by Jamie Rix
“They’re doing everything they can,” she said. “Hui is out there helping too.”
“What if Ping’s fallen off a cliff?”
“He won’t have fallen off a cliff.”
“Or jumped. That would be worse. Maybe he was practicing to be a bungee jumper and forgot to attach the bungee to a tree at the top! Oh, Mommy,” she howled, “I’m so sad!”
Mao Mao gave her daughter a hug, and smiled at just how alike her two children were. “Where there is panic, there is no room for imagination,” she muttered to herself. “But where there is no panic, imagination is king and rules uncontrolled until panic arrives.”
The truth was that Ping had run away with a rucksack of bamboo strapped to his back, just in case he never found food again. He had crept out of bed before dawn and set out into the darkness without a thought about where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away. He could not stay and face the humiliation of being branded a fibber in front of his foreign friends and then being forced to tell the truth—that he was just an ordinary cub who slept a lot, ate bamboo, and went for a poo forty-seven times a day. They’d be so disappointed in him. They might even hate him, despite what Hui said.
No, the most important thing was to run away and stick his head in a hole so that he wouldn’t be able to see his new friends and they wouldn’t be able to see him.
So it came as something of a shock when Ping heard a familiar beating of wings and, looking up, saw Hui hovering above his head.
“Found you!” shouted the grandala bird. “The rangers are hunting for you.”
“Hunting?” Ping gasped. “Do they have nets?”
“I just meant they’re looking for you,” said Hui.
“Why?” Ping felt trapped. “Have they found out that I’ve been telling lies? Have I given Wolagong a bad name? They’re not sending me away, are they?”
“I thought you wanted to go away,” cried Hui.
“Yes, but not in disgrace. They might send me to prison!”
“For telling a fib?” laughed the bird. “Don’t be silly!”
“Well, I’m not hanging around to find out,” said the frightened panda cub.
And with that he turned to run off into the bush, only to find that his escape route was blocked by a khaki-colored Jeep that screeched to a halt in front of him.
Instinctively, Ping backed away—until he saw the face of the man who jumped out of the driving seat. Ping knew him. It was the ranger they called Mr. Ho.
“Whoa there, boy,” Mr. Ho said, stretching out his arms to calm Ping down. “No need to be scared. We’ve been looking all over the place for you.”
Something in the top pocket of the man’s jacket crackled and fizzed and made Ping jump. “Yes, I’ve found him,” the ranger said quietly into his radio. “It’s amazing how far he’s traveled. This is one feisty cub. Don’t worry, I’ll turn him around and guide him back as gently as I can. Someone’s going to have to come out and pick up the Jeep though.”
But there was no need. Ping figured that the game was over anyway, so he might as well go back without a fight. To the ranger’s astonishment the panda cub climbed into the Jeep and sat himself down in the passenger seat.
“So, you want to be driven?” laughed Mr. Ho. His question was answered when the cub removed a stick of bamboo from his rucksack and stuck it into his mouth. Ping was making himself comfortable for the long trip home.
It would be a lie to say that Ping did not have several panic attacks during the journey. He was, after all, expecting a strict lecture from his mother and a punishment from the tall ranger. But when he arrived back at the tall ranger’s hut, he was surprised to be greeted by a wall of beaming faces, and as he stood up on his seat and the faces parted, he saw a line of cages behind them, and inside each cage was a frightened panda cub, not so very different in age from Ping himself.
Curious, Ping jumped down from the Jeep. His paws had barely touched the ground before he was hit from the side by a warm, furry missile. It was An.
“You’re back!” she cried, hugging Ping until he could barely breathe. “I knew there was nothing to worry about. I said that the rangers would find you, didn’t I, Mommy?”
“Indeed you did,” laughed their mother. “Did you find what you were looking for out there?” she asked Ping quietly.
“I wasn’t really looking for anything,” Ping whispered in reply.
“No,” said his mother. “I didn’t really think you were.”
After a nervous pause, Ping asked, “Aren’t you going to shout at me?”
“Would you like me to?” she asked.
“No,” said Ping quickly. “Not at all. But the tall ranger’s going to, isn’t he?”
“I very much doubt it,” she said. “Do you honestly think the tall ranger would go to all this trouble to find you if all he wanted to do was punish you?”
Ping thought about this for a moment.
“They need you, Ping, because they decided that you’re the one who would be best at making our international panda friends feel at home.”
I’m not sure I will, Ping thought nervously. Not when they get to know the real me.
A few minutes later, the cages had all been opened, the rangers had retired to their hut, and the panda cubs were sitting in a silent circle staring at each other. They had all traveled a great distance and their journeys had been very unsettling for them.
Ping realized that, as the host, it was up to him to put his guests at ease, but because he’d never done it before, he didn’t know where to start. He had, however, come up with a rather clever plan to keep his identity a secret. He had decided that he wouldn’t tell them his name unless someone specifically asked. In that way, there was a slim chance that he might avoid disappointing them.
“Welcome to Wolagong Nature Reserve,” he began. “I know that this must seem strange to you, having recently lived in a zoo, but don’t be scared of all the space we’ve got here. It doesn’t bite. Well, not unless it’s a snow leopard, anyway!”
One of the cubs squealed in terror. Ping’s attempt at humor had made the visitors even more jumpy than before.
