Wild Orchid

by Cameron Dokey

  Once we triggered the rock slide, the Hun leader would be cut off. He would be unable to turn back, and the main body of his forces would be rendered incapable of moving forward to join him. This would leave the Hun leader and his smaller group of soldiers with just one choice: to move forward, into China. There they would be confronted first with our force and then, if all went well, with reinforcements from the main Chinese army.

  And the signal to trigger the avalanche, to set the whole plan in motion, would be one last warning to our own troops: the sounding of the war horn.

  The first of the Hun soldiers entered the pass just as the sun rose in an angry, sullen sky. The wind had more bite to it than it had the day before. Now it was too cold to snow. I kept the fingers of my right hand, the one I would use to pull the bowstring, tucked into my armpit in an attempt to keep them warm. We could hear the Huns long before we could see them. The narrow gorge seemed to push the sound of the horses’ hooves ahead of the animals themselves.

  As had been the case for our reconnaissance the day before, I took my archers into the cliffs on the left of the pass while Li Po led his into the right. The pass was so narrow that I could actually see Li Po from where I crouched. I felt the dragonfly medallion the prince had given me, warm against my skin.

  Courage, Mulan, I thought.

  The sound of the Hun horses echoed against the stone walls, so loud that it seemed impossible that we could not see the horses and riders themselves. The sound seemed to rise to a fever pitch. As I watched from the far side of the pass, Li Po rose from his crouch. At this signal all our archers set the arrows to their bows, but they did not fire. Li Po held up one hand, palm facing outward.

  Hold.

  Now, finally, the first group of men and horses began to pass beneath us in a relentless, endless tide. My arms and shoulders ached with the effort it took to hold the bow steady, and still Li Po did not give the order to fire. I saw the archer closest to me pull his lips back from his teeth in a grimace of determination and pain. Still, Li Po’s hand never wavered.

  Hold. Do not fire.

  And then, suddenly, I saw it: a rider bearing a banner with the figure of a galloping horse, the standard of the Huns. Beside him rode a soldier with a great round shield. And just behind them was a single rider, alone. His horse was the most magnificent I had ever seen, his coat like burnished copper. The soldier’s long, black hair was not tied back but streamed freely over his shoulders.

  Surely this had to be the leader of the Huns.

  Even from a distance it seemed to me that I could feel this man’s restless energy, the determination that possessed him, propelling him forward. And I understood why others would follow such a man, even into these impossible conditions. There was something about his confidence and assurance that made the impossible seem possible.

  I could feel my shoulders start to tremble with the strain of holding the bow taut. More than anything in the world I longed to let my arrow fly. Now the dragonfly medallion felt like a burning brand against my skin.

  Lend me your strength and your determination, I thought. Help me find the courage to hold on, to do what I must.

  The Hun leader and his standard-bearer were directly beneath us now. And finally, with one swift decisive motion, Li Po brought his hand down, giving the signal to fire. The air around me sang with the sound of bowstrings being released, the hiss of arrows as they sought their targets. The sound of men crying out in surprise and pain and the almost human screams of the horses rose up as if to surround us.

  The Hun leader urged his troops forward, only to encounter the resistance of our own soldiers. The narrow pass seemed to roil like boiling water as men and horses jockeyed for position. Hun archers began to return our fire. The Hun standard-bearer lifted his face toward the cliffs as he screamed out his defiance. At that moment Li Po rose to his full height and sent an arrow straight toward him.

  As the arrow hurtled downward, the standard-bearer sat hard in the saddle, trying to force his horse forward. But there was no room for him to maneuver. The way ahead was blocked by soldiers. Li Po’s arrow pierced the banner and then buried itself deep into the standard-bearer’s shoulder. Screaming in fury and pain, the bearer released the standard. It tumbled to the ground and was trampled by the feet of the horses.

  Now the Hun leader rose in his stirrups, calling out to his soldiers in a great and terrible voice. He set an arrow to the string of his own bow, turned his horse to one side, and fired upward. I felt my heart leap into my throat. In his determination to see the Hun standard fall, Li Po had forgotten to take cover. He was still standing, and because he was visible, he made the perfect target.

  “Li Po!” I cried.

  But even as I shouted, I knew it was too late. As if guided by an evil demon, the Hun leader’s arrow found its mark. As Li Po toppled backward, I rose to my own feet and fired.

  This was the shot that I had missed not three days before, through the neck, from side to side. As if he heard my cry of pain and despair over every other voice around him, the Hun leader swiveled his head in my direction.

  My arrow caught him beneath the chin, piercing his throat clean through from one side to the other. With tears that threatened to blind my eyes, I dropped to my knees, letting go of my bow and reaching for the war horn. I put it to my lips, drew in a single breath, and sent forth its call. Into it I poured all the pain and courage that lay within my heart.

  I made the war horn sing with the voice of China.

  At once, the Chinese soldiers below me began to retreat down the pass, drawing a portion of the Hun troops after them. I waited as long as I dared, praying that as many of our men as possible were clear.

