The Political Officer’s wife brought out a plate of sliced mango, a rare treat, then excused herself, leaving the men to further congratulate one another on their cleverness and their masterful planning.
Eventually, their talking lapsed into heavy snoring that sounded like rusty saws slicing through bricks. When Shí was certain that they were all fast asleep, he walked quietly across the room to the pantry and filled an empty rice sack with food. At the bottom of the pantry he spotted a cardboard box. Curious, he opened it and saw a thick ginseng root.
Shí stuffed the box into the bag and walked out into the dark.
11
FEEDING MING
MING WAS STANDING IN A DIMLY LIT HOUSE. A delicious-smelling white mist danced in front of him. He followed it into the next room, where a large table was piled high with shrimp dumplings, garlic beef, eggs stewed in five-spice tea sauce, glutinous rice wrapped in reed leaves, crispy golden brown spring rolls, and sweet rice cakes decorated with colorful rose petals. Mother was sitting at the head of the table. She held a dumpling between her chopsticks and was smiling warmly at him. She was saying something, but her words were drowned out by a heavy thumping.
Slowly Ming opened his eyes. The thumping turned to a throbbing pain behind his swollen left lid. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying on the dirt floor outside the bedroom. Thin strips of moonlight poured through the dirty window, throwing a ghostly pale glow onto the floor next to his face. The pain of his bruised face pressing against the cold floor forced him back to reality.
Eventually, he mustered the strength to push himself upright using the wall. The pounding in his head worsened. His mouth was as dry as dust. Ming saw a chipped enamel cup resting on the floor next to the bed. The mere thought of reaching for it exhausted him. He closed his eyes, trying to will the pain and hunger away. He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again, the moonlight had shifted. He now sat in shadow.
With a gasp, Ming remembered the danger his bā ba was facing and what had happened to his new friend, Shí. His head was awhirl with the events of the afternoon. Legs quivering, he rose unsteadily to his feet. The living room swam before his eyes. Like a blind man, he felt along the wall until his fingers touched the light switch next to the door frame. He flipped on the only light in the room, a naked 25-watt bulb.
“Ming, are you all right?”
A bulky silhouette filled the doorway.
“Shí!”
The soldier rushed over, righted a chair, and helped Ming sit down.
“Are you hurt?” Shí turned Ming’s head gently and examined his face.
“It’s nothing!” Ming twisted his head away. “I—I—I thought Goat Face took you! How did you escape? Did anyone follow you? What’re you—” Nostrils flaring, he squinted at the bag cradled in Shí’s arms. “Is that … is that … food?”
Shí grinned proudly and dropped the rice sack onto the desk.
“L-l-let me ha-ha-have it!” Ming’s teeth chattered like a hungry horse. His hands stretched eagerly toward the sack.
Shí picked up a wooden bowl from the floor and shook a few crispy dumplings, jiăo zi, 饺子, into it. “Eat these while I cook up the rest. As we used to say in the Qin army, no soldier can fight on an empty stomach.”
Ming’s hands trembled as he held the bowl. Tears of gratitude welled up in his eyes.
He bit into a dumpling. A burst of pleasure exploded in his mouth. The meat dumplings had been pan-fried to perfection. They were crispy on the outside, soft and juicy on the inside. Barely pausing to chew, he wolfed them down. His stomach gurgled like an excited frog. Clutching the empty bowl, he followed Shí’s movements greedily.
“I found something else that will enhance your vital energy, yuán qì, 元气!” Shí said proudly as he took out the silk-lined box.
“That was for my mother!” Ming exclaimed. “But it arrived too late.” His face clouded over. “Father had to give it as a ‘present’ to the Political Officer.”
Ming took the box from Shí’s outstretched hands and opened it carefully, making sure the precious ginseng was still inside. He stared at it for a long moment and then gently closed the lid. Ignoring Shí’s curious look, he hid the box under a stack of papers on the desk.
“It’s fine with me if you want to save it. We have enough food for you now!” said the soldier.
