Mulan, page 14
“Do you think you and your daughter could…” Mulan trailed off.
“No.” Lu Ting-Pin shook his head. “It is too late for us. But perhaps I can grant her freedom. That is the only gift I can give her.”
The water washed against the boat in gentle waves, but Mulan could only see the emptiness of the ocean. Lu Ting-Pin offered his gourd again, and as the warmth of the tea filled her, she could not help thinking of her family, frozen in her faraway home. How long ago it was, all of them together sipping tea while Ba told stories of great battles! Or Ma waiting to fry the breakfast dough when Mulan was late so it would be fresh and crispy. And combing Xiu’s hair, as silky and smooth as the sky above her.
Mulan looked up to the sliver of the moon, its light small against the sky and sea of blackness. Suddenly, she felt a rush of worry.
“How long will it take to get to Green Island?” Mulan asked, gulping. “And the Queen Mother’s garden?”
“These days, to get to the Queen Mother’s garden with a stop at Green Island usually takes me about seven or eight days,” Lu Ting-Pin said slowly.
“Seven or eight days!” Mulan gasped. “But…but Master Lu, now we have only three days left until the new moon!”
Lu Ting-Pin nodded and gazed up at the diminishing moon with a frown.
“Will…will we make it?” Mulan asked. She hoped he would smile as he had before, with jovial reassurance. But he did not. Instead, he glanced up at the yuloh, the handle curving above them like a branch of a tree.
“I hope so,” he said. “We shall see.”
THE MORNING came gently, a soft light that danced delicately on the ocean waves and then sprinkled itself onto the boat. The wind that blew was warm now, like the steam from cooked porridge. The comfortable breeze, as well as the luxury of a roof to hide the dawn, had made Mulan oversleep. So when she came out from the shelter, she found the Rabbit and Lu Ting-Pin already awake. Lu Ting-Pin turned to her and smiled.
“Just in time!” he greeted her. There was an air of expectancy as spoke, as if he were about to unveil a gift. “Tuzi and I were able to hurry the boat a bit while you were sleeping, and look what we found!”
Proudly, he waved one hand toward the ocean, using his other arm to usher her toward the front of the boat. As Mulan peered out, she saw an odd shape in the distance, a bump in the straight, sparkling horizon of sea. It looked like a gigantic worn turtle shell caked with mud.
“Is it an island?” Mulan asked.
“Of course it’s an island,” Lu Ting-Pin scoffed. “It’s Green Island!”
“But…but…” Mulan said in surprise, “it’s not…”
“Green,” the Rabbit finished for her gloomily. “Apparently the Dragon Beard Grass that once grew so abundantly on the island does so no longer.”
“There must be some growing on there somewhere,” Lu Ting-Pin said. “Maybe it’s just not as plentiful as it used
to be.”
“Perhaps,” the Rabbit said, but he did not sound hopeful.
“We’ll stop for supplies,” Lu Ting-Pin said with his usual confidence. “And hunt under every rock and bush for the grass. We’ll find it.”
But they did not. As soon as they had docked the boat and had a quick meal from a street peddler of tea eggs and smelly tofu, they hastened to the sloping countryside. There, the Rabbit claimed, lush blankets of Dragon Beard Grass had previously covered the land all the way out to sea. But as they climbed the hills, they did not see even one blade of grass.
“What should it look like?” Mulan asked as she stumbled over crumbling dirt. She stood at the top of a hill, perhaps the highest point on the island. She could see their boat, its bright red sail an easy marker, and beyond it a cavern with what looked like a statue at its opening. “Besides green, I
mean.”
“It is fine and wavy,” the Rabbit said, nosing under a stone, “and can grow quite long. And if you pull it out of the ground, you will see the roots are bright red.”
“Red?” Mulan asked.
“You might as well tell her the story,” Lu Ting-Pin said. He sat down, wiping his brow. The sun was blazing down upon them, and Mulan had already rolled up the sleeves of her robe. The Rabbit sat back on his haunches and sighed.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” he said.
