Silk Umbrellas by Carolyn Marsden Read Free Book Online

stripped of its fruit.
    To shield herself from Kriamas and her questioning, Noi began to tuck some of her food into a bowl to take to Ting. The curried fish and dish of small, round Thai eggplant had been blessed by the temple monks and was now holy food that would bring good luck to whoever ate it.

A green glow fell gently through the jungle canopy.
    Kun Pa sliced fresh banana leaves off the tree with a knife. As his face moved in and out of the light and shade, Noi felt her heart shift. Probably Kun Pa missed Ting today, too.
    Kun Pa finished cutting and tossed the leaves onto the table underneath the house. He sat down on a bench, his long knife across his knees.
    While Noi tore the leaves into strips, Kun Mere and Kun Ya wove the strips with quick fingers, forming them into baskets.
    Curious, the pigs and chickens came close. The rooster hopped up onto the worktable.
    “Down,” said Kun Mere, knocking him back.
    “But, Kun Mere, he just wants to look,” said Noi. “You’ve hurt his feelings.”
    “He can look when we’re finished.”
    “He wants you to paint him,” joked Kun Ya, brushing her forehead with the back of her hand. “He’d look nice on red silk.”
    Noi giggled. “He does look as if he’s posing. But let me make Ting’s
krathong.
”
    Kun Ya handed her a pile of strips, and Noi wove them into a tight basket that wouldn’t leak. She concentrated on making the basket strong and even enough to hold Ting’s candle without tipping.
    If the candle stayed lit until the
krathong
floated out of sight on the river, wishes would come true. What would Ting wish for? Noi didn’t know anymore.
    After Noi had tucked the last end of banana leaf into place, Kun Ya leaned over to put a white orchid with a yellow center inside the
krathong.
Noi added a stick of incense and a white candle.
    As she worked, Noi felt constantly on the verge of turning to Ting to share a joke, to giggle, to show her the half-made
krathong.
Ting’s absence sunk into her as a stone falls slowly through water.
    She set to work on her own
krathong.
One minute she felt herself wishing, as though what she wanted could never come true; the next minute dreaming, as though it already had.
    Snip snip,
went the sewing scissors, and Kun Mere laid the bits of Noi’s black hair in her
krathong.
    Then Kun Mere took Noi’s hand. She cut off a crescent of fingernail and placed that, too, in Noi’s basket.
    Sending old, useless bits of hair and fingernail down the river symbolized letting go of old, useless things in life and making room for the new.
What would be the new?
Noi wondered.
    Kun Pa dropped a tiny fifty-
stang
coin into each
krathong,
concluding the making of the baskets.
    As the sunlight fell lower on the tree trunks, Noi suddenly heard the pad of footsteps. She turned to see Ting running through the jungle, the shadows of leaves splashing across her face.
    “They let us go early today,” she announced, breathing as though she’d run all the way from the bus stop.
    Kun Pa got up from the bench so quickly that the knife clattered to the ground.
    Kun Mere set down the
krathong
she was weaving, and it fell apart into strips again.
    Kun Ya held out her arms and Ting slowed her dash to move into the embrace.
    Ting home after all! The Buddha had listened!
    When Kun Ya released Ting, Noi stepped forward. “Here.” She placed Ting’s
krathong
into her hands, the banana smell fragrant between them. She felt as though she, too, had been running.
    “Oh, thank you,” said Ting. Her chest rose and fell with her breath.
    “I’m so happy,” whispered Noi.
    “Yes. It was nice of them to close the factory early.”
    They all sat on the bench in a row, saying nothing, Ting holding her
krathong
in her lap. Noi watched beams of light arcing pink and dusky onto the forest floor, feeling herself grow rose-colored inside.
    “Why don’t you two light the
phang patit
?” asked Kun Mere finally, holding up a small box of matches.
    Yes, it is