Shí stirred the embers in the stove and threw in a few pieces of coal. Then he set a handless wok on the stove. While the oil was heating, he chopped up garlic, ginger, and daikon radishes from the bag and tossed them into the wok. Soon a tantalizing aroma filled the room, sending Ming into a frenzy of anticipation.
Ming admired his friend’s graceful movements around the stove, not something he would expect from a terra-cotta soldier. The last time he’d tried to cook a meal, he had burned the scallion pancakes into briquettes, and had put so much salt into the soup that his bā ba joked they could use it to kill ants. After that, Bā ba hadn’t allowed him to endanger their precious food.
Shí skillfully cracked four eggs into the wok and talked over the sizzling sound. “Your Political Officer and his friends expected me to stand there patiently while they slept off their ‘celebration.’” He chuckled and reached into the bag.
“Ming!” Shí pointed at the wall behind Ming. “What’s that?”
Turning his head, Ming saw the portrait of Mao grinning benevolently at him. “Oh, that’s Chairman Mao.” He looked back and caught Shí tossing a handful of something into the wok.
“Hmm. I thought I saw a rat in the corner. I must have been mistaken,” Shí said with a sly smile. He poured in a few drops of soy sauce while briskly stir-frying the ingredients with a spatula.
“What did you just put in?” Ming asked suspiciously.
“Something to make you strong!”
Ming narrowed his eyes as Shí poured the noodle mixture into a large bowl and covered it with the pan-fried eggs. The smell intensified Ming’s hunger. Bowing his head in a gesture of thanks, Ming took the bowl. He slurped down a mouthful of noodles. Delicious!
He was conscious that Shí was watching him, smiling happily, just as his bā ba would after cooking him a big meal. Shí was right; no soldier could fight on an empty stomach. The food was not only giving Ming strength but lessening the pain in his head too. He could now think straight. He knew that Goat Face would be back looking for Shí, but he decided to deal with it after his stomach was full.
The egg whites were delicately crispy, with the yolks still soft, bursting with sweet, sour, salty, and spicy flavors. The chopped daikon gave the flavorful noodles a satisfying crunch. There was something else in the food that Ming couldn’t identify, but as much as he hated to admit it, whatever it was made the dish even tastier than anything his mother had ever cooked.
“What’s this?” Ming asked. He held up what looked like a short pink noodle in his chopsticks. “It’s delicious! I’ve never eaten anything quite like it.” He tossed it into his mouth.
Shí smiled broadly. “Do you know what Qin soldiers ate when the supply lines were cut? Rats, boiled leather belts, and worms.”
Ming hastily put down his empty bowl. “What? You just fed me worms?”
Worm noodles, similar to what Shí served to Ming.
“Yes! Weren’t they tasty? I dug them up on the way here. After not eating for so long, you need them to replenish your energy and restore your Chi. Besides, worms are easy to digest.”
As hungry as he often was, Ming had never dreamed of eating worms. But Shí was right—they were tasty.
Ming wasn’t full yet. He tried to think of a polite way to ask Shí what else was in the bag, when the soldier fished out two bread rolls. He cut them neatly in half, filled them with sliced meat and onions, and handed them to Ming.
“Did Liang teach you how to cook like this?” Ming took a bite.
Shí laughed. “Not exactly. Liang’s expertise was limited to helmet stew. I perfected my cooking in the ca
valry. Stuffed bread rolls are one of the best ideas we stole from the Mongols. As they spent most of their lives on the move, they would wrap meat in bread and eat with their hands—much easier than eating stir-fried noodles with chopsticks.”
“It’s so flavorful!” Ming took another greedy bite, closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Thank you!”
He opened his eyes and smiled gratefully at his new friend. “It’s been a long time since I ate something this good. So, Shí, how did you get into the cavalry?”
12
JOINING THE CAVALRY
“NOT EASILY.” SHÍ SAT DOWN ON THE FLOOR, facing Ming.
