by Barbara Wood
“But it is! I was brought here by the Kosh. They sold me to you.”
“Yes, but we can’t use you. So you have to go.”
“I cannot go! My child is not well!”
The almond eyes flickered toward Adriana. “What is wrong with her?”
“We were not fed properly by the Kosh. They gave us scraps their dogs would not eat. She did not have enough food when she was a baby. I need to make her well again.”
“The Kosh are pigs,” the woman spat in Kosh. “Still, you must go.”
“But I can work to earn our keep,” Katharina said quickly, desperate. “I can embroider. I do very good needlework.”
“Bah! Got plenty of women doing embroidery. I do it myself, and better than you I would say.” As the Supreme Sister started to leave, she was stayed by the old man, who tugged at her sleeve and whispered something in her ear. She turned and narrowed her eyes at Katharina. “My brother says you tell stories. What stories?”
Katharina was instantly defensive. Were stories a criminal offense in this place? “I was only telling children’s stories, fairy tales, I meant no harm.”
“Tell me one.”
What manner of people were these, that they were afraid of stories? “But they are only fairy tales. They are harmless, Lady.”
“I want to hear,” and to Katharina’s surprise, the woman crossed her legs and sat on the floor the way the old man had done.
She tried to think of the most harmless tale she knew, in case her stories caused some unintended offense that would have her and Adriana thrown into a dungeon. She settled upon “Rapunzel” and instantly she had a rapt audience comprised of her own daughter, the old man, his sister, and the guards who all leaned close to listen. And when she came to the end and told how Rapunzel had foiled the witch, everyone laughed and clapped with glee, from Adriana to the fiercest of the guards.
The woman’s attitude immediately changed. “That was a good story,” she said, her round face radiating a smile. “Tell another.”
“But, Lady, my child is tired and weak, and we are exhausted.”
“Another story, then you go to sleep.”
By the time Katharina got halfway through “The Tortoise and the Hare,” Adriana was slumbering in her arms. But her peculiar audience was as alert and rapt as ever, barely breathing or blinking as they hung upon every word she uttered. And when she reached the end, they all laughed and cheered for the tortoise.
Katharina marveled at the reaction of these people to simple tales that she had thought were universal. At home, one could only tell these stories to the youngest children, who had never heard them, for otherwise the audience grew bored and demanded something new. Had Zhandu’s self-imposed isolation from the rest of the world resulted in a dearth of new stories, she wondered, and as they had grown bored with their own, they hungered for new myths and legends as other races might crave gold and wine?
Supreme Sister rose to her feet. “You can stay. You will tell us stories.”
Katharina’s mind raced with hope. “May we have a room of our own?”
“For as long as you have stories to tell us.”
“And food for my child?”
The woman squinted, then wrinkled her nose, then said, “She is puny. Needs fattening. Tell us fine stories and you will have a fine apartment and fine clothes and fine food.” She laughed at her own play on words. “My brother is very happy,” she said, patting the old man on the arm. “He will see that you are happy in return.”
But when Supreme Sister added, “You will live with us forever,” Katharina’s relief turned to panic. “But I must get to Jerusalem.”
“Eh? Where is that?”
Katharina was momentarily speechless. Everyone in the world had heard of Jerusalem. “It is a city,” she began, but was cut off by an impatient gesture.
“After all the stories are done, you can leave.”
“I will need money for the journey.”
The woman shrugged. “We have plenty of money. Tell stories, go away rich.”
In this way did Katharina learn that she had been telling stories to Heavenly Ruler, king of Zhandu, and Summer Rose, his sister.
The first night of storytelling, when she and Adriana were escorted to the royal apartments, Katharina received a shock. Instead of just the king and his sister, she found herself facing an audience of several hundred.
She was not daunted. To tell a tale to one child or to three hundred adults was the same thing: catch their interest, give them a hero, keep them in breathless anticipation, and then reward them with a satisfying ending. While she spun her tales, scribes sat at ornately carved desks with scrolls and pens and inks, and recorded Katharina’s stories in the intricate calligraphy of Zhandu. These would be copied, she was told, and distributed throughout the kingdom for other storytellers to read to the most farflung citizens.
