Over the last few weeks, Dr. Allen and Grandma Wu had developed great respect for one another. She learned that he was the son of missionary parents and had been born in China. After graduating from medical school in America, he had returned to China and founded the hospital in Feng Jie. He, in his turn, was impressed by her intelligence, calmness, emotional stability and quiet strength. He knew she wasn’t the kind of person to worry about nothing.
“Perhaps it’s time for CC to spread her wings a little,” he suggested. “The torn ligaments in her ankle and foot have not yet healed, but with the help of crutches she could take short walks. You might like to show her different parts of the hospital or even the garden. This will help her regain her strength. It might even relieve her headaches and enable her to sleep more soundly.”
Although her room was pleasant enough, with its white-painted furniture and windows opening onto the grounds, CC was glad to leave it for a while. She took some time to get used to the crutches, but was soon managing so well that she could go for short walks around the hospital by herself. She came across a stack of magazines and publications, in Chinese and English, on a wooden table in the main entrance hall. Among them was a large, handsomely bound volume called The History of Art and Literature in China.
It was a heavy, hardback tome filled with poetry and photos of old paintings. There was something about the book that immediately intrigued CC. She asked Grandma Wu to carry it into the garden, so she could sit on one of the wooden benches under the trees and read it properly.
Together they looked through the photos of different paintings, but there was one in particular that fascinated CC.
“Look at this one! Grandma Wu! Where would I have seen this painting before?”
Grandma Wu put on her glasses to study it closely. “I don’t know, CC. This is a very famous painting from the Song Dynasty. It’s called Qing Ming Shang He Tu (Along the River at Qing Ming). You may have seen a copy of it, but I doubt you would have seen the original.”
Grandma Wu tried to interest CC in the other paintings in the book, but CC kept flipping back to that painting, her eyes fixed on the panorama of river traffic and city life depicted more than eight hundred years ago. It seemed familiar somehow—oddly evocative. It bothered her that she couldn’t understand why she found it so appealing. She marveled at the artist’s skill in rendering hundreds of people, animals, carts, stalls, buildings and boats at a particular moment in time onto a long, narrow picture. How wonderful, she thought, that he should have had the ability and patience to capture a slice of Song Dynasty life and preserve it for eternity.
She read the caption beside the painting and learned that the name of the artist was Zhang Ze Duan a court painter who lived from AD 1085 to 1145. She found his name as haunting and arresting as the picture. It too had a familiar ring, as if it were someone she had known a long time ago. But who was Zhang Ze Duan? Where did he come from? And how had she heard of him? Had someone mentioned his name to her sometime in the past? Or could she have met one of his descendants?
For the next few days, CC was kept busy attending physiotherapy sessions for her foot, eating her meals and exercising in the garden. But whenever she could, she would go back to the book and look at the painting. Each time she held the volume in her hand, strange things would happen. Meandering through her mind, jumbled and unbidden, would tumble sights, sounds, smells, gestures, laughter and snatches of conversation. Sometimes, she even thought she could recall fleeting expressions of people she had encountered long ago. There they were! Familiar and elusive at the same time. Were these memories or hallucinations? She didn’t know.
Her headaches and feelings of confusion continued. She tossed and turned through the night. She started taking the big picture book into bed with her and staring at the Song Dynasty painting for hours on end. She found the images of boats, bridges, gateways, hamlets and markets soothing yet stimulating. She felt she had been in that city before; had walked along the riverbank and bought things at the market stalls; had seen all those people, dressed in their robes, strolling and gesturing, flying kites and sailing boats, eating and drinking, gambling with dice and placing bets on cricket fights, laughing and talking. Yet a part of her knew that this peculiar feeling of having been there before was not connected with any real event she could remember. It was like a doubling of consciousness.
She confessed to Grandma Wu that, for reasons she couldn’t explain, this particular painting touched a chord in her that resonated with emotion and nostalgia. She found herself drawn deeper and deeper into its aura. As her appetite increased and her body grew stronger, the painting exerted an increasingly dangerous spell. At times, she was almost afraid to look at it for fear that she might be going mad.
