“No, it wouldn’t,” I replied.
Li Po and I had talked about many things during the course of our friendship, but we’d never really talked about the future. It had simply been there, looming in the distance, as dark and threatening as a storm cloud. Had we been hoping to make it go away by ignoring it? Or had we hoped to outrun it?
“What do you want to be?” I asked quietly, somewhat chagrined that the question had never occurred to me before now. I’d been so busy identifying the boundaries that contained me that I hadn’t taken the time to see the ones that bound Li Po.
He gave a slightly self-conscious laugh. “I’m not sure I know. That’s the problem. And I’m not so sure it would make any difference even if I did. Boys aren’t allowed to make choices any more than girls are. I know you don’t think this is so, but it’s the truth, Mulan. If I go against the wishes of my family, if I bring them dishonor, everyone will suffer.”
“But I thought you wanted to be a poet or a scholar,” I said. “Isn’t that what your family wants too?”
“It is what they want,” Li Po agreed. “But how can I know if it’s what I want when I’ve never been allowed to consider any other options? Just once I’d like to be free to listen to the voice inside my own head, to discover something all on my own.
“That’s part of why I like being with you. You may be bossy …” He slid me a quick laughing glance to take in my reaction. “But you never boss me around. So, yes, I do wonder what it would be like to be married to you, sometimes. You’d let me be myself, and I’d do the same for you.”
“And your mother?” I asked. “How would we convince her to leave us both alone?”
Li Po gave a sigh. “I don’t have the faintest idea,” he admitted.
“It sounds as if we should ride off into the sunset together,” I said. “Very quietly, and on your horse.”
“It does sound pretty silly when you put it that way, doesn’t it?” Li Po said.
“Not silly,” I answered. “Just impossible.”
We sat quietly. The branches of the old plum tree swayed and whispered softly, almost as if they wished to console us.
“It’s getting late,” Li Po said finally. “I should probably be getting home. The last thing we want is for my mother to send out a search party.”
“Shh!” I said suddenly, clamping a hand around his wrist to silence him. “Listen! I think someone’s coming.”
Above the voice of the stream, I heard a new sound—the sound of horses. Now that I’d acknowledged it was there, I realized I’d been hearing it for quite some time. But I’d been so wrapped up in my conversation with Li Po that I hadn’t recognized all the other things my ears were trying to tell me.
I could identify the creak of leather, the faintest jingle of harness. And most of all, I could hear the sharp sound of horses picking their way carefully over stones.
They are coming up the streambed! I thought. And there is more than one. They were close. In another moment the horses would pass beneath the boughs of the plum tree that extended out over the water.
“Li Po, your legs,” I whispered suddenly, for they were dangling down.
Li Po gave a frown. His head was cocked in my direction, though his eyes stayed fixed on the scene below.
“What?”
“Pull up your legs,” I said, urgently now. “Whoever is coming will be able to see them. They’re longer than mine.”
To this day I’m not quite sure how it happened. As a general rule Li Po was no more clumsy than I. Perhaps it was the fear of being caught, the astonishment that whoever was coming had chosen to ride up the streambed rather than the road. But in his haste to get his feet up out of the way, Li Po lost his balance. He reached for a branch to steady himself. Unfortunately, he found me instead.
One moment I was sitting in the tree. The next, I was hurtling down. And that is how I came to fall from the same tree twice.
FIVE
I’d like to tell you that I fell in brave and stoic silence, but the truth is that I shrieked like an outraged cat the whole way down. I landed in the stream this time around. The impact was painful. The water wasn’t deep enough to truly cushion my fall, and the stream-bed was full of stones.
I had no time to consider my cuts and bruises, however, because I landed squarely in the path of the lead horse. Its cry of alarm and outrage echoed my own. I scrambled to get my legs back under me, scurrying backward like a crab, kneeling on all fours. I tossed my drenched braid over my back and looked up just in time to see a pair of hooves pawing the air above me.
Every instinct screamed at me to move, to get out of the way. But here my mind won out. I put my arms up to shield my head and stayed right where I was. To move now would only startle the horse further. And I had no idea just where those pawing hooves might fall. If I moved, I could put myself squarely beneath them. Terrifying as it was, I had to stay still and pray that the rider would soon get the frightened animal under control.
Above the high-pitched neighing of the horse, I heard a deep voice speaking sternly yet with great calm. The voice found its way to my racing heart, steadying its beats, though they still came fast and hard.
With a final cry of outrage the horse brought his front legs down, hooves clacking sharply as they struck the stones of the streambed less than a hand’s breadth from where I knelt. The horse snorted and danced backward a few steps before finally agreeing to stand still, the stern, soothing voice of its rider congratulating it now.
I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole. That way I wouldn’t be required to provide explanations for my behavior, nor patiently accept the punishments that would no doubt be the result. I would simply disappear, my transgressions vanishing with me as if we had never existed at all.