She told Heavenly Ruler and his court tales from the forests of her homeland—“The Frog Prince,” “Snow White,” and “The Twelve Dancing Princesses.” When the German folk tales ran out, she recounted the lives of Jesus and the saints, and then stories of Muhammad she had heard in Constantinople. The favorites were yarns filled with wondrous beings such as talking frogs, dancing donkeys, horses that flew, and ogres that crouched beneath bridges to catch passersby unaware. And miracles and curses aplenty. Each night she delighted the growing audience, and each day she was rewarded with the promised gold coin, abundant food, and the freedom of the city. In this way did Katharina learn that people were the same all over, be they peasants on a farm in Germany, or wizards in an ancient mountain kingdom, for the people of Zhandu laughed when mice outwitted cats, cried when beautiful heroines died, and cheered when handsome heroes were victorious. They gasped in horror when the wicked queen believed she was eating the heart of Snow White; they cried, “Look out!” when Little Red Cap met the wolf in the woods; they shivered when Katharina described the great dark forests where evil frogs and ogres lived; they jeered at the poor-sport fox who said the grapes must be sour; and they clapped when the heroic Siegfried won the magic treasure away from the Nieblungs. But their favorite story of all was the one of the girl whose dying mother told her to go in search of her father, and the girl encountered many adventures and mishaps along the way, and when Katharina did not end the story, and they all asked, “Did the girl find her father?” and she told them that it was her story, they clapped and said it was the best of all.
For the first time since the encampment by the emerald stream, Katharina knew happiness. Zhandu was a fabulous spectacle of snowy mountain peaks and mossy valleys, golden domes and ivory spires. Everything had a delightful sounding name: the Jade Gate, the Palace of Celestial Happiness, the Hall of Joyful Contemplations. The few visitors who did come from the outside world were taken to stand before the Mirror of Hidden Truths, and a sorcerer—he was the Wu, which in their ancestral tongue meant “wizard”—examined the reflection to judge the person’s honesty. Every night an army of chefs created miracles out of food: towers of spun sugar, marzipan molded into flowers and animals, multicolored cakes that melted on the tongue. Rare and costly fish eggs, brought by strenuous stages from the far north, were arranged on delicate breads and biscuits. Wine was chilled in snow brought down from the mountains.
When Katharina had first arrived with the Kosh, she had marveled at the wealth of ermines the Kosh had received for her, and she had wondered if the people of Zhandu were so wealthy that they didn’t care about money. But now she learned that there was nothing the outside world could offer: the people of Zhandu enjoyed trees that bore fruit and nuts year round; acres of grain and vegetables; wild game in plenty; a whole forest of honey-giving beehives; and fresh, healthful water bubbling from perennial springs. Few outsiders were allowed in, even fewer were invited to trade. Emissaries rode out, inspected offerings, and more often than not came back empty-handed. Zhandu had all the silks, jewels, rich foods, wine, and creature comforts that it could want.
Except f
or stories. For the first time in generations, an outsider had brought something new.
Katharina and her daughter were given fabulous rooms with huge beds with silken coverlets, new clothes and jewels, all the food they could eat, and the freedom of the city—as long as they were back at the palace each night for Heavenly Ruler’s story. They adopted the ways and customs of Zhandu. And Katharina discovered the secret of the women’s unbelievable hairdos: headdresses fashioned from very thin jade were first secured to the scalp, and then the long hair was combed over the frame, with curls and braids added so that no jade showed, making it look as if the hair stood by itself this way, all fixed in place with long ivory sticks that resembled knitting needles. The foreign mother and daughter wore long silk robes and slippers with curved-up toes, and every night, after the storytelling, Katharina counted their slowly growing pile of money against the day they would leave and resume their journey.
As they adjusted to life in this remarkable kingdom, Adriana’s nightmares began to recede: memories of seeing a man set on fire for the sport of it, having to fight with dogs for food, of being snatched away from her mother as a form of punishment. She also began to grow strong and healthy. The court physician looked at the child and said she had a weakness of the blood due to undernourishment while in the womb, and so he had prescribed a special Zhandu tea that, along with the water, which Summer Rose said was magical, and the air, which was pure being at so high an altitude, had wonderful healing powers.
