His fingers touched her cheek lightly, tracing one of the tiny craters there. Although others often averted their heads so as not to see her pockmarks, he never had. He did not think of her as disfigured, even when his parents demurred at his suggestions that they ask for Lin Ah-hsiu's hand as his bride.
"No," his father had said. "I know you have been friends from childhood. That's why you do not see the scars. But a playmate of long ago and a wife of tomorrow are not the same. In a marriage her blemishes would grow and grow. Your children might come to be ashamed of their mother."
His mother agreed. "Choose another or let us choose for you," she said. "Ah-hsiu should never marry. Her parents are of the same mind. They would oppose the match as we do."
They do not see the beauty in her heart, he thought. They don't understand our love. Again his fingers caressed her cheek with soft delicacy. She turned toward him. He could see that her eyes were filling with tears.
"Kun-shan, you know we can't run away," she said. "Our parents would never forgive us. What would we do? What could we do? We belong here. I must accept what God has given me and you must find someone else."
"Never!" he said fiercely. "We shall die together before that."
"Don't talk so," she implored. "Please, if you love me. Life is not ours to take or to give. It will all come out all right, and we shall be happy. I promise you."
"What do you mean?" he said, a tinge of hope in his voice.
"I mean I am going to ask a favor from Kuan-yin," she answered. "The Goddess of Mercy will show us the way and bring peace to our hearts. I am sure."
He shook his head. Kuan-yin and faith in prayer and miracles were not for him. Women were too weak about that kind of thing, even his Ah-hsiu. Where was Kuan-yin when two of their fishing boats and ten of their men were lost in last year's worst typhoon? Their wives had prayed. All the wives prayed regularly to Kuan-yin.
But he said, "I guess it won't do any harm." He didn't want to hurt her with his own doubt and hopelessness. And what else was there to do? She wouldn't run away with him. She wouldn't join him in a death pact. He took her hand.
"All right," he said, "you pray and I'll get back to work on the boat. I'll need the money for your dowry."
"Don't tease," she said. She walked away from the beached fishing boat and climbed the steep, tiny steps of the rock jetty. When she turned to wave, he was already on the other side of the boat, trimming a timber.
On the ocean side of the breakwater the surf was surging high over the tumbled-up rocks. The wind lashed her with salty foam. She paid no attention. Her eyes were focused on the horizon and the blazing inferno of the sunset. Perhaps the red and purple streamers were an omen. Tomorrow she would take the bus and go to the temple to intercede with Kuan-yin.
The day dawned with gale and rain. The promise of the sunset has not been kept, she thought, but that had nothing to do with Kuan-yin. The goddess could be merciful in fair weather or in foul. She was at the crossroads waiting well before the first bus came, so intent upon her pilgrimage that she scarcely noticed the driving rain. The bus was almost empty. She took a seat toward the back and tried to think of how she would phrase her plea to the goddess.
When finally she stood before Kuan-yin, the words so carefully planned and rehearsed were all forgotten. Ah-hsiu raised her head and looked squarely at the image. She knew that this wasn't really Kuan-yin, only what the priest called a heathen idol. Yet there was gentleness and compassion in the painted eyes that looked down on her. What, really, was the difference between Kuan-yin and the goddess the priest called Mary? Both were merciful. Both wanted to help the poor people of the earth and not to be queens of heaven.
She prayed quietly but aloud. "Kuan-yin, I love him so. I don't ask anything for myself. But he is terribly unhappy. Please, please bless him and guide his steps in the right way so his life will be rich and full, and so that he will find love. That is all I ask, Kuan-yin. My ofIering to you is small. But for him I would give my life, if that were asked of me."
She raised her eyes to Kuan-yin once more. A tiny part of her heart hoped for a sign. There was none. The image was unchanged. Slowly Ah-hsiu made her way out of the temple and down the hill to the bus stop. She had done what she could. This time the bus was crowded and she had to stand most of the way. At the last large town, an elderly, well-dressed gentleman got up. As she slipped into his seat, he handed her a newspaper.
"Here, miss" he said. "Maybe you would like to read the news from Taipei."
She took the folded paper and laid it in her lap. Her mind was not on the news. What did she know or care about Taipei? It was as far away as the moon and of lesser interest. She looked out the window. The road was running along a bluff high above the sea, and she could look down at the blue-blue swells of the Pacific and at the crisp white lace of the breakers, curling their way against the rocks and up onto the sands of tiny beaches. The sun had come out to make a glorious day. Her heart and her spirits began to rise. Kuan-yin surely had heard her plea.
Ah-hsiu's eyes fell to the paper. She picked it up idly, half intending to drop it out of the open window. Then she noticed the advertisement at the very bottom of the page. The headline said:
Don't Be Ugly. Plastic Surgery Can Help You.
Plastic surgery? Yes, she had read of it and some of its wonders. But plastic surgeons could be no closer than Japan. Or could they? Her interest aroused, she read on. The ad was for a Dr. Han in Taipei. It claimed that disfigurements could be repaired, that costs were reasonable, and said that Dr. Han had his own hospital. There was an address and a telephone number. Her excitement mounted as she read. Could the newspaper be the answer from Kuan-yin? It could be — she knew it, she knew it must be so!