Again, Grandma Wu talked to Dr. Allen about her concerns, including CC’s obsession with the painting. He too was puzzled by CC’s slow recovery. The medical staff had done everything possible, and there were no signs of any undiagnosed physical problem. However, the symptoms of headaches, anxiety, amnesia and insomnia continued. After consultation with Grandma Wu and with CC herself, Dr. Allen decided to treat CC with hypnotherapy.
“I’ve had a lot of experience in this area, and a great deal of success,” he reassured them both. “It’s really a very straightforward process, and I think we should start as soon as possible—how does tomorrow sound?”
Hypnotherapy
The next afternoon, Grandma Wu helped CC get dressed in street clothes for the first time since her accident. CC felt strange putting on her blouse and slacks instead of the hospital pajamas that she had worn for so long. Together, they found their way through the corridors to Dr. Allen’s office.
Dr. Allen looked up and smiled as they came in. His ground-floor office consisted of a large rectangular room with big windows overlooking the garden. Facing the door was an enormous writing desk surrounded by three chairs. Under the window was a comfortable red leather recliner. On his desk were writing materials and a typewriter, a vase of fresh flowers, a telephone and a sophisticated-looking machine.
“Here’s my favorite patient! Welcome to my part of the hospital for a change, CC. How’re you feeling today—still willing to give my idea a go?”
CC swallowed nervously and nodded. Grandma Wu patted her hand and said, “Remember, I’ll be right outside the room, CC. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
A few minutes later, CC was settled in the red recliner while Dr. Allen pulled out a chair opposite her.
“Now, I don’t want you to be frightened,” he said. “All I’m going to do is help you feel very relaxed so that you can tell me some of these dreams that have been troubling you. This might relieve your headaches and help you feel less confused. Hopefully, you will then start to sleep better at night. All right?”
“Will I be awake when I’m talking to you?”
“Absolutely. But after our session you might not remember what we’ve talked about.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Allen pointed to the gleaming, state-of-the-art machine on his writing desk. “See this wire recorder? This will record our conversation. In time, I will let you listen to the recording so you’ll know exactly what you said. Okay now?”
CC thought about it for a moment. To her surprise, she found that she didn’t feel quite as nervous as before.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good! Now look at this ball dangling in front of your eyes and just concentrate on listening to what I say. Your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. You are becoming sleepy. Soon, you will start to feel more and more relaxed.…”
CC wasn’t quite sure she believed him, but she did as she was told. She stared at the little green ball swinging back and forth before her eyes: right to left, left to right. Her eyelids were indeed getting heavier and heavier. After what seemed like no time at all, she heard Dr. Allen saying, “That’s enough for today, CC. You can open your eyes now.”
The light from t
he window had disappeared completely. Outside, it was now pitch black.
“Did I fall asleep?” she asked. “Aren’t we going to do the hypnotism?”
Dr. Allen laughed as he helped CC out of the recliner. “It’s all over. You did extremely well for a first session. Don’t worry! Remember what I said before. It’s quite common not to recall much about it.”
CC’s legs felt strangely heavy and wobbly, not like her own legs at all. She struggled with her crutches and was glad Grandma Wu was there to look after her.
Richard Allen sat for a while after the door closed behind CC. He looked at the wire recorder and shook his head as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. He pressed the return button and listened to his own voice talking to CC.
DR. ALLEN: Now, CC—are you feeling comfortable?
CC: Yes, thank you.
DR. ALLEN: Good. Now I want you to think back to the day when you fell. Can you remember?
CC: Yes.
DR. ALLEN: Okay then. You’re running through the market and suddenly you see someone who scares you. You are running … running … and all at once you fall. What do you remember now, CC?
(Silence for half a minute.)
CC: Why are you calling me CC? My name is Zhang Mei Lan. Zhang is my surname and Mei Lan (Beautiful Orchid) my given name.