But the physician cautioned that it would be dangerous for the girl to leave, for her health was supported by Zhandu and it would fail once she was away from the healthful influences of this place. Katharina took this advice to heart, especially as, after a life fraught with danger, when many times Katharina had not thought her daughter would survive, she saw that here in Zhandu her child was safe and secure at last. Adriana knew stability and a home for the first time, such as Katharina had once known years ago, with Isabella Bauer in Badendorf. Did Katharina have the right to take this away from her?
And so every night, after Adriana was asleep and the palace was quiet, Katharina sat by a lamp and stared at the painting of St. Amelia and the blue crystal. Jerusalem seemed so far away as to be almost nonexistent, and it had now been almost twenty-five years since her father had left his baby in the care of a penniless seamstress. Was he still alive?
When they had been there a year and Katharina was counting her gold coins and wondering if they had enough to leave Zhandu, Summer Rose came to her and said, “Come with me.”
Katharina automatically reached for Adriana’s hand, but Summer Rose said, “Leave the child. It will frighten her.”
But Katharina never went anywhere without her daughter, and so Adriana was taken along an unfamiliar corridor into a part of the palace Katharina had never visited before. Here, at a locked and guarded door, Summer Rose paused and said gravely, “He will alarm you at first, but he will not hurt you.”
“Who am I to meet, Lady?”
“He is my son, the crown prince of Zhandu.”
Katharina was shocked. She had never heard mention of a prince, or any heirs to the throne. She was further surprised to find herself ushered through two more locked and guarded doors, and then into the most remarkable chamber she had ever seen.
Not a single window pierced the walls; not a single shaft of sunlight penetrated. Instead, a hundred lamps hung from the high ceilings, and flames blazed in sconces along the walls. The enormous room was capped by a high dome that had been painted blue with white clouds; the floor was dominated by a pond that rippled with goldfish, and even a magnificent white heron waded among the reeds. Trees grew in huge pots, and shrubs and all varieties of flowers flourished around the pond, giving the impression of being outdoors although there was no real sky overhead. Patches of grass grew here and there, and flagstone paths had been laid. Following Summer Rose, they came upon a delightful pavilion just like those in the gardens outside, and it was brightly lit with lamps. Katharina could not believe her eyes: gazelles grazed among the shrubs, and a bird flew overhead, startling her. It was as if, for some unfathomable reason, the outdoors had been brought inside.
“Be calm,” Summer Rose said. “He frightens people at first. But I assure you he is harmless.”
Katharina wondered if this was a kind of prison where the crown prince was kept, away from sunlight and the eyes of his subjects, and she wondered what his crime had been. She tightened her grip on Adriana’s hand and belatedly questioned her decision to bring her.
His name was Lo-Tan, which meant “Fierce Dragon,” and it was explained to Katharina that every night when she told her stories to the court of Zhandu, he sat hidden behind a screen, listening. But now he wished to meet the storyteller in person.
Summer Rose went on to say that her son was the reason Katharina had been brought to Zhandu in the first place, because Heavenly Ruler had sent out a proclamation for a woman fitting a certain description, with the intention of marrying her to his heir. When Lo-Tan appeared, Katharina saw at once why she had been rejected as soon as Summer Rose had set eyes on her: for, pale and blond as she was, Katharina was not as white as this young man, who was in fact so white and colorless he was what Katharina had heard called albino.
Had his name been given to him in the hope that he would grow into a fierce dragon? For he struck Katharina as being like a dove, a pure white, unblemished dove, soft and gentle and the color of snow. Katharina was captivated by his eyes—red pupils in pink irises. They held her with a steady, confident gaze, and his smile was friendly and disarming.
Before Katharina could return his softly spoken salutation, Adriana broke free of her mother’s grasp and, instead of running away as Summer Rose had feared, she ran to the prince and, tugging on his yellow silk pantaloons, said, “Are you a rabbit?”
