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Feeding Spirits

by Emmi Khor

What does one feed a hungry ancestor? Fish and chips, chicken parmi, or steak pie didn’t seem like something my recently deceased Popo would enjoy.

I’d just returned from my backyard swamp with a full trash bag, when the phone rang. The call bounced with around-the-world echoes and I’d barely said hello, when Ma started in on her visit to the medium.

“I asked your Popo if she was comfortable. Ai yah, Li-Li,” cried Ma, “she scolded me! She said: Twenty years my granddaughter doesn’t come home. I go all the way to Australia to visit and she doesn’t even offer me a meal.” The click of Ma’s tongue was like a slap. “You should respect your ancestors!”

I couldn’t tell her I didn’t believe in spirits. Her disappointment already blew heavy in my ear.

When I’d first landed a job in this lucky country, I’d flown Popo over in excitement. I could fulfil my familial respect and treat her to dinner with my first pay. The rest of the family had been too busy, so treating Popo meant everything. But she’d found the beef undercooked, the vegetables too soft, and everything was missing rice. She never returned and I’d stopped inviting her.

I might’ve immediately forgotten about the call except for Ma’s next words. “Popo says to get a protection mirror for your back door. Says there’s a funny-smelling thing that likes looking into your house. She’s not sure if it’s good or bad.”

A stench regularly wafted through after dark―the swamp odor blowing back into town. I’d never mentioned it to Ma, especially as it also appeared on airless nights, and definitely not to Popo. I didn’t believe in spirits, but caution seemed the wiser choice.

Next morning, sweating through the summer heat, I nailed a bagua—a hand-sized round mirror in an octagonal frame—above my flyscreen. My hand swatted back and forth, wishing the bagua would also reflect the blowies from my face.

“What’s that for?” called a gravelly voice.

I waved to the Aboriginal Elder out on her daily inspection of the swamp. “My grandma says it’s for bad spirits.” I shrugged vaguely. I really didn’t want to come across as the crazy Chinese lady.

She cackled. “Twenty years living here, and now you get scared?”

I was about to deny it, but her knowing stare pierced me. My gaze slid over the deck instead, catching an old scar left by a smashing bottle, its matching gash deep in my memory.

Years ago, a gang of kids rode by daily, throwing empty coke bottles into the swamp. One day, with my heart thumping fast, I called out to bin their rubbish. The leader sprinted up and lobbed his bottle at me, the glass smashing across the timber floor. They jeered as I ran into the house, so frightened I left my shoes on. I remained gripping a broomstick for safety all afternoon. Next day, cops door-knocked through town because a boy had disappeared. By the time the search crew spotted a handlebar in the swamp, only a baseball cap was found.

The Elder warned everyone to stop littering the waterways if we didn’t want the bunyip looking for another meal. The cops closed the case as a divorce tug o’ war, suspecting the father had grabbed his son and vanished overseas.

I’ve combed the wetlands with my trash grabber weekly ever since―not because I believed in mythical swamp spirits, but because I had free time.

The Elder wheezed as she left. “Be good to the swamp. That’ll protect you better than a mirror.” Her words stuck like the midges on my sweaty face.

I set Popo’s smiling photo on a corner of my deck, facing the memorial altar toward the water for good energy flow―Popo didn’t need to know what kind of water was in that swamp. With no family here, cultural rituals like these were as rusty and bent as the nails in my outhouse. I spoke aloud to dispel my unease, setting a bowl of sand beside her face. “I’m sorry, Popo. I didn’t know you came to see me.” Heat rose to my cheeks as I talked to the air. The packet of joss sticks I held mocked me. Was I supposed to use one or three? I picked one so the packet would last longer. A disapproving prickle walked across the nape of my neck.

Lighting the joss, I bowed three times at the altar, then stood the stick in the sand. Ma used to do this at a temple saying the rising smoke carried our words closer to spirits. I laughed at my fraudulence now, just glad the incense kept mozzies away.

“I’ll cook you a nice dish tonight.” I told her. I just didn’t know what to feed Popo.

In my younger days, friends missing home would join me on tastebud adventures, driving two hours to the city for a yum cha morning, or a highly-rated laksa lunch. If Popo travelled expecting such cuisine from me, she was going to be very disappointed.

That night, I came out of the kitchen and set down an offering of rice and a side plate of stir-fried beef and vegetables. Lighting a joss stick, I awkwardly spoke to the air. “Popo, please come eat.”

I eyed the food. Nothing happened. Smoke curled upwards as heat chewed the incense to ash. “A watched pot never boils,” I muttered under my breath.

Stepping off the deck, I walked towards the balmy sunset. The cricket calls stopped, assessing the threat as I passed before returning to their amorous intent. The minty citrus scent of eucalyptus leaves filled my lungs; its now familiar fragrance soothing my awkward uncertainty at waiting for the essence of dinner to be consumed.