DR. ALLEN: You have been overheard calling out the names of Ah Zhao and Gege quite frequently. Who are they?
CC/MEI LAN: Gege is my older brother. He and Ah Zhao are best friends. Ah Zhao is the greatest artist in the world. I need to read him the poem I’m writing. It’s about a marble snail he carved for me.
DR. ALLEN: Is Ah Zhao a man?
CC/MEI LAN: He’s a seventeen-year-old boy.
DR. ALLEN: Tell me about him. Start from the beginning.
CC/MEI LAN (irritably): I’m not here to report on Ah Zhao.
DR. ALLEN: Why are you here, then?
CC/MEI LAN: To pray.
DR. ALLEN: Pray for what?
CC/MEI LAN: Does one always have to pray for something? Prayer is more than just a request for favors. It’s a form of communication.
DR. ALLEN: Communication with whom?
CC/MEI LAN: With the dead.
DR. ALLEN: Is Ah Zhao dead?
CC/MEI LAN: I don’t know.… I mean, yes and no.
DR. ALLEN: Explain yourself.
CC/MEI LAN: The things that Ah Zhao could not say to me when he was alive, he can now tell me, if he is indeed dead.
DR. ALLEN: How can he tell you if he’s dead?
CC/MEI LAN: He tells me through my prayers. A prayer is not just a string of words, or the sound of a murmuring voice. Communicating with the dead goes far beyond that.
DR. ALLEN: What is a prayer, then?
CC/MEI LAN: A prayer is the meeting of two minds in a moment that goes beyond time. It may never have happened in real life, but it’s always happening.
DR. ALLEN: And how old are you, Mei Lan?
CC/MEI LAN: I was born thirteen years ago, on the seventh day of the fifth moon of the Sixth Year of the reign of Emperor Zhezong (AD 1091), the Year of the Goat.
DR. ALLEN: And what can you tell me about where you live, Mei Lan?
CC/MEI LAN: I live with my parents and Gege (Older Brother) in a mansion with a sloping tiled roof in Bian Liang the capital city of China. Our home has three shaded courtyards as well as a garden full of beautiful rocks and rare plants.
DR. ALLEN: Tell me more about your family.
CC/MEI LAN: My baba (father) used to be Mayor of Dongwu in Shandong Province but is now chief assistant to Commissioner Ye Di . He is a very important and busy man.
Unlike other rich men, Baba has just one wife, my stepmother, whom I call Niang (Mother). Gege and I are their only children. Our real mother died giving birth to me, and Baba married Niang one year later. Niang is famous for her beauty, but, for as long as I can remember, she has been an invalid suffering from some nameless malady. She spends her time in her room applying makeup to her face, arranging her hair or staring at herself in the glass. Her wardrobe is full of garments made of expensive fabrics, such as silk and imported wool, and her hair is always done in an elaborate style. Some of her hairdos are more than ten cun (about ten inches) tall, adorned with jeweled pins and tiny jade combs. Her bathroom is full of pots of powders and rouges, tweezers to remove eyebrow hairs, fine combs and tiny scissors.
Besides having beautiful eyes, fair skin and an alluring figure, Niang has small bound feet barely three inches long. Baba calls them his perfect golden lotuses. She takes tiny steps and she sways in a really graceful way when she walks. She has more than two hundred pairs of shoes, which she displays on a special shelf in her room. The shoes are made of silk and come in all the colors of the rainbow, with matching cloth soles. Many are embroidered with elaborate pictures of birds, flowers and leaves. She changes her shoes three or four times a day and wears shoes even when she sleeps at night.
Legend has it that swarms of matchmakers approached her parents when Niang was a young girl. At that time, foot-binding was not as popular as it is today, and Niang was one of the very few marriageable young girls who had small feet. The longer my lao lao (maternal grandmother) held out, the more unbelievable the offers that came in. Nobody was good enough. It was rumoured that the Crown Prince himself had expressed interest. Unfortunately, he already had a main (big) wife, but he offered to take Niang into his Imperial Palace as one of his little wives or concubines. This Lao Lao refused to allow. But if Niang had married the Crown Prince, Lao Lao could have become the mother-in-law of a future emperor!