Remember how I had made a vow to join the cavalry when they waved the heads at us? My determination grew over time. Finally, my opportunity came when the frozen ground began to thaw and the black dirt oozed with moisture below the sunny side of the wall. As the Great Wall extended, more soldiers were needed in the cavalry to guard supply lines and depots. I volunteered immediately, but the commander rejected my request, saying that I was too young to fight in a head-on battle. I was heartbroken.
That spring was unusually wet. It rained nonstop for weeks at a time. One morning, during a break in the weather, I spotted a Mongol force riding toward a neighboring tower. We couldn’t light the wet straw to send out the warning signal. I ran down to the stable, jumped on a horse, and raced off to the next tower to alert them. Halfway there, the storm resumed, pelting my face like pebbles.
Ming pictured Shí racing through sheets of rain, droplets of water flying off his armor.
When the cavalry commander learned that I had outridden the Mongols to alert our troops, he accepted my transfer request. For the next three months, I practiced fighting with spears and swords on a charging horse. Most important, I learned to fight as part of a team, charging as a single unit while protecting one another.
I was assigned to a unit that guarded a supply depot for the Great Wall in the western Gansu Province. Huge wooden warehouses nestled against the mountainside. They contained materials and supplies collected from all over China—timber, tools, winter clothes, grain, sorghum wine, dried meat, and wheat. I told myself I was guarding food for my father, but, in truth, I hadn’t heard from him or my mother since leaving home six months earlier.
An early-fourteenth-century watercolor of mounted warriors pursuing enemies, believed to be Mongols.
One night, after a long day of drills, I was leading my horse into the stable, when someone slapped me on the back so hard that I almost fell into a pile of hay.
“Wha—?” I turned angrily, fists raised.
There was a loud laugh. “I knew we would not be separated for long!”
“Feng!” I cried joyfully, lowering my fists. “How did you get into the cavalry?”
“You don’t think you’re the only one who can ride a horse, do you?” Feng asked with a wink.
He pulled two bread rolls stuffed with meat out of his bag. “I ‘liberated’ these from the quartermaster when he wasn’t looking,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Come!”
I followed him behind the stables, where we talked and ate under the twinkling stars.
“Did you ever capture a Mongol head?” Ming asked eagerly, stuffing the last bit of bread roll in his mouth.
“Not right away. Our depot was located at the mouth of a canyon. The Mongols could never get past our archers’ hail of arrows or our fierce infantry, so we—the cavalry—nestled in tents set among the warehouses, getting fat and lazy. I grew frustrated.”
Feng was an optimist and assured me we would get our chance. But he was wrong. The Mongols gave up attacking the depot. Instead, they began to raid our supply caravans. We had to divide our forces.
By this time, both Feng and I were dying to get out of the camp. We volunteered to escort a caravan transporting rice, tools, and herbal medicine to a new section of the Great Wall. The morning our unit left, icy snow bit at our faces, and a stiff wind cut through our cotton jackets like knives. At noon, when we stopped for lunch, Feng brought me warm ginger soup in his helmet.
“Hurry!” he said. “Drink it quickly so you can sneak back into line for more.”
I slurped down the hot broth as quickly as I could while he gnawed on a half-frozen bread roll. When I finished, I took our helmets to get us more soup while he went for noodles.
We were a great team.
Ming wished that he had a friend like Feng. He would have shared everything with him, as he had with his friends in Xi’an. Soon after moving to Red Star, he had started a conversation with a classmate. At first, the boy, whose name was Yang, seemed shy, but when Ming told him that he was building a radio, Yang became very talkative and friendly, showing great interest.
Ming was excited and planned to invite Yang over that weekend. But when he talked to the boy the next day, Teacher Panda pointed at Yang and called out, “Why are you talking to the bourgeois boy?”
Since then, whenever they met, Yang would look around nervously and quickly walk away.
After lunch, we entered a valley. The wind whistled through the trees and rattled the barren branches around us. When we reached a sloping hill, Mongols charged down from behind the tree line. We immediately moved into a circular defensive formation around our supplies, facing outward.