Once, many centuries ago, an Immortal lived on this island. He spent his time in the hills collecting herbs and plants, and creating medicines. He helped many on the island, so the people began to revere him. Every day, someone from the island village would come to see him for medicine, help, or advice. It seemed that no problem, large or small, could not be solved by him. Even though he was bent and aged, he seemed so wise and powerful that many began to believe he was a dragon spirit in human form. But even those who did not believe it joined the others in calling the Immortal “Old Dragon.”
One spring day, the Old Dragon told his visitors that he would be leaving the island. The news quickly spread across the island, and soon all clustered around the Immortal.
“Are you really going?” they asked. “Are you leaving the island?”
The Old Dragon looked at the crowd before him. “Yes, my friends,” he said, nodding. “I am leaving.”
“Why?” the villagers asked, many in tears. “Don’t leave us!”
“I am needed elsewhere,” the Old Dragon said. And with a wave of his hand, a shimmering cloud appeared at his feet. He stepped upon it as the villagers gaped in wonder. “I have enjoyed my time with you. This island has a spirit of peace; make sure you cherish it.”
The cloud began to rise, carrying the Old Dragon up into the sky with it. He leaned over to call down to villagers. “Farewell, my friends!”
The people, now recovered from their awe, began to cry. “Don’t leave us!” they begged. “Don’t leave us!”
They wailed and howled, and the most desperate of them reached out to grab the Old Dragon to try to keep him from leaving. However, all they could grasp was his beard, hanging over the edge of the cloud. And to their surprise, when they pulled upon his beard, its hairs slipped from his chin as easily as young weeds from a garden. When they saw clumps of the Old Dragon’s beard in their hands, the ends trickling with tiny drops of red blood, they were horrified and quickly released the hairs, brushing their hands in the wind.
So the people of the island stood helpless as the Old Dragon ascended into the sky and disappeared. But though grief-stricken, they vowed to always heed his words to honor the peaceful spirit of their island. For they realized that in his departure, he had left one last gift to help remind them. The hairs of his beard, which they had so dramatically pulled and released, were carried by the wind all over the island. These hairs took root in the rich soil created by the peaceful heart of the island and began to grow. Soon, the island was carpeted with the lush green Dragon’s Beard grass and was called Green Island.
“So the grass was the Immortal’s hair?” Mulan said, captivated. “And the roots of the grass are red because of his blood?”
The Rabbit nodded.
“Ah, Tuzi has all the stories,” Lu Ting-Pin said proudly, “even the ones he doesn’t know he has.”
“What does that mean?” Mulan said, confused.
The Rabbit shuffled uneasily. “That’s hard to explain,” he said, but he met Mulan’s expectant eyes and sighed.
“Mulan’s no rice bucket. She’s smart enough to understand,” Lu Ting-Pin said. “Though I suppose it is even difficult for Immortals.”
The Rabbit sighed again and looked at Mulan. “Remember how I told you the White Fox found an oracle bone?” he said to her. “An old bone, burned?”
She nodded.
“That was one of my bones,” the Rabbit said. “When I shed my mortal body and exchanged my bones, well…those old bones still have the stories.”
“All the stories! The stories of the past and the future—they’re all inside the Rabbit,” Lu Ting-Pin said. “They are written in his bones.”
“But while they are in me,” the Rabbit said, “I don’t really know them all. Sometimes when I tell a story of the past, it is the first time I have heard it myself.”
“So you know everything,” Mulan said, still confused. “Except you don’t?”
“I told you she would understand,” Lu Ting-Pin said, overlooking Mulan’s face of utter bewilderment. “Now, Tuzi, do you have any idea where we should look next for this blamed grass?”
Mulan stepped forward as the Rabbit and Lu Ting-Pin continued their conversation. She gazed again over the island, brown and rocky, that dark cave opening she had seen before like a blot of black ink on the landscape. It was nothing like the abundant green island that the Rabbit had described in his story. The grass had stopped growing on the island. Was it the dirt? This dry, crumbling dirt was not the rich soil created by the peaceful heart of the island the Rabbit had described, either.