“The years rolled by and suddenly Lao Lao realized that Niang was twenty-five. Most girls are married by the time they are fifteen, and although Niang was still beautiful, people had stopped asking to marry her. Then one day, Lao Lao heard rumours that Baba’s wife, my birth mother, had suddenly passed away. Besides having no wife, Baba had the added advantage of not having even a single concubine. This was highly unusual for a man in his position but would obviously make life easier for the new woman in Baba’s life, whoever she might be. Although Baba was not an Imperial Prince, he came from a good family and was a Han Lin scholar. The very next day, Lao Lao summoned the best matchmaker in the capital city to arrange the marriage.
According to my nai ma, they had a lavish wedding with more than five hundred guests. From the beginning of the marriage, Niang had very little energy and spent most of her time in bed. At first, everyone thought she was pregnant. Months and years went by, but no baby appeared. Gradually, it was accepted that Niang suffers from some sort of mysterious illness that nobody talks about.
Niang and I were both born in the Year of the Goat, two cycles or twenty-four years apart, but she seldom acknowledges my presence when we are in the same room. I’m simply not important to her. Unlike her, I’m not beautiful. Unlike Gege, I’m not a boy. Whenever we are alone, she often says and does cruel things to me. At best, she treats me like part of the furniture. It’s been like this for nearly as long as I can remember.
DR. ALLEN: So who looked after you if your niang was always ill?
CC/MEI LAN: I was looked after by Nai Ma, who shares my room and has been with me for as long as I can remember. Baba once told me that Nai Ma had been hired by my own mama, before she died. Nai Ma is a peasant woman from the countryside. She has large feet, buckteeth and a pockmarked face, but she works hard. Niang says she is ugly, but Nai Ma and I love each other. Perhaps it’s because I’m not beautiful either—I have a foot that’s all twisted and I can’t move very gracefully.
Although Nai Ma can hardly read, she was the one who persuaded Baba to include me when Baba hired Teacher Lai to be Gege’s private tutor. It was because of Nai Ma that I learned to read and write from an early age.
When I was five years old, Teacher Lai gave Gege and me a separate notebook each, together with a little brush. He told us to make drawings of our daily life and write a verse or story to describe them. Since Ge
ge prefers to draw, while I like to write, his book is full of images, whereas mine is full of words.
DR. ALLEN: So you like to write … but you also like looking at paintings, don’t you, Mei Lan? Tell me about the painting of Along the River at Qing Ming. Why is that painting so special?
CC/MEI LAN (becoming agitated): No, no! Don’t ask me about the painting. It’s our secret. Only Ah Zhao knows about the painting … and Gege … Gege, please don’t say anything. You promised not to tell anyone! They’ll stop us. I need to go.… I need to run, but I can’t.… The market is so crowded I can’t get away. Where’s David? I need to get back to Grandma Wu.
DR. ALLEN: Calm down, CC. We won’t remember anything you don’t want to. Just relax and let your mind go blank again. I want you to stop remembering for a while.…
The voices on the recorder stopped, but the machine kept whirring while Richard Allen sat lost in thought. Finally, he fed some paper into the typewriter on his desk and began to type.
Case History of CC by Dr. Richard Allen, MD.
CC (Chinese name: Ye Xian is a twelve-year-old Chinese girl who suffered severe head injury after a fall from a height of thirty feet. After regaining consciousness, she developed symptoms of headaches, insomnia and anxiety as well as feelings of déjà vu and amnesia. She had difficulty recalling her name, family history and recent events, but identified strongly with a famous painting of the Northern Song Dynasty titled Along the River at Qing Ming. In an attempt to relieve CC’s neurological symptoms, I began to administer hypnotherapy treatments. During her first hour under hypnosis, CC claimed to be a young girl named Zhang Mei Lan, living during the Song Dynasty.