Eventually, I returned with a pair of jiaobei—wooden crescent blocks. I threw them like a pair of dice as I asked, “Popo, have you finished eating?” The communication blocks fell flat side down, curved side up. No. Popo needed more time to enjoy her meal. I snorted. Australian beef must be tastier than her usual offerings. Ten minutes later, I threw the blocks again. One landed flat side up and the other, flat side down. Yes, she’d finished.

I collected the plates and hesitated. It didn’t seem right to eat what had been offered to a spirit, but it felt a waste to throw it away. Eyes darting, heart quickening, I checked that no one would see. With a stomach fluttering in guilt, I hurried to the nearby rushes and scraped the offerings to the ground. It wasn’t littering if the animals could eat it, right? Or it could decompose and feed the land. Either way, it was better than wasting it in my bin.

By the end of the first week, I’d exhausted my interest in daily cooking. By the end of the second week, I was back to cooking in batches. I was a working woman, and if Popo truly wanted a meal, she could have leftovers like I did.

By the end of the month, Popo’s offering bowl held oven nuggets, chips, or the last bite of burger from the local joint. Afterwards, my spoon would clank angrily against the bowl as I scraped food into the rushes. This was a waste of time. “Do you even exist?!” I screamed into the swamp one night. The frogs and crickets quietened long enough to hear the returning silence, then they too ignored me and resumed their chatter.

Popo took longer and longer to finish her meals. Maybe unlit joss sticks affected communications, maybe my jiaobei throwing wasn’t great, maybe Popo realized the swamp wasn’t a lake and she wasn’t getting good energy flow. It made no difference. I tossed the jiaobei repeatedly until one side landed upwards and the other down. One of these throws had to go in my favor.

Autumn brought cooler evenings. My hair no longer stuck to my neck while I threw the food out. Dinner was always gone by the next day―unlike the washed-up takeaway containers, shopping bags, and coffee cups that got caught in the bulrushes. I filled my trash bags surrounded by the plucking beats of banjo frogs and the fluttering of preening ducks. They all deserved a swamp that didn’t choke them.

One evening, I returned to muddy patches on my back steps as if someone had tried to swipe mud off their shoes before stepping onto the deck. Gum leaves rustled, a breeze lifting the hairs from my neck. The mustiest swamp stench came with it as I hurried up the steps, huffing out my nose to clear the stink.

And then I saw: Popo’s bowl was so clean it was as if everything had been licked up. I ran for my broom, eyes darting to the bushes. Heart banging against my ribs, I stabbed the broom into the shrubs, keeping enough distance should a person or a wombat charge out. Only midge clouds and disrupted crickets appeared.

Breathing hard and with every undergrowth beaten, I turned to see Popo’s photo watching me. I hurried back and threw the jiaobei, feeling guilty I’d forgotten her. At least she’d finished eating.

Lighting three joss sticks, I told the smoke to keep whatever creature had visited away, because if Popo was truly visiting, I wasn’t ready. Yet all week, I returned to an emptied bowl.

The following evening, I laid the offering out and stayed to watch. No matter how many times I threw the jiaobei after, none of the tosses landed in my favor, as if Popo wouldn’t finish eating while I stood there. An hour later, I tried a different question. “Do you want me to leave?”

Yes.

Stumbling as I toed my shoes off, I returned to the house. Maybe Popo really was here eating my food, answering my questions. Nervous excitement rippled through me with each tick of the clock. Twenty years gone and she was finally visiting again. Ten minutes later, I leaned out the door. Mud streaked across my deck. The bowl was empty. A lingering smell of decaying vegetation permeated the area. It had been particularly strong this past week, as if the changing weather was affecting the swamp.

The next night, I set out the offering, lit the joss sticks, returned to the house, then snuck looks out of the window. But with dusk sweeping in, only the eucalypts stretching long in the waning light could be seen. Fifteen minutes later, the bowl was empty and Popo was satisfied. That same moldy-decay scent lingered as I squinted at the dirt clumped on my steps, fading to streaks on my decking. I’ve never known feral cats or possums to care about muddy prints before.

Troubled, I swept the timber slats until I got to Popo’s photo. She smiled at me, her cheeky grin bringing back a memory buried under years of disappointment. She’d taught me to make dumplings while she was here. It wasn’t until we were steaming the little wrinkled parcels that I realized she’d had cravings. I snorted, remembering how we’d crammed them into our delighted mouths until our bellies ached. “New place, new people,” she’d said later as we drowsed on the couch. “But always remember your past.”

Heaviness grew in my chest, threatening to crush the air from my lungs. I’d gone through the motions of the rituals, but I hadn’t believed in the custom; like how I hadn’t truly believed in Popo. I gasped for air, and found breathing impossible while her smiling face watched.

