 

The old lady. I do not like her – her face like tree bark and eyes like flint. She looks at me and through me at the same time, from the top of my head to my chest and hips, down to my shabby sandals.

Uncomfortable, I scratch my head and fidget with my braids. Seconds pass before she acknowledges me and when she does, it is only with a slight nod and a gaze that tells me she does not like me either.

The younger woman makes a better show of it. “So glad to meet you Sai Mui!” She calls me by the affable term, little sister, but her smile is as wide as it is insincere. She has greasy hair and oily skin and bad teeth. “Your mother was just telling us about you. We are so glad her cousin recommended that we call upon your family.”  

It seems the old woman is not one for small talk and ignores the other woman’s efforts. It is clear she wants answers and her questions come at me fast and pointed like darts.  

 “How old are you, girl?” 

“Twelve, Aunt.”  

“What are your jobs on the farm?” 

“Anything I can manage. I can do more things every day.” 

“What is your sign?” 

“Year of the Tiger, Aunt.” 

“Hmm… stubborn, reckless…unpredictable,” she mutters under her breath.  

I stand taller and quietly brush away her criticism. When I was four, Father showed me how to wrap sweet potatoes in paper to make them last longer. He was in an exceptionally good mood as we sat on the ground in front of our shed, laughing and eating roasted nuts. I laughed so hard that I accidentally kicked over the bowl, and all the nuts tumbled into the dirt. Seeing the wasted food, I started to cry.

“No need to cry, girl. I thought you were a Tiger. You know, they are known as honest beings. You meant no harm, did you?”

I shook my head and sniffled as he placed one hand on my shoulder and bent until our faces were inches apart and our eyes level. 

He smiled teasing, “Tigers are also quite determined,” He rolled up his shirt sleeve and flexed his arm, slapping it with his other hand for emphasis, “Like this, you are strong, born in the year of power.”

I rolled up my shirt sleeve and flexed the same, making him guffaw, his head tilted back in abandon. He squeezed my arms calling them noodle arms and we carried on wrapping sweet potatoes in companionable silence.

That memory is a favorite shawl. I wrap it around my shoulders to keep warm, never to be soiled, certainly not by some wrinkly no-nothing stranger. 

“Can you read your characters and write?” she presses. 

I look down at my feet whispering, “No.” 

“Do you have any illnesses?” 

Mother pipes in, “Oh, no, no sicknesses at all! She doesn’t eat much too but is an excellent cook. So smart, always fixing things. You know, she built a pulley system for…” 

Interrupting, the old woman brusquely stands up, surprising me at how quickly she could do so from her sitting position on the floor. She is not as old as she looks. She glances at Mother and requests to check my teeth.

Alarmed, I quickly glance over at Mother too, but she nods to open my mouth, her face blank as a newly painted wall. The old lady shoves her index finger in my mouth and runs it along my gums, reaching all the way back while I fight my reflex to gag. I taste filth and salted fish and start to cry. Big fat tears of mine fall on the old woman’s bony hand causing her to suck her teeth in annoyance as she continues her rooting.

My shivering gives way to panic, and at last, I am forced to consider a possibility too horrible to imagine.

There are stories of girls who make it to the big city. They find good jobs, beaus, and send money home. But there are stories of other girls – the ones whose families have fallen on the hardest of times. The ones who are more useful gone than at home. The ones who leave but not of their own free will.

The certainty I am to be one of those other girls strikes like a violent slap across my face. I bite down hard on the old lady’s finger and collapse. Mother is selling me.

It is dark when I wake on my pallet. Mother kneels and dips a cloth into a nearby bowl of water. She wrings the cloth out slow, cools my forehead with it, her shadow wavering as a single candle flame flickers nearby. I start to smile but remember and scramble to sit up, recoiling.

“Daughter. Daughter, please try to understand.” There is pleading in her expression, but her words are beyond me. My fists are jammed over my ears and my cries devour all sound. I am hysterical.

Mother yanks my hands away from my head and grips me in frustration, “Do you not see?! We cannot go on. While you have been flirting with that boy and daydreaming, we are going to lose the farm! Do you even hear me? Our crops have been bad these last years and we have already borrowed so much money just to cover the rent. Your sister has two young boys now! There are just too many of us.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and she tightens her grip, shaking me fiercely, spitting out what I already know. The Japanese are coming.

By now she is shaking too, “Those murderous devils! We may only have a few months left. It will be so much worse then. If we are lucky, they won’t murder us in our beds or burn our village down. But we must pay our debts back. Father needs part-time help because of his foot. Your brothers are not enough. Besides, I know you do not like the farm. This will be better for you.”

