All of a sudden I felt light-headed, and so I drew in a breath. “I think it’s what my mother would have wanted.”
Li Po was silent for a moment. “It must be awful,” he finally said. “Not even knowing what she was called.”
Without warning Li Po sat up straight, as if he’d been the one poked with my embroidery needle. “I know,” he exclaimed. “We could make up a name, a secret name, one we’d never tell anyone. That way you’d have something to call her. You’d be able to talk to her, if you wanted to.”
He squirmed a little on the hard rock seat, as if he’d grown uncomfortable. But I knew that wasn’t it at all. Li Po was excited, just as I was.
“If I choose, will you show me how to write it?”
“I will,” Li Po promised. “Pretend you’re about to make a wish. Close your eyes. Then open them and tell me what you want your mother’s name to be.”
I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes. I listened to the water in the stream. I felt the warmth of the late afternoon sun beating down. And the name popped into my head, almost as if it had been waiting there all along.
“Zao Xing,” I said as I opened my eyes. “Morning Star.”
“That’s beautiful,” Li Po said. “And look, the characters that form it look almost the same.” Quickly he drew them, side by side.
“Thank you,” I breathed when he was finished. Never had I been given a more wonderful gift. “Thank you, Li Po.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome, Little Orchid.”
I made a rude sound. “I’m big enough to dump you in the stream,” I threatened.
“Yes, but if you do that, I won’t teach you how to read and write,” Li Po replied.
I threw my arms around him. “You’ll teach me? Honestly? You’ll teach me everything you learn yourself?”
“Everything I learn myself,” Li Po promised. “Now and forever. You’re my best friend. I love you, Mulan.”
“And I love you,” I said. I kept my arms around him tight. “Let’s make a pact,” I said fiercely. “No matter what happens, let’s promise to be friends for life.”
“Friends for life,” Li Po echoed as he returned my hug. “But we’ll have to be careful, Mulan. You have to work hard at your own lessons too. If my family finds out what we’re doing, they’ll split us up for good.”
“I know. I’ll be careful, and I’ll work hard. Honestly I will,” I vowed. “It’s just … being a girl is so hard sometimes. It always seems to be about pleasing somebody else.”
“Then you must master your lessons as best you can so that you can find the way to please yourself.”
I released him and sat back, my hands on my hips. “What makes you so wise, all of a sudden?”
“I’m going to be a great scholar someday. Haven’t you heard? Everybody says so.”
“Everybody being your mother, you mean,” I said. But I stood up and made a bow. “I am honored to become the first student of the great master Li Po.”
“I’m going to remember that, to make sure you pay me the proper respect,” Li Po said. And then he grinned. “Now sit back down. There’s one more character I want to show you.”
I settled back in beside him. Li Po leaned forward and drew a character comprised of just four lines.
The first was a downward swipe, slanting right to left. This was followed by a quick stroke across it to form a T, moving left to right.
Then on the right side of the down stroke, just beneath the place where the two lines crossed, Li Po made a line that started boldly toward the right. Before it went far, though, it abruptly changed direction, sweeping back to the left and down so that it looked like a man’s leg bent at the knee.
Li Po lifted the stick and then put the tip to the earth and made one last stroke, left to right, angling down just beneath the bent leg.
Finally he lifted the stick and sat back, his eyes on me.
I studied the character. I was almost certain I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want to rush into anything. I wanted to take my time making up my mind.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
Li Po reached out and placed his palm on top of mine. We clasped hands, squeezing them together tightly, and I knew that I was right.
Just below that sudden bending of the knee was a space, a triangle. And it was in this space that the character’s meaning resided. For this was its center, its true heart.
It’s just four lines, I thought. But placed so cleverly together that they represent two entities, joining in such a way as to create something else. That secret triangle, as if formed by two hands clasped.
“It’s ‘friend,’ isn’t it?” I said.
“That’s it precisely,” Li Po answered with a smile.
There was no more discussion after that. No more lessons, no more talk. Instead my only friend and I sat together, hands clasped tightly, until the light left the sky and we headed home.
FOUR
In the years that followed there were many lessons, and the pact of friendship Li Po and I had forged that day continued to grow strong. Every time Li Po learned something new from his tutors, he taught me to master it as well. It wasn’t long before I had added riding and archery to my list of unladylike skills. And so over the years a curious event transpired, though I don’t think either Li Po or I realized it at the time.
I stopped being quite so wild, at least on the inside.
While the new skills I was mastering were considered very masculine, they also took hard work, dedication, and time. In other words they took discipline, and not even I could be disciplined and wild all at the same time.
Acting with discipline requires you to know your true nature and, having come to know it, to bring it under control. On the surface I might have appeared unruly and unladylike, preferring boys’ tasks to my own. But I kept the promise I had made the day of my first writing lesson. I learned my own tasks as well as the ones Li Po set for me. There wasn’t a girl in all China who had my unusual combination of skills, no matter that I looked like a simple country girl on the outside.