  I put the horn to my lips and again made it bellow. This was the signal the archers had been waiting for. On both sides of the pass, they dropped their weapons and put their shoulders to the rocks we had labored so long and hard to loosen the night before. The very air seemed to quake and shudder as, with a great groan, the rocks gave way and the walls of the pass began to tumble downward toward the Hun soldiers below. A cloud of dust rose, thick and choking. For the third and final time, I blew into the war horn’s mouth.

  And then, without warning, the earth gave a great crack beneath my feet and I, too, was tumbling down. My last thought, before the world turned black, was that even if I would be crushed myself, at least I had helped to crush the enemies of China.

  SEVENTEEN

  I returned to myself slowly, as if trudging uphill through a long and narrow tunnel. It was dimly lit, yet not entirely dark, because it seemed to me that I saw faces of companions I had known and loved, passing in and out of focus as I walked.

  I saw General Yuwen’s face most often. Next came an ancient, wrinkled face I did not recognize. And every once in a while, when the tunnel seemed most steep and endless, when it seemed to me I could not take another step, I thought I saw the face of Prince Jian. He gazed down at me with an expression I could not read save for the sorrow in his eyes.

  Once I thought I opened my eyes to see him sitting beside me, head bowed down, cradling in his hands the dragonfly medallion he had given me the night before the battle with the Huns. Another time I felt the medallion against my skin once more, but the tight hold of Prince Jian’s hand on mine.

  And finally there came a series of days when the tunnel proved too dark and steep to travel at all. It was then that I was seized by a great fire in all my limbs, when my ears grew deaf and my eyes grew blind. And in those days I could not even wonder whether my journey had, at last, reached its end. I could form no questions, for I was lost, even to myself.

  When I opened my eyes at last, it was to light that was the color of a pearl, a color that I recognized, and I knew I had awakened just before dawn. For several moments I lay absolutely still, searching for some clue to my surroundings, staring upward as the light grew stronger. The answer came almost at once. I was in my own tent, the one I had once shared with Li Po. I was lying on the pallet
that had once been my bed. My body felt … unfamiliar. Light as a seedpod spinning through the air, heavy as a stone, all at the same time.

  I shifted, and felt pain shoot through my shoulder. I have been injured, I thought.

  And at this the memories came flooding back. Memories of blood and pain, the screams of men and horses. I made a sound of protest, and in an instant Prince Jian was there, kneeling beside me. He took my hands in one of his and pressed his other hand against my brow.

  “Your skin is cool to the touch,” he said. “Praise all the gods, your fever has broken.” His eyes roamed over me, his expression unreadable.

  “I believe that you will live, Little Archer.”

  I tried to speak but managed only a croak because my mouth and throat were parched. As if he understood, Prince Jian released me, stepped away briefly, and then returned with a cup of cool water. He eased me upright, helping me to drink. I could take no more than a little, for in all my thirst I was weak and clumsy. Water dribbled down my chin and down onto my neck.

  “Li Po,” I managed to get out.

  Prince Jian laid me back down. “Perhaps it would be better to wait …,” he began.

  “No,” I said. “No, tell me.”

  His eyes steady on mine, Prince Jian shook his head, and I knew the thing I feared had come to pass.

  “I am sorry. I am told he died bravely,” the prince said.

  I nodded, blinking against the tears that filled my eyes. “He took down the standard. We were victorious?”

  “Yes, we were victorious,” Prince Jian replied. He fell silent, as if deciding what to say next.

  He has grown older, I thought. There were lines around his mouth I didn’t recognize, and his face looked pale and drawn. His shoulders, though still straight, now looked as though they carried some impossibly heavy burden.

  “But the archers who fought beside you say that it was you who made our victory possible,” the prince finally said. “They say you killed the Hun leader with a single shot. Is this so?”

  “It is,” I said, my voice a little stronger now. “But it was Li Po who made it possible. When the standard went down, the Hun leader turned his head toward me. It was …” I paused and took a breath. “It was the shot I missed that day when we practiced at targets.”

  “I see,” Prince Jian said. “This bears out what I was told.” His mouth twisted into a strange smile. “It would seem you are now a great hero, Little Archer.”

  He knows, I thought. He knows that I’m a girl and not a boy.

  I had no idea how long I had been lying there, but I must have been tended by a physician. My true gender would have been discovered at once.

  And now, for the first time, I felt my courage falter. I could not imagine how this prince, who had shared the innermost workings of his heart with me, could forgive the fact that I had kept something so important as my true identity from him.

  “Highness,” I said. “I—”

  Prince Jian stood up. “I will bring General Yuwen to you,” he said, speaking over my words. “He has been concerned about your welfare, spending many hours beside you. He will wish to know you are once more yourself.”

  At his choice of phrase I winced, for I had not truly been myself before. The difference was that now we both knew it.

  He will never forgive me, I thought.

  More than anything else in the world, I longed to call Prince Jian back, to explain all the reasons for what I had done. But I did not. I had betrayed his trust. And where there is no trust, it does no good to explain.

  “Thank you,” I said finally. “I would like to see General Yuwen to thank him for all his care.”

  “I will go, then,” said Prince Jian. He moved to the tent flap, lifted a hand to push it back, and then paused.

  “I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” he said. Then he stepped through the opening and was gone.