Opening the flyscreen, I reached for the safety of my house. The bagua caught my reflection, reminding me of Popo’s message about a thing looking through my window. The heaviness eased, air returned, understanding dawned. I’d forgotten my past and what came with it―the old ways of protection, and family looking after each other. Popo had been watching out for me, even in spirit.

I made more effort. Old cookbooks came out and my kitchen filled with smells. Fried rice, steamed ginger fish, green curry, stir-fried noodles, chili crabs, fried fish, even laksa—I gave it all a try, speaking to her about my day as I moved around the kitchen. I felt lighter as I teased out childhood memories of our times together. There were more than I remembered, and I started to wonder if she’d disliked Australia on her visit not because of the place, but because it’d taken us so far apart.

I still couldn’t cook every day, so in between, we had hot toasties, nuggets, and battered fish. I started leaving larger and larger portions, and it warmed me to see the bowl emptied every night.

Curious things started appear in it. First, it was a handful of purple-blue berries. I’d been told that in Australia, if it was bright, it was poisonous. Was Popo finding my cooking that bad?

I showed it to the Elder as she walked past the next day. She picked one right out of my palm and popped it into her mouth. “Nidbul. Good for tea.”

That night, I stared at the stalks of leaves in the freshly emptied bowl. I knew these; they grew abundantly on one edge of the swamp. When I consulted the Elder the next morning, she told me to chew one. Cautiously, I bit an end. Its peppery, spicy flavor burst on my tongue causing my face to scrunch. She laughed. “Badinbadin. It’s good for catching fish but we can also eat it.” I squinted suspiciously at the foliage. These were very specific to the local swamp land. I doubted Popo came across the knowledge of their edibility on her own.

On the third night, I waited on the other side of the back door while Popo finished dinner. A new theory was building in my mind. I took occasional sniffs of the air until I caught the scent of moldy vegetation and wet earth. Pressing my ear to the door, I heard a shuffling of feet, or maybe it was dried leaves scattering across the deck. Faint scolding followed, more air than voice in intonations I hadn’t heard in years, or it might’ve been the chatter of bulrush seed capsules brushing against each other. But I didn’t think so. I think it was more than just Popo coming on these visits.

Afterward, there were thick, dirty roots in the bowl. Once more, it was the Elder who enlightened me. “We used to dry it in the sun before eating.”

That night, I baked the tuber roots, wrapped in peppery leaves and stewing in home-made nidbul juice. While waiting for the timer to ring, I squinted at the sun dropping towards the swamp. Popo wouldn’t know all these outback plants like the Aboriginal Elder did. I don’t know how Popo did it, but I’m certain she was learning from some funny-smelling bunyip.

I frowned at the fading light. Should I be worried about Popo hanging out with a spirit that might’ve eaten a boy? The fiery ball winked between the gumtrees as if smirking at me, and I laughed. The kid was probably a man now living in another country, scolding his own child for littering.

The oven buzzed. I pulled the tray out and dished a portion into the offering bowl. There was nothing to worry about. Popo was looking out for me, and I was excited to share this homemade recipe with her—with them.

Setting down the offering and lighting three joss sticks, I bowed my grace for her care and company. “Come, everyone,” I invited. “Let’s eat. I hope you all like it.”

Next day, Ma rang again.

“Li-Li, we spoke to the medium again. Popo’s one hundred days finishes tonight and she’ll be moving on to her new life. She’s so happy—says her friend from the lake’s been showing her lots of things, and they like your tasty dishes. Popo wishes she’d visited more because you live in a very interesting place. Ai yah, my mother’s all adventure. She asks if you can look after her friend who’s also lonely. Do you know what she’s talking about? You look after yourself, okay?”

I set the receiver down, blinking through my stinging eyes. Popo only had a hundred days? There were still so many recipes for us to try together. I swiped away the falling tears. I’d already gotten more time than expected. If she had to go, I would give her a send-off she wouldn’t forget.

That night, I cooked a mini-banquet, dishing out a little of everything. As I bowed with the joss sticks in my hands, I thanked her for her reproach, for looking after me, and for reconnecting us. I promised to look after her lake friend and invited her to one last meal.

Goodbye was harder than I thought. The irony was too much—the spirit I hadn’t believed in had become friends with a myth that didn’t exist. And soon, they would both be gone.

When I returned to the emptied bowl, I laughed and cringed at the witjuri grubs squirming within. If Popo’s new friend was still expanding the horizons of my tastebuds, maybe I wouldn’t lose them both.

In the morning, I dismantled the altar. With Popo gone, I wanted her photo in the house with me. I set a tray down instead for future meals—food was the best way to look after friends. A tightness squeezed my chest. Popo may not have actually been here, but the place already felt emptier.

The Elder walked by as I was taking down the bagua. “I told you there was no need,” she said. “You’re good to the swamp.”

I watched as she walked on. Perhaps, it was time I shared my cooking with another. She might even have suggestions on what to feed a bunyip.

I called out, “Would you like to come for dinner tonight?”