I still struggled at certain tasks, as if my hands were clumsy and unwilling to perform those skills that did not also fire my imagination or touch my heart. But Li Po had no such problem. It sometimes seemed to me that there was magic in Li Po’s fingers, so deftly could he master anything he put his mind to.
Nowhere was this more apparent than when we practiced archery. I loved these lessons above all others, with the possible exception of horseback riding. When I rode, I could imagine I was free, imagine I was someplace where I didn’t need to hide my own unusual accomplishments. A place that didn’t require me to hide my own true face, but let me show it bravely and proudly. A place where I could be whomever I wanted.
In the absence of such a place, however, I practiced my archery.
I loved the feel of the bowstring against my fingers, pressing into my flesh, the stretch and burn of the muscles across my shoulders and back as I pulled the string back and held it taut. I loved the sensation in my legs as I planted them solidly against the earth, rooting me to it, making us one. It is not the air that gives the arrow its ability to fly. The air is full of currents, quick and mischievous, ready to send the arrow’s flight off course. The thing that makes the arrow fly true is the ground. The ground calls to the arrow, making the arrow long to find its target and then return to earth, bringing its prize home.
I never lost my joy in setting the arrow free. Always it was as wonderful as it had been the very first time. I loved to watch it streaking toward the target, my heart not far behind it. On its way to the destination I intended and nowhere else.
On a good day, anyhow.
If I could have spent all my days shooting and retrieving arrows, I would have. But as good as I became, I could not match Li Po’s skill. There were times when it seemed to me that he and the arrow shared some secret language, whispering together as Li Po held the feathers against his cheek, waiting patiently, watching his target
, before letting the arrow fly. I could hit eight out of any ten targets we chose, but Li Po could hit anything at which he aimed, no matter how far away it was.
“Let me see you hit that,” I challenged him late one summer afternoon. It was the time of day when we most often managed to snatch a few hours together. We were in our favorite place alongside the stream that separated his family’s lands from mine. We often practiced shooting here, for there were many aspects to take into account—the steepness of the banks and the breath of the wind—and, of course, there were plenty of plums to use for targets.
The particular plum I had suggested as today’s target was small, hanging on a branch toward the back of the tree. In order to pierce the target, Li Po would have to send his arrow through the heart of the tree, through many other branches filled with leaves and fruit.
I paced the bank opposite the tree. We were standing on Li Po’s family’s side of the stream.
“Shoot from here,” I finally instructed. The place I selected was higher than the tree branch. Li Po would have to angle his shot down. This is always more difficult, because it’s harder to judge the distance.
Li Po moved to stand beside me, eyeing both the branch and the location I had chosen, and then he gave a grunt. I stepped aside. Quickly Li Po took an arrow from the quiver on his back and set it to the bow. Then he set his feet in precisely the way that he had taught me, feeling the ground with his toes. Only when he was satisfied with his footing did he raise the bow and pull the arrow back, keeping his body relaxed even as the bowstring stretched taut.
For several seconds he stood just so. The wind moved the branches of the tree. I saw it ruffle the hair on Li Po’s brow so that the hair threatened to tickle his eyes. He never even blinked. Then, for a moment, the wind fell away, and the instant that it ceased to breathe, Li Po let the arrow fly.
Straight across the stream it flew, passing amid the branches of the plum tree as if they weren’t there at all. The arrow pierced the plum that was the target and then carried it to earth. I laughed and clapped my hands in appreciation as Li Po flashed a smile. Then, before I realized what he intended, Li Po bounded down the slope of the bank, splashed across the stream, and clambered up the opposite side to retrieve both his arrow and the plum.
He wiped the tip of the arrow on the grass and then thrust it back into his quiver. Returning to the stream, he bent to hold the plum in the cool water, washing the dirt from its pierced skin before straightening up and popping the small fruit into his mouth. He chewed vigorously, purple juice running down his chin. Then he spat the pit into the water and wiped a hand across his face. The grin he was wearing still remained, I noticed.
“I’ll race you to the top of the tree,” he challenged.
“No fair!” I cried. He had only to turn and take half a dozen steps to reach the tree’s thick trunk. I was standing on the opposite bank. I still had the stream to cross.
I acted without thinking, just as Min Xian was always scolding me for doing. Taking several steps back to gather momentum before abruptly sprinting forward, I streaked toward the stream, my legs pumping as hard as they could go. As I ran, I gave what I fondly imagined was a fierce warrior’s yell. I just had time to see Li Po’s startled expression before I jumped.
Li Po’s cry of warning came as I flew through the air, my arms stretched out in front. Oh great dragon of the water, I prayed as I flew across the stream. Carry me safely above you. Help me reach my goal in safety. Or, if you cannot and I must fall, please don’t let me break too many bones.
No sooner had I finished my silent prayer than I sailed into the branches of the plum tree, hands and legs scrabbling for purchase but finding none. I slithered downward, leaves and plums showering around me, thin branches snapping against my face. Then, with a bone-jarring impact, my body finally found a branch that would hold it.
I wrapped my arms and legs around it, clinging like a monkey. I stayed that way for several moments, sucking air, feeling my heart knock against my ribs at my close call. When I had my breath back, I decided it was time to find a less precarious hold.