The enemy’s fierce attack and their loud drums startled our horses. Two of my brothers-in-arms were bucked off their horses. One broke his neck in the fall and was trampled by his own horse; the other was dragged off by the enemy. Fear drowned out any excitement I had felt before. We would have been wiped out if a regular patrol had not come to our aid. Humiliated, we stumbled back to camp, clothes torn and covered in blood, carrying our wounded and dragging our dead.
Unlike those lucky cavalrymen who guarded the Great Wall and could see the Mongols from far away, we were fighting shadows and chasing ghosts. Once we left the camp, we never knew when we would fall into an ambush. During battles, I tried to stay at the center of our formation, away from the enemy. Unfortunately, being a coward didn’t give me a chance to kill any Mongols.
“What about your shield and pine-tree jacket?” Ming asked quietly. “I thought that was supposed to keep you safe!”
“Ah, you remembered that! Well, by then I had outgrown the jacket. And … I lost it.”
“How could you lose it?” Ming asked angrily. He thought about the last sweater his mother had sewn for him. It was too small now, but he still kept it at the bottom of the wooden chest under his bed.
Shí avoided Ming’s gaze. “I was trying to stay alive. The long winter was hard on us. Many fell ill, and our horses, bred for a warmer climate, were unable to compete with those of the Mongols in the bitter cold. During one of their ambushes, the Mongols seized my gear, including the jacket.”
“That’s awful!” Ming let out a sympathetic sigh.
I had nightmares every night. The young Mongol I had killed on the wall kept haunting me. The boy’s face was so vivid and his cry so clear. Other times I dreamed that my father had fallen ill on the wall and that my mother, weeping, stood in the road holding an empty rice jar. I was afraid to close my eyes.
One night I woke Feng with my cries. When he asked me what was wrong, I was too ashamed to speak. How could I claim that I loved my family while hiding like a coward? I swore that I would fight with honor and face the Mongols like a man.
“So did the Mongols kill you?” Ming asked.
A scowl fell over Shí’s face, and his gaze hardened. Ming wondered if the soldier was tempted to smack him for asking such a rude question. He quickly changed the subject.
“Um … uh … so what exactly happened at the Political Officer’s house this afternoon?”
Shí’s face regained its composure. “Oh, his friends brought him a box of sticks called dy-no-mite.” He struggled with the unfamiliar word. “They plan to use them to break into the Emperor’s tomb.”
A chill ran down Ming’s spine. His back stiffened. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”<
br />
“Bah! There is nothing to worry about. I watched one go off.” Shí scoffed. “It is only good for scaring chickens and dogs. It won’t even scratch the Emperor’s tomb.”
Ming stood up, spreading his arms to emphasize his point. “Shí! One stick might not do much, but bundled together, they can cause massive destruction!”
“Relax, Ming! The tomb is stronger than rock. Do you know that during its construction, workers shot arrows at the walls? If they left any marks, the structure was taken down and rebuilt.”
“Trust me, Shí. Those sticks can do a lot more damage than your sticks with pointy heads. Dynamite can blow a tunnel through a mountain. You have to warn your friends!”
Ming realized what he’d just said. If Shí left to warn his friends, what was going to happen to him and his bā ba?
“Ah … perhaps I should,” Shí replied. “The men are planning to break in through the well where I was found. They also talked about framing someone else for robbing the tomb.”
“Who?”
“Someone named Old Chen.”
The color drained from Ming’s face. “Shí, that’s … that’s my bā ba!” His mind raced, and the words came tumbling out. “He should be back by now. I wish I knew where he was. But if we warn your friends and stop the raid, we can protect the tomb. Then there won’t be anything for them to accuse my father of, right?”
“I suppose so,” Shí said thoughtfully. “In that case, we must go into the tomb.”
“But you just said they’ll be at the well. How are we going to get past them?”
“If you can guide me to the west side of Li Mountain. I know of a secret entrance.”
“A secret entrance?” Ming cried.
“Yes. It was meant for the Emperor’s chief consul, Li Si. Emperor Qin planned to run the country from his tomb. Li Si was supposed to visit the mausoleum and make regular reports, but he never came.”
Secrets of the Terra-Cotta Soldier Page 6