I am incredulous, offended by her implication that selling me like a prized ox would be in my best interest. Embarrassed, she lets go, chastened and subdued. It does not stop her from speaking again though, the depth of her pragmatism naked, unwavering, “The worst times are coming. This is the only way we survive… all of us.”

I look her over with judgment, just as the old woman judged me. I say nothing but everything in me makes sure she knows I find her wanting.

Mother stands, agitated, pacing. Her movement disturbing the candle flame, her shadow quivering in response. “I made them. I made them promise to take you to Hong Kong. I took less than I could have gotten for you. There are wealthy households looking for domestic help. They promise that you will live in a big house, well fed, well treated.” She hesitates. “They might give you a new name. They sometimes do when you join a house like that.”

I turn my head away as she continues. “They almost did not want to take you. The old cow is miffed about her finger, but I think they see your worth. Send word home. You leave tomorrow.”

Stunned, I turn back and scream at her, “How can you trust those rotten hags? They could hand me over to anybody for all you know!” I kick the water bowl across the room, shattering it into pieces as its contents splash every way, snuffing the candle out. The only light now comes through the doorway, shining against Mother as she leaves the room. It blinds me and obscures her, her silhouette a shell of herself.

Delivered soft and trembly, Mother’s parting words hurt as if she bludgeoned me over the head with the flat side of the garden spade, “Daughter, do not laugh so loudly as you usually do. It is unseemly. Besides, rich people do not like to hear the servants.”  

The two women come for me the next day and I am ready. They wait by their wagon beyond the fences while I linger, caged and desperate, out front with my bundle neat and secure on my back. My siblings surround me, and we weep together.

Father, eyes red, tentatively pats my arm. I am angry with him – the hot dry anger of a sweeping desert, a chance for forgiveness endures but beyond the miles of sand that one can see. I give an inch and grudgingly lean into him, unable to forsake a farewell.

I refuse to look at Mother though. My anger for her, more like unyielding ice found on the windward side of a mountain range. It cuts too deep knowing it was ultimately her decision and my forgiveness for her is eternally lost to the squall.  

Still, she reaches out, not daring to touch me. “Do not forget how to make all the dishes I taught you. The one for three-carrot soup is cooling and best for balancing energy. There is medicine to help the pain when your monthlies begin. The first time is always the worst.”

I start down the lane ignoring her entreaties. It is a long walk and today it is a viciously lonely one. I look up and wonder how the sky can be so blue, and I notice all the pretty shades of gold brown and deep green that surround me. My vision blurs and nature’s colors meld as I try to think on nothing.

I refuse to entertain how she feels as she watches her girl-child walk away, perhaps for the last time. Her own flesh and blood, borne from her womb and suckled from her breast, discarded as a fisherman discards his smallest fish – tossed back into the churning river, abandoned unlike the rest of the bounty kept after casting his net wide. 

Behind my steps, Mother’s voice drifts like smoke, ghostly tendrils nipping at my heels. “I packed my warmest coat for you! It is too big, but you’ll grow into it.”

I concentrate on the rickety wagon and the decades-old grooves and scratches on its surface as I climb in. The younger woman helps me up, her grin exposing her decaying teeth.

The older woman ignores my presence. She stares out at the acres of field, harsh and beautiful. Perhaps she ponders on how a woman can sell her own child. Perhaps she ponders on what type of a woman can sell someone else’s. I doubt it though. I recall her flinty eyes and know she is beyond this type of reflection. She does not see the fields for what they are, an ancient story of life or death depending on the seasons. She does not see anything.

But I do. Her index finger is bandaged, wrapped several times with a dirty piece of gauze, old blood crusted through to the surface. It must have been a horrible bite, and I am glad. Tigers have teeth and can bite again.

The wagon starts to roll, and I hear Mother cry out my name, but it could just as easily be the morning breeze whipping through the tall dry grass. We pick up speed and the turn of the wheels matches the beats escaping my chest, and I start to believe I could make it through without looking back.

I lose my nerve, though, as we approach the bend in the road. I look back, searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mother’s face. But her figure is too small by now and I cannot discern any of her features. I continue watching her shrinking form until the wagon makes its turn. 

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Author’s note: Inspired by unexpected tidbits that I recently learned about my grandmother’s early life, my story highlights the sometimes unimaginable difficulties both girls and women face and how these struggles shape their dreams, their decisions, and who they choose to, or are forced to, become.

N.J. Chan is a writer of short stories, essays, and poems. Her work has been published in several anthologies and journals. “A Long Walk Through Tall Dry Grass” was previously published in the international editorial collective, NüVoices.  

N.J.’s accomplishments include a second place win with Flash Fiction Magazine, and an honourable mention in 2023 Askew’s Word on the Lake Anthology (under the name Natalie J. Chan). She lives in Toronto and holds an MBA from Simon Fraser University.

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