It looked like the peaceful heart of the island had stopped making that special soil for some reason. Why? The light shape in front of the faraway cave glinted at her, like a star trying to catch her attention. Had something happened to the spirit of the island?
THEY ENTERED Green Island’s main village tired and discouraged. They had searched the hills and the countryside, and most of the rocky shoreline as well. They had not yet inspected the cliffs beyond the docks, but Mulan had been able to get a better look at the cave she had seen from the top of the hill. And as she had guessed, there was a statue at its entrance—weathered, barely recognizable, but of a man Mulan suspected was a long-forgotten island hero.
None of that helped their present plight, of course. Their extensive hunt had not uncovered a single spike of the Dragon Beard Grass. In fact, except for some scraggly evergreens, there was very little growing anywhere on the island. Green Island was far from green, and by the time they had dragged themselves through the village gate, Mulan felt the name was mockery.
The sky had been darkening, so Lu Ting-Pin suggested they go to town and ask the advice of some locals he knew. “And they will probably give us something to eat,” he added, slightly greedily. “They own a bakery.”
The Rabbit had given Lu Ting-Pin a wry look, but it was that comment that was causing Mulan to brighten now. They were trudging down the narrow, stone-paved street, made even narrower by the peddlers and craftsmen selling sticks of candied fruit, giving haircuts, and sharpening knives. As they weaved in and around throngs of people and carts, a rich, delectable aroma began to fill Mulan’s nose. Her mouth watered, the scent of warm, sweet-savory meat and pastries tantalizing her. She hoped the smell was coming from Lu Ting-Pin’s friends’ bakery.
Lu Ting-Pin quickened his pace, perhaps also enticed by the aroma. Mulan, who was carrying the Rabbit, had to hop and scamper about to keep up with his lengthening strides. But it was worth it, for Lu Ting-Pin was entering the store she was hoping he would—the bakery spilling the delicious scent of pork buns.
Lu Ting-Pin waited impatiently for a customer to finish picking up his bags at the sales counter. As soon as he left, he smiled at the young woman behind the pastry displays.
“Hello, Li Jing!” Lu Ting-Pin boomed. “Do you know who I am?”
The woman cocked her head and studied him. “Is it…” She hesitated. “Is it Master Yan?”
“Of course!” Lu Ting-Pin said, beaming. “Is your father in the back?”
She nodded, then squeaked and clapped her hands in excitement. Mulan realized that Li Jing was really a girl, only a handful of years older than herself. “Ba is going to be so excited!” Li Jing said, her smile as wide as his. She moved to open the doors at her side, but Lu Ting-Pin held up his hand.
“First,” Lu Ting-Pin said, “let me introduce you to Mulan…my, uh, niece. And her pet rabbit. Perhaps you could give them something to eat?”
Mulan felt the Rabbit shift on her back at those words, and she grinned broadly at the older girl across the counter. Li Jing smiled back, and Mulan instantly felt a sense of friendship.
“Of course!” Li Jing said, and she hurried out from behind the counter. “Come! Come!”
“I’ll go see your father,” Lu Ting-Pin said. He pushed past them through the swinging doors, his robes rippling behind him.
Li Jing led Mulan to one of the small tables at the side of the store. As Mulan sat down, Li Jing scurried around the shop, turning the sign on the door to CLOSED and then visiting various shelves. She returned balancing two trays—one piled high with aromatic buns and pastries, and the other holding tea. To Mulan’s envy, Li Jing gracefully placed the trays on the table without even a rattle of the teapot. How Mulan wished she could be like that! Once, she had accidentally hit the table as she ran into the house, and the family’s prized teacup flew up into the air. Mulan had flung herself down, skidded across the floor, and narrowly caught the cup in her outstretched hand. Even though she had saved the cup, Ma had still been horrified.
Li Jing took an empty bowl from the tea tray and put it on the ground. “Which do you think your rabbit would like?” she asked. “Red bean buns? Pineapple cake?”