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Kuan-yin," she said in her heart.
She burst into the house.
"Mother, Mother," she cried. Her mother looked up from the chopping board and smiled.
"Mother, there is a plastic surgeon in Taipei who can smooth away my pockmarks." It all came out in one breath.
"Plastic surgeon? I don't know about this. What is a plastic surgeon?"
"A doctor who grows good skin over bad," she told her mother. "I knew such a thing was possible but I had never hoped to find such a doctor in Taiwan."
"But how could this be?" her mother asked. "Your skin is as god intended. What doctor can change that. I don't believe it."
"Here, look at this," said Ah-hsiu, pushing the paper at her mother.
Mother read the advertisement and frowned.
"But maybe it is a trick," she said. "In Taipei there are many bad people who prey on country girls and boys. You cannot believe what you read in the newspapers of the city. Wait until your father comes home. We shall see what he thinks."
Father was no more convinced than Mother had been.
"How can Dr. Han do a thing like that?" he asked.
"Father, I know he can," Ah-hsiu replied. "I have read about it. They cut strips of skin from some other part of your body and grow them on your face. It's like transplanting the rice."
"But growing skin is not growing rice. Let me take this to the foreign priest. We shall see what he has to say."
Father would not let her go with him. She waited nervously, apprehensively. Mother could not quiet her. She thought of seeking out Kun-shan and telling him. No, that would never do. If it wasn't true, if Dr. Han were a charlatan, then what damage would she have done to Kun-shan's heart? He must not know unless and until the operation was a success.
At last Father was back. He looked skeptical but he said: "It may be so. The priest says he does not know of Dr. Han and didn't know Taiwan had a plastic surgeon. But such operations are performed in Japan and Western countries. However, they are not always successful. Performed by a bad doctor, they can be dangerous."
"Oh, Father, please let me go. It's a miracle, I know it's a miracle. I prayed to Kuan-yin and then I found the newspaper."
Father frowned. "Kuan-yin? She is a pagan. We are Christians. Your mother would not think of praying to an idol. Would you?" he asked his wife.
Mother did not answer. Ah-hsiu understood. In this village and elsewhere on the island there were hundreds of thousands of Christians. But old ways are not easily set aside. In time of grief and trouble, many Christians still appealed to the old deities. This was especially true of the women, to whom Kuan-yin and Mary represented a duality of divine hope.
"I meant no offense against our Church, Father," Ah-hsiu said. "We women sometimes pray to Kuan-yin as we would to Mary. It is the same thing."
"No, it isn't," said Father sternly. "I must ask that you tell the priest about this at confession and seek God's guidance. But what of this plastic surgery? Do you think the trip to Taipei would be worthwhile? Maybe our people in the Church there will know more than we do. You could stay with your Aunt while you made inquiries."
"Thank you, Father," she said. "But I won't go until Kun-shan leaves with the fishing fleet. I don't want him to know. If I fail, I don't want him to know, ever. I shall enter the convent and not see him again."
Not to tell him was her hardest task. They had always shared everything. Now she had a secret, and it weighed heavily on her heart. He asked her about the prayer to Kuan-yin. She said yes, she had gone to the temple. Now it was up to Kuan-yin. Soon the day came when she waved farewell from the jetty. She had told him she would go to Taipei to visit her aunt. If she were not back in the village by the time of his return, he would not be surprised.
She had never been to Taipei before. To her the tropical east coast city of Hualien was a metropolis. Suao just to the north was the end of the mainline railroad. Now she would ride the big cars for the first time. It was frightening. But a new life might be waiting for her at the end of the journey.
Auntie was at the station to meet her. They had so much to say to each other that she soon forgot the speed of the cars, the noise, the heavy, incredibly complicated traffic.
She asked Auntie about Dr. Han. Auntie had never heard of him.
"Taipei is a city of a million and a quarter people and there are hundreds of doctors," Auntie said. "The address does not suggest a quack. But you must ask the Church. They should know - or know a doctor who does."
That afternoon she took a pedicab, a vehicle with which she could cope, and found the Church offices. The secretary was helpful.
"Yes, we know Dr. Han," she said. "He is completely reliable. In fact he is on the staff of National Taiwan University Hospital. He has done wonders for people hurt in accidents and for some of our wounded servicemen. We can recommend him to you."
Ah-hsiu called the number in the advertisement and made an appointment.
Dr. Han was a funny little man, almost a gnome. He looked at her pockmarks and laughed.
"Yes, I can do something about those. You won't have the skin of a baby, you understand, but nobody will know you had smallpox. You are lucky. I can fix your face. But I can't do anything about my size. I am only four feet six in my elevator shoes. What do you think of that? Maybe you are afraid I can't reach the operating table?"
She laughed, half in happiness, half in wonder at this diminutive doctor with the power to work a miracle for her but who could do nothing for himself.
"When do you want to have your operation?" he asked. "You must know that the skin-growing period takes several weeks. You have to stay in the hospital. It is not so painful but very uncomfortable and boring."
"The sooner the better," she said.
He looked in his appointment book. "All right, a week from today. That's the earliest appointment with enough time for me to make you beautiful."