“Adriana!” Katharina said.
But the prince only laughed. Dropping down to one knee, he said to the five-year-old, “Do I look like a rabbit?”
Adriana frowned. “Well, you don’t have the ears.”
He grinned. “That is because I do not wear them all the time.”
Her face lit up. “Really? Where do you keep them?”
Lo-Tan returned to his feet and said to Katharina in a voice that was as soft as clouds, “Would the young lady do me the honor of telling me a story?”
As Katharina blushed, and replied, “The honor would be all mine,” Summer Rose smiled with tears of relief and gratitude in her eyes.
Katharina and Adriana spent afternoons in the enchanting indoor garden, discovering pools and waterfalls, more birds flying freely, tame deer. Because the royal physicians had warned that any exposure to sunlight could sicken or perhaps even kill him, Lo-Tan never went beyond these walls. But Katharina did not mind, for she found peace and tranquility in his presence, and Adriana, to whom he gave the nickname Happy Flea, loved to play in his make-believe wonderland.
Fierce Dragon shyly confessed to Katharina that he thought her name unbecoming and difficult to pronounce, so he gave her a new one: Wei-Ming, which meant Golden Lotus. Therefore when Summer Rose came to Katharina one afternoon in the Garden of Peaceful Reflections, she addressed her as Golden Lotus, and said solemnly, “You are thinking of leaving us.”
Katharina saw the sadness on the older woman’s round face, and she realized how fond she had grown of Summer Rose and how she was going to miss her. “Yes. I have enough money to buy passage on a caravan to Jerusalem.”
“And you will take your daughter?”
Katharina didn’t immediately respond, for she was still undecided. Adriana was now five years old, a happy healthy child with many friends, Fierce Dragon being her favorite. She was such a cheerful little fixture in the court, with her miniature silk robes and golden hair twisted into spires, prattling on in rapid Kosh as if she had been born here, that she was everyone’s favorite. But Katharina had said all along that their stay was only temporary, that someday they must leave.
“Let me offer you a proposition,” Summer Rose said, in a kindly tone, understanding the young woman’s dilemma, for what mother can leave her child behind and go on a long, unknowable journey? “This Jerusalem you speak of is very far away. Many things can happen in the time it takes you to get there. You have already been kidnapped and sold twice, it could happen again. And Happy Flea would be orphaned, if you left her here. Or if you took her with you she could be killed, or sold into slavery, or at the least, grow weak again once away from the healthful influences of Zhandu.”
Katharina nodded. Summer Rose was not saying anything she herself had not already considered. It seemed there was no solution: she had to leave, yet she could neither take nor abandon her child.
And then Summer Rose spoke words that, for once in her life, left Katharina speechless: “Marry my son and we shall find your father for you.”
When the younger woman did not respond, Summer Rose spoke quickly, “Our dynasty needs healthy heirs. You see that my brother has no offspring that have survived, and Lo-Tan is my only son. Fifteen years ago, when Lo-Tan was twelve, we sent out a proclamation looking for a female like himself. We thought this was the way it should be done. But we think now that we shall never find a woman like him.”
Katharina recovered herself. “But…I do not love him.”
Summer Rose stared at her blankly. “What has love to do with marriage? I did not love Lo-Tan’s father.”
“And I am already married,” Katharina said softly.
Summer Rose patted her hand. “Dear child, the man of your heart is dead. You must live your life. He would have wished it, I am sure. Tell me, are you at least fond of my son?”
“Oh yes,” Katharina said, meaning it. She had developed a deep affection for the gentle Lo-Tan. A kinder and more modest man did not live, and he was so good with Adriana.
“If you marry him,” Summer Rose continued, “you can remain in Zhandu and we will send out proclamations as we once did for an albino woman. You have seen how far and wide our proclamations travel. We plucked you from deep in Persia, did we not? We can reach Jerusalem, too. All caravans stop here, and all caravan leaders know of the riches that await them if they bring us what we seek. In this way, Golden Lotus, you need not be separated from your daughter, nor need you hazard the risks of so long and dangerous a journey, and you will still find your father!”