“I’m sure he’ll like anything,” Mulan said, quickly placing the Rabbit on the floor, her eyes slightly bulging at the assortment of snacks in front of her. She could barely keep herself from grabbing and devouring the entire pile. However, when Li Jing handed her a cloth to clean her hands, Mulan found herself blushing. She grimaced at the brown stains she left on the cloth and felt ashamed as she looked at Li Jing’s smoothly wound hair and spotless, softly clinging robes.
But Li Jing did not seem to notice and only pushed the plate toward her. With great will, Mulan took only one of the pork buns whose inviting aroma had been teasing her since she entered the village. Her eyes closed as she bit into it. Warm steam misted her face, and as the full flavors of the luscious, sweet pork melted into her mouth, she groaned involuntarily.
“Good?” Li Jing asked, pleased.
Mulan, mouth full, could only nod enthusiastically.
“You can thank your uncle for that,” Li Jing said, sitting down across from her. “He’s the one that changed everything for our family.”
“He did?” Mulan asked, in between bites. “How?”
“Well,” Li Jing said, “the story goes like this…”
When my grandfather was a young man, he sold rice cakes from door to door, carrying his wares in a straw basket. He worked hard but made a very meager living, only enough to support himself and his elderly mother. Every morning, he rose before his mother woke to grind the rice to make his cakes, cook them, and then carry them to this village to sell. When he returned home every evening, he gave his mother whatever cakes he had not sold.
Some days he would have good business and the village would line up before him to buy his cakes. On those days, he always made sure that he set aside one cake for his mother.
The New Year was my grandfather’s busiest time. That was when all the villagers wanted cakes, for, of course, having a cake on the New Year meant one would get a promotion. My grandfather always carried an extra basket of cakes when he went to town then.
One New Year was especially busy. My grandfather sold all his cakes before evening, except for the one he put aside for his mother. He had to turn away customers as he made his way out of the village. Before he left, however, he was stopped by the mayor—the richest man in the district.
“Hey! Baker!” the mayor called out. “I need a cake for the New Year.”
“I am so sorry,” my grandfather said, bowing. “I promise to bring more tomorrow, but I have no more to sell today.”
“Yes, you do,” the mayor said, his keen eyes spotting the last cake in my grandfather’s basket. “I’ll take that one.”
“I’m sorry,” my grandfather said again, “that one is not for sale.”
The mayor sputtered and tried to bargain, offering more and more money—as much money as my grandfather had made that entire day. But my grandfather still refused. Nothing would sway him to sell his last cake. Finally, very much annoyed, the mayor huffed away.
My grandfather continued on his journey home. But as he walked along the path, a ragged old man stepped in front of him.
“Please,” the old man begged, “something to eat?”
My grandfather looked at the man, who was obviously suffering and in need. I cannot turn him away, my grandfather thought, and he pulled out some coins and offered them.
“No,” the man said, “I cannot eat coins! Please, some food?”
My grandfather was at a loss. He could not give away his mother’s cake, nor could he leave this beggar to starve. Finally, he broke the cake in two and gave half to the beggar.
“Thank you!” the beggar said, grabbing the halved cake and disappearing into the shadows. “See you tomorrow.”
My grandfather shook his head, confused, but finally continued home. The next day he returned to the village with two extra baskets of cakes. Business was brisk, yet the whole time my grandfather was selling, he kept thinking about the beggar. See you tomorrow, he had said. Was he planning to meet him again? Just in case, my grandfather decided to save not one cake, but two.
And he was glad he had. Because much like the day before, my grandfather’s cakes sold out quickly and he left for home early. And, just like the day before, the beggar stopped him and asked for food. This time, my grandfather gave him a pastry without hesitation.
This continued for the fifteen days of the New Year. But then the New Year ended and none of the villagers were interested in purchasing my grandfather’s cakes anymore. He trudged home sadly, his baskets full of unsold cakes. As he walked in the darkness, the beggar man stepped in front of him again.
“Why so glum, Baker?” the beggar asked.
“Oh, it is not as bad as your plight,” my grandfather said, opening his basket. “Today, I have plenty for you to eat.”
“Thank you,” the beggar said, grabbing a pastry, “but tell me why you are so troubled.”