He reached out and touched one of the pockmarks.
"Enjoy being ugly for another week," he said. "Sometimes the cross you give up is lighter than the one you will have to bear."
The week passed swiftly. Her face half hidden in a bandana, she saw the supposed wonders of the city. The more she saw, the happier she was to live in a village. She went to Church and to confession — but not before she had visited Kuan-yin once more to thank the goddess. The priest reproached her.
"Why don't you address your prayers to Our Lady?" he asked.
"I don't know," she answered. That was the truth; she really didn't know. Maybe it was because on this island, Kuan-yin had a longer record of listening to prayers and answering them. "Of course, I also ask the favor of the Holy Mother," she added.
She went into the hospital the night before the operation. Her face was carefully cleansed and lightly bandaged, and she was given a sleeping pill. Before that she had knelt in prayer to both Kuan-yin and Mary. "I don't want to be beautiful," she said, "just not so ugly I can't be his wife."
The next morning she was given a shot, moved onto a cart, and wheeled toward the operating room by two nurses. That was the last she could remember.
She was at the jetty to meet him as the boat slipped into the little port. Her mother and father and his parents stood with her. The rest of the village was there, too, to meet their loved ones and also to see the drama of Ah-hsiu and Kun-shan reach its climax.
He looked at her in disbelief.
"It was a miracle," she said. "A miracle of Kuan-yin."
"A miracle of the Virgin Mary, you mean," said her father.
"Yes, a miracle, certainly," said Kun-shan, the tears streaming down his face.
She told him the story, and about the operation and Dr. Han's kindness.
"I want him to be at our wedding," she said, "and I want to send him a special gift so that poor girls who cannot afford an operation may be helped. He charged me nothing for the operation, only for the hospital."
"The fishing has been good," said Kun-shan. "We can afford it."
And so it was done. The money order was dispatched to Dr. Han along with the wedding invitation. And he came.
Beside his name on the roster of guests appeared notation of a gift in the same amount as they had sent him, plus the usual amount subscribed by guests. They remonstrated with him at the reception.
"I couldn't take the money," he said. "You see, there is a special reason. I have come not only for your marriage but to tell you of it."
"What do you mean?" asked Ah-hsiu.
"Do you remember that you were surprised I hadn't used flaps of tissue from some other part of your body?" he asked her. "And I told you that it wasn't necessary, that the damage was not so bad as I had thought, and that I was able to use the healthy skin of your face to cover the pockmarks."
"I remember very well," she said. "I also remember that there was very little pain, and that instead of the month of recuperation I had expected, I was in the hospital only two weeks."
"You need not have stayed that long," Dr. Han said. "I kept you because I wanted to study your case and to guard against any possibility of infection. I have never seen anything like it before and never expect to again."
"I don't understand," said Kun-shan.
"Of course you don't," said the doctor. "You see, I really didn't perform any operation. Grafts were not necessary. When I removed the light bandage over your face — the bandage that was meant to prevent contamination — the pocks were scaling off. The skin was pink and healthy underneath. I had only to peel away some of the scabs and keep your face clean and guard against infection afterward. Actually, a week would have been enough. It was a miracle."
"Yes, a miracle." Everyone seemed to say it at once.
The wedding reception was the gayest, the happiest, and the biggest in the history of the village.
When there was a moment, she turned from the others and spoke to the doctor.
"But we can't take the money back. Please keep it and use it to help others."
"I would like to," he said, "but I think there is a better use for it."
"For Kuan-yin?" she asked.
Dr. Han grinned his wicked grin.
"Well, yes and no," he answered. "You see I'm not a believer in Kuan-yin, and I am not a Christian, either. But after your case, I can't quite decide what not to believe. So I suggest you give half the money to the Kuan-yin temple where you prayed and the other half to the Church in the name of the Virgin Mary. What you owe me you can pay in another way."
"How is that?" she asked. "You know that I shall pay you anything within my power."
"I'm not so sure that this is in your power," Dr. Han answered. "What I am going to ask is that next time I need a miracle to help someone, you will pray for me. Not only to Kuan-yin, not only to the Virgin Mary, but to both of them."
He laughed his big laugh that seemed so strangely placed in his tiny body.
"You see, when it comes to miracles, I am not particular. And if you get good enough at it, I have one special intercession."
"I know," she said, "you want to grow a foot taller."
"How did you ever guess?" he inquired as he raised his glass to her.
"I have never married, you see. My parents and those of the girl I loved thought no one could ever love such a midget enough to make him a good wife."
There were tears in her eyes as she ran from the room.
Kun-shan knew where to find her. She was waiting at the bus stop.
"May I go with you?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Kun-shan, I want you with me, but I don't know if Kuan-yin would understand. I was alone before and she answered me. Maybe she will again. I cannot believe, even now, but I must try. He is so unhappy, and he has done so much for others.
Kun-shan took her hands and kissed her tenderly.
"I shall wait for you patiently," he said. "You are my miracle. But remember this. I loved you just as much before it happened. Dr. Han will find someone who loves him that much, too."
"Yes," she said. "That will be the miracle."
And then the bus came.