Sing For the Dead

I am Wendy Lincoln. I sing opera only at midnight for the wraiths. The wind of the Ghost Festival carries the scent of wild grass, coolly brushing my face, mingled with the faint warmth left by burnt paper money—offered a few days ago by the kin of solitary souls, as faint as a sigh. I arrived two hours early at the grave ground on the outskirts of the city, a resting place where wraiths return each year. The grass grows taller than a person; as I walk in, my pant legs catch on the blades, wet with night dew, chilling through my skin. At night, one can hear sporadic sighs, like someone softly whispering unfinished sorrows at my ear. The opera stage was set up temporarily, with bamboo poles holding up blue cloth. The edges rustled in the wind, as if someone were gently tapping the fabric. The bottoms of the bamboo poles still bore last year's soil, which Master and I deliberately buried there then, believing it would draw some earth's energy to steady the stage. I crouched behind the opera stage, changing into my opera costume. The water-red pleated skirt was embroidered with a subtle twining lotus pattern, hand-stitched by Master himself last year. I remember he wore his old reading glasses then, his fingers pricked by embroidery needles, leaving several tiny cuts. Drops of blood fell onto the cloth, but later he carefully embroidered them into lotus hearts. Wearing it felt like being wrapped in a warm fire, carrying a faint scent of the herbs Master often used. I draw my brows before the small mirror; the eyebrow powder is Master's special blend, mixed with a hint of sandalwood, said to calm the Soul Spirits' ears. The mirror is bronze, its edges polished bright. It was passed down from Master's Master, and sometimes shows a faint soul shadow that flickers and fades like morning mist. The paper figures have been prepared in advance. Three paper figures stand in the opera stage's corner: one strikes the gong, another beats the drum, and the last cradles an erhu. The erhu paper figure's sleeves are made from Master's old opera costume; the navy-blue fabric is worn but meticulously cleaned. The rouge on its face, painted just yesterday, is blended with cinnabar paste and a touch of sophora honey, making the color brighter and less prone to yin energy. I walked over and gently touched the paper figurine's hand drumming the gong; its paper fingers were soft and pliant, their tips still stained with cinnabar: "You must do it well today. An old acquaintance awaits in the audience, especially the grandfather in the military uniform, who praised your bright gong drumming last year." The paper figurine's edges fluttered lightly, as if responding to my words. A windborne sophora flower petal drifted down to rest securely on its gong surface, not slipping away. At half past ten at night, the Old Ghost in the military uniform emerged from the grass, clutching half a sesame flatbread, sesame seeds still clinging to it. He was still wearing that gray cloth military uniform from last year, the hem stained with bits of grass as if he had just crawled out of the weeds; his walk was slightly limping—a lingering old wound from the war. "Wendy, you've come early this year." His voice was slow and hoarse; he coughed twice while speaking, as if the cold he caught last year had yet to leave him. I smiled at him, "Knowing you couldn't wait to hear the opera, I came early to set up the stage—and brought this year's osmanthus cake for you, made a little sweeter than last year." He chuckled, holding a sesame flatbread, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes tightening: "I still remember the taste of last year's osmanthus cake—it was very sweet. When you finish singing this year, could you give me another piece?" "Rest assured, Master brought plenty, packed in red lacquered food boxes, still warm." I nodded in agreement and pointed to the food box behind the opera stage. The female ghost in a dress arrived as well, her dress a pale moonlit blue, a silver hairpin securing her hair in an elegant coil. Dangling from it was a tiny osmanthus silver bell that chimed softly with every movement—gifted by her husband in life, who said the bell would guide her back home. She tugged gently at my pleated skirt, her fingertips light and hesitant: "Little girl, the skirt this time is truly beautiful; the twining lotus embroidery is even more exquisite than last year's peony."