But since I already knew all about wishes that never came true, I did the only thing I could: I lowered my arms from shielding my face and looked up.
The horse’s legs were the first thing I saw.
They were pure white, as if he’d borrowed foam from the water, and they rose up to join a glossy dark coat the color of chestnuts. He had a broad chest and bright, intelligent eyes. Though, I could see from his still-quick breathing that only the will of his rider kept him in place.
The rider, I thought.
“Yuanliang wo,” I said, remembering my manners at long last. “Forgive me, elder.”
Still kneeling in the stream, I bent over until my face was almost touching the water. I did not know who the stranger on this horse might be, but I knew enough to recognize that he had to be someone of rank—a court official, maybe even a nobleman. No ordinary man rode a horse such as this.
“I did not mean to startle your horse.”
The horse blew out a great breath, as if to encourage its rider to speak. To my astonishment, it worked.
“But you did mean to fall from the tree,” suggested a deep voice.
I straightened up in protest before I could help myself.
“No!” I cried. “I am a good climber. I’ve only fallen once before, and that was when I was much younger. This was all—”
Appalled with myself, I broke off, bowing low once more. Li Po had not fallen when I had. If I did not mention him, there was every reason to think I could keep him out of trouble.
“It’s all my fault, elder,” I heard Li Po say. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him march down the bank and make the proper obeisance. He’d climbed down from the tree while I was doing my best to avoid being trampled by the horse.
Oh, Li Po, you should have stayed put, I thought.
“And how is it your fault?” the stern voice asked. “I don’t see you in the water.”
“No, but you should,” Li Po replied in a steady voice that I greatly admired. “I was also in the tree. I was the first to lose my balance.”
“What were you doing up there in the first place?” a second voice inquired. It was not as deep and powerful as the first, but it was still a voice that commanded a
ttention.
The second rider, I thought.
“Nothing in particular,” Li Po said, but his voice was less certain now.
This was not an outright lie. We hadn’t been doing anything in particular. Just talking. But even this was going to be difficult to explain. Girls and boys did not usually climb trees together—especially not when they’d reached our age.
“A tree is an unusual place for doing ‘nothing in particular,’” the first rider observed. His horse shifted its weight once more. “You, in the stream, stand up,” he barked suddenly. “I want to get a better look at you.”
This was the moment I’d been dreading. Be brave, Mulan, I thought. Don’t let him know that you’re afraid. Remember you are a soldier’s daughter.
I stood up, trying to ignore the way water dripped from virtually every part of me. I stuck my chin out and squared my shoulders, actions I sincerely hoped would make me appear larger and braver than I actually felt. I was careful not to look into the nobleman’s face. Asking to look at me was not the same as giving me permission to return the gaze. Instead I kept my eyes fixed at a spot just over the man’s left shoulder.
A strange silence seemed to settle over all of us. In it I could hear the voice of the wind and the song of the stream. I could hear the nobleman’s horse breathing through its great nose. I could hear my own heart pounding deep inside my chest. And I could hear my own blood rushing through my veins as if to reach some destination not even it had chosen yet. The blood that made me different, that set me apart from everyone else.
Say something! Why doesn’t he say something? I thought. But it was the second rider who spoke up first.
“What is your name, child?” he inquired.
“I am called Mulan, sir,” I replied.
“And your family name?” the first rider barked. His voice was strained and harsh.
“Of the family of Hua,” I replied. “My father is the great general Hua Wei. He serves the emperor. And …” My voice trailed off, but I put my hands on my hips, planting my soaking feet more firmly in the stream. It was either this or start crying.
“You’d better watch out,” I said stoutly. “If you hurt me, my father will track you down. Not that you’ll be able to. I’ll hurt you first, for I am not afraid of anyone!”
“Nor should you be,” the second rider observed. “Not with the brave blood that flows through your veins.” My ears searched for but failed to find any hint of laughter in his voice.
“Tell me something, Hua Mulan,” he went on. “What does your father look like?”
“That is easy enough to answer,” I replied with a snort. I was no longer cold. Instead I was warm with a false bravado that made me reckless.
“He looks just as a great general should,” I went on. “He is broad-shouldered and strong, and his eyes are as keen as a hawk’s. He has served the Son of Heaven well for many years. He has killed many Huns.”
“Those last two are true enough, anyway,” the second rider said, and as abruptly as it had swelled, my heart faltered.
He knows my father! I thought.
The second rider spurred his mount forward until the two horses stood side by side. He reached over and clapped his riding companion on the back.
“You should have come home sooner, my friend,” he said. “It would seem your daughter has grown into a son.”
“Huh,” the first man said. It was a single syllable that could have meant anything, or nothing, but I was glad he said no more. I could hardly hear anything over the roar inside my head. “I have come home now,” he said. “That must be enough.”
He guided his horse forward to where I stood frozen with astonishment, and then he extended one arm. I stared at his outstretched hand as if I had never seen such an appendage.
“Get up behind me and I will take you home.”
