Secrets of the Terra-Cotta Soldier

by Ying Chang Compestine

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The quotation on page vii from The Art of War appears in The First Emperor of China: The Greatest Archeological Find of Our Time by Arthur Cotterell

  (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1981), page 44.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Compestine, Ying Chang.

  Secrets of the terra-cotta soldier / by Ying Chang Compestine and

  Vinson Compestine.

  pages cm

  Summary: Through the stories of a terra-cotta soldier who has survived through the centuries, thirteen-year-old Ming, a village boy in 1970s China, learns the history of Emperor Qin, known both for building the Great Wall of China and for burying scholars alive, and how and why the terra-cotta soldiers came to be.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-0540-3

  [1. China—Antiquities—Fiction. 2. Qin shi huang, Emperor of China, 259–210 B.C.—Fiction. 3. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. 4. China—History—Qin dynasty, 221–207 B.C.—Fiction. 5. China—History—1949–1976—Fiction.] I. Compestine, Vinson. II. Title.

  PZ7.C73615Se 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013006284

  Text copyright © 2014 Ying Chang Compestine and Vinson Compestine Illustration credits can be found on this page.

  Drawing of terra-cotta soldier by Jonathan Bartlett

  Book design by Maria T. Middleton

  Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification.

  For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.

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  To Emperor Qin, for commissioning a timeless mystery

  CONTENTS

  1 “WE FOUND AN EARTH GOD!”

  2 THE TERRA-COTTA HEAD

  3 GETTING ACQUAINTED

  4 SCHOOL

  5 THE TEAHOUSE

  6 JOINING THE QIN ARMY

  7 ASSEMBLING

  8 GUARDING THE GREAT WALL

  9 THE POLITICAL OFFICER

  10 DYNAMITE

  11 FEEDING MING

  12 JOINING THE CAVALRY

  13 CHENGFU BATTLE

  14 JOURNEY TO THE TOMB

  15 INSIDE THE TOMB

  16 THE YELLOW-POWDER TRAP

  17 “YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE US!”

  18 SHÍ’S LAST BATTLE

  19 THE REWARD

  20 TOMB ROBBERS

  21 THE WALKIE-TALKIE

  22 SACRIFICE THE ARM, SAVE THE BODY

  23 THE TRAP

  24 VISITORS

  25 THREE MONTHS LATER

  GLOSSARY

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  MING’S FAVORITE STIR-FRIED NOODLES, WITH WORMS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1

  “WE FOUND AN EARTH GOD!”

  MING FISHED OUT THE DREGS OF HIS BUCKWHEAT noodles with his chopsticks. He paused for a moment, grimaced, and then slurped them down. Now that the government was threatening to close the village’s archaeological office, his father, bā ba, 爸爸, could soon be out of a job. Three days from now would mark the second year since the office had opened. But without an important discovery, the office would be shut down, marking the end of his bā ba’s livelihood. After that, Ming would be lucky to have even plain noodles to eat for breakfast.

  He set the chipped wooden bowl on the desk and picked up his English textbook. He stared intently at the strange letters. Since his bā ba’s early-morning departure, he hadn’t been able to focus on his homework. It had taken him an hour to meticulously line up the cryptic letters that resembled dead ants into just two short sentences: Chairman Mao are bright sun. He leader we to a happy life. Pages of dead ants were still waiting to be arranged.

  Ming sighed and leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs and holding the flimsy textbook in his hand. On the cover, a worker with arms as thick as hams raised his hand, smiling broadly. Next to him was a peasant woman with round cheeks as red as fresh chili peppers. Below them were revolutionary slogans. Ming wondered if he could toss the textbook through the small door of the bucket-shaped coal stove across the room.

  “Anyone home?”

  The harsh voice from the courtyard startled Ming. He almost toppled over backward. He set the textbook down and ran outside.

  Three grimy farmers stood beside a wheelbarrow under the hawthorn tree in the center of the yard. The first signs of spring had appeared, and the branches were tinged with new, tender buds that hadn’t been there a week ago.

  A communist propaganda poster similar to the cover art on Ming’s textbook.

  Despite the early March chill, streams of sweat drew tracks down the farmers’ dusty faces. They were out of breath and loudly sucking in mouthfuls of the crisp air. The eldest of them leaned against the tree for support.

  Ming knew these frequent visitors well. The Gee brothers were always claiming they’d found something valuable and demanding money in return. Months ago, the fourth and youngest Gee brother had vanished. Some said he had committed suicide, while others insisted that he had run off after digging up an ancient treasure. Soon after his disappearance, the villagers began referring to the remaining Gees as the oldest, the middle, and the youngest—as if the fourth brother had never existed.

  “What did you find?” Ming’s stern voice belied his young age. He slowly descended the steps into the courtyard. His skinny frame looked even smaller next to the broad-shouldered, solidly built farmers.

  The oldest Gee brother wiped his muddy hands on his cotton jacket. Ming noticed the mismatched buttons.