  General Yuwen came in several moments later. He strode at once to where I lay and knelt down beside me. Gently he took my hand in his.

  “Mulan,” he said simply. “My little hero of China.”

  At the sound of my true name the floodgates opened. I did not behave like a hero of China, brave at all costs. Instead I threw my good arm around General Yuwen as I would have liked to with my own father, burying my face in the crook of his neck, and I wept like a child for everything I had lost.

  It was from General Yuwen that I learned the full story of the events of that day, and its aftermath. Now that my fever had broken, I began to make a speedy recovery. It was true that I was covered from head to feet in scrapes and cuts, in bruises that would have made Min Xian hiss like a steam kettle in sympathy. My right arm was in a sling. In my tumble down the mountain I had broken my collarbone. I had been so buried in rubble that it was a miracle I didn’t have more broken bones. It was Prince Jian who had found me.

  By the time I had made the war horn cry, a relief force had already been sent on its way to provide reinforcements. The messengers Li Po and I had sent had reached Prince Jian safely. The prince himself had led the relief force, an honor that, as the eldest, Prince Ying could have claimed as his own. But he had been gracious, acknowledging his youngest brother’s wisdom in insisting that the second, smaller pass be protected—even over the objections of his brothers and their councilors.

  “Never have I seen anyone fight as Prince Jian did that day,” General Yuwen confided one night.

  I was now well enough to be up for long periods of time. The general and I were sitting outside the tent before the bright blaze of a campfire. General Yuwen often came to spend his evenings with me, and he was not alone. Word that Gong-shi—the young archer whose shot had helped to save all China—was in fact a girl had spread quickly through the camp. Many of the soldiers came to pay their respects, but also, I suspected, to relieve their curiosity. Only Prince Jian stayed away. I had not seen him since the day I first awakened.

  “The prince was like a tiger,” General Yuwen continued now. “When the battle was over and we began to take stock of our wounded … When Li Po’s body had been discovered but you could not be found …”

  The general broke off, shaking his head. “Never have I seen anyone more determined,” he went on. “One of the archers who had fought beside you was brought before him to explain what he thought had befallen you. It was long after nightfall. Prince Jian had had no rest and little food. Still he took a torch and went to search for you himself. He would not rest until he found you, he said.”

  “And after all that, I turned out to be a girl,” I said quietly.

  “Not just any girl,” General Yuwen said. “Hua Wei’s own daughter. Like your father before you, you are a hero, Mulan.”

  “You called me that before,” I said.

  “But I don’t feel very much like one, and I never set out to win that title.”

  “Perhaps that’s why it fits you so well,” the general answered quietly. “You thought not of yourself, of your own glory, but of China. The emperor is eager to meet you. He has even sent for your father.”

  Though winter was almost upon us, the emperor wished to celebrate China’s great victory over her ancient enemy not in the capital but here, in the mountains where the battle had been fought. He was already on his way, with a great cavalcade of retainers. And my father was to be among them.

  “So he is forgiven, then,” I said.

  “It would appear so,” General Yuwen replied. “But, then, he was right after all. The Huns did present a danger, as long as the son of their former leader was alive. Now that he is dead, the Huns have no one to lead them. The next in line is an infant. It will be many years before he is grown.

  “But the arrow that turned the tide in China’s favor was fired by none other than Hua Wei’s own child. It is your actions that have restored your father to favor.”

  “Even though I’m a girl?” I said.

  General Yuwen smiled.

  “And Prince Jian?” I asked. “Can I win ba
ck his favor by my actions, do you think?”

  “Ah, Mulan,” General Yuwen exhaled my name on a sigh. “There I think you must be patient. Give him time.”

  “I don’t think there’s enough of it,” I said simply. “I hear what the men say around the fires at night. The Son of Heaven intends to make Prince Jian his heir, passing over Ying and Guang. A prince and a general’s daughter might have found a way to bridge the gap between them, assuming I might be forgiven in the first place, but now …”

  My voice trailed off. “Even if I am patient for the rest of my life, I think the gulf between us will be too great to cross.”

  General Yuwen remained silent. In spite of the warmth of the fire, I shivered, for I discovered that I was cold. And it seemed I might never be warm again, because this cold came not from the air around me but from the depths of my own heart.

  I want to go home, I thought. I longed for the familiar branches of the plum tree, Min Xian’s face. Most of all I longed for Li Po. But even when I returned, nothing would be quite the same. Li Po was gone, and the Mulan who would return was not a child anymore.

  In the weeks since I had made the decision to leave my father’s house, I had grown up. And I had learned that not every battle can be fought by firing an arrow from a bow. But I would have to face whatever new challenges came my way as bravely as I had faced the Huns. I could not wallow in self-pity, thinking about what might have been. I had to do my duty. It was the only way to stay true to myself.

  I wonder if this is how Jian feels about the possibility of becoming emperor, I thought. Despite the rift between us, I believed I still understood what was in his heart, because it was just like mine. And what Prince Jian’s heart wanted was to run free, to command no other than itself. But like my own heart would, Prince Jian’s would accept his responsibilities. He would do his duty with his head held high. He would bring himself and his family honor.