I did as he instructed. And in this way I met my father, the great general Hua Wei, for the very first time.
The ride home was anything but comfortable. But if my father hoped to test my mettle, I passed with flying colors. Though I clung to his back so tightly I could feel the weave of his leather armor beneath his shirt, and though my legs gripped the great stallion’s flanks so firmly and with such determination that they were sore for days afterward, I did not complain.
And I did not fall off.
My father was silent the whole way home. I imagined his disapproval of me growing stronger with every step of the horse. He had sent Li Po off with barely a word, save for extracting his name and promising to visit his family as soon as possible.
Images of the punishments Li Po might incur for trying to stand up for me tormented me until I thought my head would spin right off my shoulders. It also made me bold in a way I might not have been if I’d felt the need to defend only myself.
“You must not blame Li Po,” I said as soon as we arrived at the Hua family compound. Tall as my father’s horse was, I slid down from his back without assistance, firming up my knees to keep my legs steady beneath me. I could not show weakness now.
“What happened today was not his fault. It was mine.”
A look that might have been surprise flickered across my father’s stern features, but whether it was in reaction to my words or my actions, I could not tell.
“We will not,” he said succinctly as he swung down from the horse’s back himself, “have this discussion, and we will most certainly not have it here and now. I am your father. It is not your place to tell me what to do.”
His right leg moved stiffly, as if it did not wish to bend.
“But I have to,” I protested. “You don’t know Li Po as I do. He is smart and kind. And he …” I felt the hitch of tears at the back of my throat. “He’s my only friend. He loves me more than you do, and I won’t have you hurt him.”
“Mulan!” I heard Min Xian’s scandalized tone. She and Old Lao had come out into the courtyard at the sound of the horses.
“You must forgive her, master,” she said as she went to her knees before my father. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s just … the surprise …”
“Of course I know what I’m saying,” I snapped.
What difference did it matter what I said at this point?
The reunion I’d waited for my whole life had happened at last. I’d finally met my father, face-to-face, and he hadn’t so much as batted an eye. He hadn’t shown by any word or gesture that he had missed me, that he was pleased to see me, or that he wished to claim me as his own. Instead he’d made it perfectly clear that our relationship was to be one of duty and of obedience and nothing more. His coldness, his indifference, pierced me, wounding just as deeply as any sword.
“My father does not love me,” I said. I went to Min Xian and knelt down beside her. “You know this, and I know it, Min Xian. In my life there have been only three people who cared for me at all. You, Old Lao, and Li Po.”
I raised Min Xian to her feet, keeping an arm firmly around her waist as I lifted my eyes to my father’s. To this day I cannot tell you what made me feel so strong. It was as if, having encountered my worst fears, I had nothing left to lose.
I saw the truth now. The thing I wanted most had been lost long ago, lost on the day I was born. There would be no chance to win my father’s love at this late date.
“Punish me as you like,” I said now. “That is your right, for I am your child. But do not punish those whose only transgression was that they did what you would not, took me into their hearts and gave me love. Surely that would be unworthy of you, General Hua Wei, for it would also be unjust.”
My arm still around Min Xian, I turned to go.
“Mulan.”
It was the first time I had ever heard my father speak my name. In spite of my best effort it stopped me in my tracks. Slowly I turned around.
“Yes, Father,” I said. But I did not kneel down. I would meet my fate standing on my own two feet.
He will pronounce my punishment now, I thought. Perhaps
I would be beaten, locked away without food, or, worst of all, forbidden to see Li Po. But it seemed the surprises of the day were not over yet.
“I will spare your friends if you answer me one question,” my father said.
“What would you like to know?”
“If you could have anything you wished for, anything in all the world, what would it be?” my father asked.
If he had told me I was the loveliest girl in all of China and that he loved me, I could not have been more astonished.
Oh, Father, you are half an hour too late, I thought.
Unbeknownst to my father, he had already granted one of my wishes. He had come home. But the very arrival that had granted one wish had deprived me of another. It was clear that I could never make him proud of me. I could never earn his love. My heart had only one wish left.
“I would like to know my mother’s name,” I said.
Then I turned and left the courtyard.
SIX
Following the dramatic events of my father’s home-coming, an uneasy peace settled over our household. Somewhat to my surprise, there was no more talk of punishment. But then there wasn’t much talk of anything, in fact. For we all quickly learned that one of my father’s most formidable attributes was his ability to hold his tongue.
When someone refuses to speak, those around him are left to imagine what his thoughts might be, and all too often the possibilities conjured up are not pleasant ones. It made no sense to me that my father did not back up his stern words with equally stern actions. Surely this was part of being a soldier. And so I did not trust the uneasy peace that came with this current silence.
But at least my outburst had taught me a lesson. Sometimes, no matter how much you wish to proclaim them, it is better to keep your thoughts to yourself. Speaking out when someone else is silent puts the speaker at a disadvantage. And so I learned to hold my tongue.
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