  “Where’s Old Chen?” the man asked gruffly. The frost of his breath swirled in the air. His dark-skinned face was wrinkled like a dried peach. “We found an earth god!”

  Ming backed up two steps of the stoop, putting himself at eye level with the farmers. He had long ago learned that looking up at an adult placed him in a weaker position. “My father is in Xi’an attending an important meeting,” he said calmly. “He should be back later today.”

  Ming worked to keep his voice steady, trying to appear confident. He wasn’t about to tell them that his bā ba, who appraised and bought artifacts for the museum, had gone to the city in a desperate and probably futile attempt to plead with officials to keep his office open.

  The youngest Gee cursed loudly. “Turtle turds! We were counting on making some quick money.” He had the same sharp chin and sour disposition as his older brothers.

  Ming was irritated by the Gee brothers’ greed, but his curiosity got the best of him. It was unusual for the farmers to bring anything big enough to require a wheelbarrow. He stepped down to take a look.

  The youngest Gee quickly moved in front of him, blocking his view. “Now, hold on. What about our payment?” He thrust out his hand.

  Ming sighed in exasperation. “You’ll have to wait until my father gets home.”

  Every time the Gee brothers brought
in discoveries, Ming’s bā ba told them that he would pay them in two days, after he had had a chance to assess the value. Yet every time, they demanded the money on the spot.

  “What did you find?” Ming asked, silently cursing himself for showing interest.

  “Something very valuable!” declared the middle brother, the one with the bald head.

  Ming’s bā ba had taught him that buying artifacts from farmers like the Gee brothers was like bargaining for vegetables at the market. Once the seller knew you wanted them, he would insist on an outrageous amount of money.

  Just as the Gee brothers would have done, Chinese villagers worked in the fields, maintained roads, and performed other menial tasks. This villager wears typical clothing of the era.

  “Where did you find it?” Ming asked.

  “We were digging a well on the east side of the village and struck something hard about ten feet down.” The oldest brother jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m telling you, this one is worth a fortune! And we want our money now!” His sharp, beady eyes challenged Ming.

  Suddenly, blossoming anger replaced Ming’s seed of curiosity. Most of the farmers in the village were reasonable, but the Gee brothers always looked for soft persimmons to crush. Instead of lowering his eyes, as was traditionally expected when a youth talked to an elder, Ming matched the old man’s gaze.

  “If you don’t want to wait for my father to appraise it, just take it to the Xi’an museum yourselves. But make up your mind! I have to go to school soon.” He wished he didn’t have to deal with the Gee brothers all by himself.

  “We can’t push this old wheelbarrow twenty-two miles!” protested the oldest brother.

  “All right,” said the middle brother sullenly. “We’ll wait. But we want to get paid as soon as Old Chen gets home!”

  Weary indifference drifted over Ming. “Bring it into the house, and I’ll give you a receipt.”

  As the men pushed the wheelbarrow up the stone steps, grunting with exertion, Ming glanced inside it. He struggled to conceal his excitement: A life-size clay torso lay among a scattering of bronze arrowheads and disembodied clay limbs. Next to one of the legs was a clay head. The young-looking face bore an expression that was blank yet somehow arrogant. The high cheekbones and thin nose made it seem distinctly refined. Atop its meticulously sculpted hair sat a small round hat.

  It was the most fascinating artifact Ming had ever seen, and by far the largest. Would this discovery help his bā ba convince the government to start some serious archaeological excavations in the village? Ming wished he had a way to contact him, but the only phone in the village was at the Political Officer’s home. And he wasn’t about to let that man know of his bā ba’s absence.

  Once inside the house, Ming picked up the head. He assumed the same critical expression he used when bargaining for cabbage. As his fingers brushed a grainy square at the back of the head, a sudden warmth radiated from it into his hands and then through his body. Ming turned the head over and studied the character inscribed on it: field, tián, 田.

  “Hey! Be careful with the earth god!” the oldest brother shouted.

  2

  THE TERRA-COTTA HEAD

  THE GEE BROTHERS UNLOADED THE BROKEN terra-cotta statue in the workshop, which also served as kitchen and living space for Ming and his bā ba.

  A plastic clothesline stretched across the room. It sagged under the weight of the damp green garments that hung over the stove. Along one wall were shelves heaped high with basins, bowls, and books. A desk stood against the opposite wall.

  Ming brushed transistor tubes and various electronic parts to one side of the desk and carefully set the head down. He picked up a worn stub of pencil and a pad of paper with the big bold heading XI’AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE, 1958–1974. After clearing his throat, he delivered the instructions he had dictated many times since he had turned thirteen, a year ago.

  “Please write down your name and address so my father can contact you. You will be compensated if your discovery is valuable.” Even though Ming already had the Gee brothers’ information, he wanted to maintain the formality of the transaction.

  “Of course it’s valuable! You tell Old Chen it’s worth at least fifty bags of rice!” As the youngest brother snatched the pad and pencil from Ming, his broad shoulders knocked loose one of the shirts hanging from the clothesline. It fell to the ground with a plop.