Carefully I levered myself onto the branch and then into a sitting position, clinging to another branch just above me for additional support. By the time Li Po clambered up to sit beside me, my heart was just beginning to settle.
“You’re out of your mind. You know that, don’t you?”
“You ought to know better than to issue a challenge,” I reminded. However, I’d come close enough to disaster to admit, at least to myself, that Li Po was absolutely right.
Thank you, mighty dragon, I thought. Surely it had heard my prayer and helped to carry me across the stream. But I’d succeeded by no more than the reach of my fingers. Maybe I would think before I jumped next time around. There’s a first time for everything, or so they say.
“Nice shot,” I said, now that I had my breath back.
“Thank you,” Li Po replied.
“You’ll be a famous archer someday. You mark my words,” I went on. “The pride of the Son of Heaven’s army.”
Li Po gave a snort. “Not if I can help it. Besides, you’re the one who’s always pining for adventure, not me. If you had your way, you’d ride off into the sunset and never look back.”
I plucked a handful of leaves from a nearby branch and then released them, watching as they fluttered downward. They settled onto the surface of the water and were swiftly carried away.
“There’s not much chance of that happening,” I said. “I haven’t got a horse of my own.”
Li Po chuckled, but his eyes were not smiling. He was like this sometimes, in two places at once. It was one of the things I liked best about him. For Li Po the world was not always a simple place. It was filled with hills and valleys, with shadows and nuances.
“Where would you go?” he inquired.
“I don’t know,” I answered with a shrug. “I’m not even sure where is the point. I’d just like to be able to go. Girls don’t get out much, or go very far when they do, just in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Li Po fell silent, gazing down into the water. “They go to their husband’s homes,” he said after a moment.
“Don’t remind me,” I said glumly. “Though I’m never going to get married. Didn’t you hear? Min Xian said your mother told her so just the other morning. According to her there’s not a family in all China who’d have me, in spite of the Hua family name. I’m far too unmanageable and wild. She said that’s the real reason my father hasn’t come home once since the day I was born.”
“The great general Hua Wei is afraid of his own daughter? That doesn’t seem very likely,” Li Po remarked.
“Not out of fear—out of embarrassment,” I replied. I yanked the closest plum from its hold and hurled it down into the water with all my might. “Your mother told Min Xian that she prays daily to her ancestors that you won’t fall in love with me.”
Li Po frowned, and I knew it meant he’d heard his mother say so too. “I’ve heard her tell my father she wishes they could send me to Chang’an,” he said. “To the home of my father’s older brother.”
“But I thought they were sending you,” I said. “When you turn fifteen.”
Going to the capital would help complete Li Po’s education and help turn him into the scholar his family desired. If all went well, he would pass one of the grueling tests that would make him eligible for a government position. Then both he and his family would be set for life.
“That was the plan,” Li Po agreed. “But now she wants to hurry things along.”
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” I said. Girls married at fifteen, but most boys waited until they were older. Twenty was considered the proper age for a young man to take a wife.
“What does she think will happen? That I’ll suddenly become an endless temptation? That I’ll distract you from your studies?”
My chest ached with the effort I was making not to shout. The thought of me as an endless temptation, to Li
Po or anyone else, was so ridiculous it should have made me laugh. So why on earth did I feel like crying?
It’s because Li Po’s mother is right, and you know it, Mulan, I thought. No one is going to want you, in spite of the name of Hua. The only thing that will make it possible for you to marry is if you meet your bridegroom on your wedding day, so he doesn’t have the chance to get to know you ahead of time.
No one would want an unruly girl like me. Unlike my parents, I would not be offered the chance to marry for love.
All of a sudden I realized I was gripping the tree branch so tightly the knuckles on both hands had turned stark white.
“You can’t really blame them for wanting what’s best for me,” Li Po said. “I’m their only son. I have to pass my examinations and marry well. It’s expected, and I owe it to them, for raising me.”
“In that case they’re not making any sense,” I snapped, completely overlooking the fact that I wasn’t making much myself. “They’ll have to look long and hard before they find a girl with a better family name than Hua.”
“That is true,” Li Po replied. “If the family name were all there was to think about. But marriage is not as simple as that, and you know it, Mulan. For example, do you really want my mother for your popo, your mother-in-law?”
“Of course not,” I said at once. “No more than she wants me for a daughter-in-law. Or than I want you for a husband or you want me for a wife.” All of a sudden a terrible doubt occurred. I twisted my head to look at Li Po more closely.
“You aren’t thinking of asking me to marry you, are you?”
For the first time in our friendship I could not read Li Po’s expression. Until that moment I would have said I knew any emotion he might show. Then he exhaled one long, slow breath, and I knew what his answer would be.
“Seriously?” he said. “I suppose not, no. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about it sometimes. It would solve both our problems, Mulan. I’d have a wife who wouldn’t pester me to be ambitious, to become something other than what I wanted. You’d have a husband who’d do the same for you. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
Wild Orchid Page 3
