The Clay Baby

Wang, the Chen-family daughter-in-law, had been married three years with no sign of a child. Her mother-in-law mouthed Buddha's name by day and stuck knives in her back by night, hinting she was a hen that laid no eggs. Wang was soft-hearted and could only, after dark, hide under the quilt and press a sleeve to her mouth, sobbing until her shoulders hitched.

At the east end of town stood a Send-Child Goddess temple, its incense thick. Beyond the main hall the side chamber held a row of clay babies, palm-sized and simple, some sitting some lying, round bellies, eyes of two cinnabar dots. A childless woman would steal one home to her pillow, borrowing the goddess's "happy vapor," and return it doubled once she conceived. Wang had heard the neighbors chew this over, but she was too shy to go.

Until that Qingming when her mother-in-law announced: if no joy came by summer, the Chens would take a concubine and cast Wang off. Wang's man was often away on trade, leaving only mother- and daughter-in-law at home, and she had no one even to discuss it with.

After the Dragon Boat festival, on an overcast day, Wang went at last. The temple was empty; the clay babies watched her in a row, their cinnabar eyes unnaturally bright in the dim light. Her hand shaking, she took up the very last—round face, mouth curved up as if smiling. She wrapped it in her breast and ran home without looking back, hiding it under the bedding; her heart beat so that the bedboard quivered faintly with it.

That night the strange thing came.

In the small hours a faint sound woke her—a cradle. The house had no cradle, yet the sound was real: a bamboo-woven cradle rocking softly, creak, creak, as if someone rocked it, though no hand showed. She held her breath and listened; from the cradle came the very lightest huff of a sleeping infant's breath.

Summoning courage, she lifted the quilt-corner and looked toward the bed's foot—among the bedding lay an infant's shape, a small bundle wrapped in her old jacket, quiet, neither crying nor fussing.

At daylight she looked again: the foot of the bed was empty. Under the bedding lay the clay baby, warm to the touch, its cinnabar eyes bright past reason, as if just held against someone.

So it went every night. The clay returned to clay before dawn; by night it became an infant that never cried. Wang was afraid and glad together, and in time came truly to know a mother's feel, sometimes in the small hours reaching out to touch that small warmth. The mother-in-law noticed too—the daughter-in-law's color was better, her waist rounding—and took it for the goddess's answer, happily burning three sticks, telling everyone the daughter-in-law was with child.

But Wang began to see the oddness. The "infant" never nursed, never soiled, never fussed; beneath its skin ran the faint grain of clay, and a fingertip's press sprang back slow, like unfired ware. At night it lay with eyes open, two cinnabar dots fixed on her, that upward curve at the mouth the very same as the clay baby she had brought home.

More chilling: it grew heavier day by day, more like a living child. Frightened, Wang took advantage of a daytime to return the clay baby to the temple, set it back in the side chamber, added fruit, and knocked three heads begging the goddess's pardon.

That night the house was calm. Wang breathed easy, and before long was truly with child; ten months and she bore a fat boy who cried loud. The Chen house rejoiced, and the mother-in-law treated her a hundred times better, never again uttering that "hen that lays no eggs."

Only from then on, in the nights, Wang always heard by the cradle two sounds—one her own son's cry, and one very light huff, as of another infant, in the dark, quietly learning to breathe. She went to the side chamber; the clay baby sat in its place, cinnabar eyes on her, that same upward curve.

And her fat boy, from some day, cried little at night too. Asked what was the matter, he only opened his bright black eyes and smiled toward the empty end of the cradle.

The Midnight Record: The happy vapor the Send-Child Goddess lends must be repaid. You bring home one that will not cry, and a crying one must be given to fill the empty place.