  None of the brothers bothered to pick it up.

  “Hey, I just washed that!” Ming protested.

  “Oh, look, he can do women’s work!” the middle Gee brother sneered.

  The three men chuckled.

  Bristling, Ming angrily pushed aside the youngest brother, who was laboriously writing on the paper. Ming picked up the shirt and tossed it back over the line.

  The youngest Gee threw the pencil and paper onto the desk. His hand paused in midair, then reached for a red pin with Chairman Mao’s profile. Below Mao were gold characters proclaiming “Serve the People,” wèi rén mín fú wù, 为人民服务. The pin was a rare edition Ming’s bā ba had brought home from Xi’an.

  A highly sought-after pin featuring the profile of Chairman Mao.

  Eyes flaring with anger, Ming quickly grabbed it and swept it into the desk drawer.

  Deprived of the pin, the youngest brother clenched his hand into a fist. “Don’t try to cheat us!” he snarled. “We’ll be back for our money!” As he stormed out, his feet pounded the floor with enough force to kick up chunks of dirt. His brothers followed, muttering in agreement.

  Ming closed the door behind them, relieved to shut out both their grating voices and the chilly early-spring air. He took a few deep breaths to gather his thoughts and then walked into the back room, which served as storage space as well as the bedroom. The government had built it onto the back of the house when Ming’s bā ba became the museum’s representative. Along with the addition, they had given him an official document, declaring that anything unearthed in the village was the property of the Xi’an museum.

  Ming filled a small bamboo basket with egg-size pieces of coal and returned to the front room. He tossed a few of them onto the low-burning fire, then fanned the flames. After setting an aging kettle on the stove, he sat down near the desk, gazing curiously at the broken soldier. Where did it come from? Could it be from a tomb? Would it be enough to convince the government to keep the office open and resume paying his bā ba’s salary?

  Ming had prayed to gods known and unknown, to ancestors named and unnamed, and even to Chairman Mao that his bā ba would make an incredible discovery that could lift them out of this backward village. How he missed the movie theaters in the city. And the indoor bathrooms—they were warm even during the worst snowstorms! More than anything, Ming missed his friends in Xi’an. Ever since he and his bā ba had arrived in the village of Red Star, the kids had treated him with a hostility he did not understand. He often wondered if it was because he was from the city and represented a world they didn’t know.

  Ming spotted a small square piece from the military chess game that he and his bā ba liked to play. He picked up the rough, handmade tile from under the desk and tossed it into the desk drawer, smiling. He had memorized the wood-grain pattern on the back of his bā ba’s important pieces. Ming had learned that if he could find his bā ba’s general and assassinate it with one of his precious bombs, he was guaranteed victory. But last night, Bā ba had removed both generals from the field, smiling knowingly at Ming. “The generals need some rest. The colonels will lead the battle tonight.”

  Somehow, Ming had still managed to win the game. This morning, before departing, his bā ba had patted Ming on the shoulder and said, “The colonel will be in charge in the general’s absence.”

  Ming glanced at the clay head—and froze. Had the nose just twitched? It couldn’t have! He leaned closer, staring intently.

  This time, the eyes seemed to follow him.

  Impossible! Ming shook his head, annoyed at himself for
entertaining such silly thoughts. He reached over and picked up a bronze arrowhead from the floor, rubbing off the dirt with his thumb and forefinger. The edge pressed into his skin, still razor-sharp beneath the grime.

  Maybe he should sell the arrowheads as scrap metal for food, like other village boys. If he was lucky, he might even get enough money to buy two hard-boiled eggs. He quickly shook off the idea, imagining his bā ba’s disapproving look.

  Ming gazed outside, where the sun was peeking out from behind fast-moving clouds. He felt as if someone was staring at him. He quickly looked around the room. Again he caught sight of the head. He could have sworn that the eyes blinked and the ears wiggled, but when he turned on the plastic desk lamp, the head bore the same blank expression as before.

  An unearthed terra-cotta head.

  Ming shook his head in exasperation and wondered if the changing light from outside was playing tricks on him. He picked up the head and held it under the bulb, squinting at the 田 character inscribed on the nape of its neck. Could it be someone’s name?

  “Hello, young man! Are you going to assemble me?”

  With a loud yelp, Ming dropped the head and jumped back, pressing himself against the wall.

  The head landed face-first on the desk with a dull thunk.

  Ming stared at it with a mix of terror and fascination. It slowly rolled sideways, until one ear rested on the desk and the other faced up.

  “Hey! I’m delicate! How would you like it if I tossed your head around?” The head raised its eyebrows in mock curiosity. The gravelly voice took on a commanding tone. “Clumsy boy, come over here and put me upright!”

  Ming glanced at the door behind him.

  “Come on. I won’t bite!”

  Ming was rooted to the spot, as stiff as a frozen fish.

  “If you help me,” the head coaxed, “I shall tell you some exciting stories about me and my friends—and maybe even a few secrets about the tomb we live in. Does that sound like a fair deal?”