“It was a joke,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t funny. I know that. Sorry. Now, where was I? Oh yes. We want you to think of this place as home. Take a look around, chew on some of our delicious bamboo, find yourself a comfy place to sleep, and in no time at all, I’m sure you’ll be wondering why you ever felt anxious.
“So now I’d like to hand over the conversation to you. I thought it might be a good ice-breaker if each of you was to tell the group who you are and where you come from. Okay? Let’s start on my left.”
“My name is Jack and I’ve come from London.”
“Hello, Jack,” said Ping, encouraging the others to join in.
“And I’m Adelaide, but you can call me Ade. And this is my friend Henry. We’re from Down Under.”
“Hello, Ade and Henry from Down Under.”
And so it went on. By the time Viveka, Hamish, Manuel, and Nattapong had introduced themselves, the panda cubs were all shaking paws and calling out each other’s names with gusto.
“Great!” said Ping, standing up briskly. “You all know each other. Now you can go and explore the reserve.”
“But we do not know who you are,” said Nattapong. “You have not told us your name yet.”
Ping froze.
“Yes, I did,” he bluffed, trying not to give anything away.
“No, you didn’t,” cried the other seven cubs in unison.
“Oh, didn’t I?” smiled Ping nervously. He looked around the circle of expectant faces and gulped. “It’s…erm…Pg,” he mumbled.
“Speak up, mate,” shouted Ade. “I can’t hear you.”
“Pg,” repeated Ping.
“Pig?!” exclaimed Viveka. “What kind of name is ‘Pig’ for a panda?”
“His name is Ping,” said a voice from outside the circle. All eyes turned to see who had spoken. “And I�
��m his twin sister, An.”
Ping’s stomach flipped. He felt as sick as a Sichuan parrot as he turned around to face the friends he had fibbed to. To his surprise, they were gazing at him in awe and wonderment, their mouths stretched upward in soppy grins.
“So you are the amazing Ping!” cried Jack, while Nattapong fell to his knees by Jack’s side.
“Emperor of China!” he said, bowing low and scraping his nose along the ground.
“All hail the emperor!” cried the other six cubs. Then they too bowed down and touched the ground in adoration.
Although Ping was lost for words, he was sufficiently wise to know that now was not a good time to be speechless. Now was the time to speak.
“Ahem!” he said, clearing his throat and catching his worshippers’ attention. “That’s very kind of you. I really am honored, but I think I may need to explain something.”
CHAPTER TEN
P
ing was not expecting six of the panda cubs to stand up and applaud him. Nor was he prepared for Nattapong to raise his voice in anger.
“Silence!” he shouted, while still bowing. “This is most disrespectful! When the emperor of China says that he wants to explain something, we should listen!”
The other cubs immediately fell silent, stopped clapping, and hung their heads in shame.
“You are right,” said Viveka, the fabulous baker from Vienna. “We are sorry, Great Emperor Ping.”
“N-no, really, there’s no n-need,” stammered Ping. “That’s what I wanted to say…”
“The emperor is going to speak,” roared Nattapong again. “Pray silence for the emperor!”
“You really must stop calling me that,” exclaimed Ping. “I don’t deserve the title.”
“The emperor is too modest,” said Hamish. “It does him much credit.”
“But I’m not the emperor!” shouted Ping.
“Yes, you are,” called out Adelaide. “Nattapong told us.”
“He said that in the letter you wrote him you’d accidentally let it slip out,” explained Henry. “Now you are embarrassed. We understand.”
“I am embarrassed, yes,” said Ping. “But not for that reason.”
“I know why,” Viveka called out. “Is it because in your letter to me you happened to mention that you were a Winter Olympian?”
The pandas gasped in admiration, while Ping found himself even more tongue-tied.
“This is not what I meant to happen,” he said.
“Of course not,” said Hamish. “You didn’t want anyone else but me to know that you were a classical bagpipe player. That’s why you wrote it in my letter. There’s nothing wrong with letting everyone know how talented you are.”
“But I’m not!” cried Ping.
“So you’re telling me you’re not a dragon-fighter?” scoffed Manuel. “I don’t believe you. Emperors always fight dragons. It’s what they do best.”
“I wish you’d all just stop being nice to me,” begged Ping.
“Why would you write it down if it wasn’t true?” asked Nattapong.
Then suddenly, the penny dropped. One by one the pandas’ expressions changed—from adoration, to disbelief, to disappointment.
Ping was unmasked.
“If you are not the emperor,” said Nattapong, “then who are you?”
There was silence while Ping gathered his courage.
“I’m Ping,” he said simply.
“The emperor’s son?”
“No. I have nothing to do with the emperor,” he confessed. “I’m just plain, ordinary Ping, an ordinary giant panda—unlike all of you,” he added shamefully, barely able to look at the confused faces in front of him.
“It is me who should be bowing down,” he said, turning to Jack. “Look at you. A panda who has met the Queen of England and designs her blinds. It’s a rare privilege to meet you, Jack.”
He moved his focus of attention around the circle. “Adelaide and Henry. Cowabunga! Two pandas who can really surf. Respect, dudes.” He pointed at Viveka. “A fabulous baker who makes a delicious Viennese Victoria Dundee Lemony Spongy Fruity Nutty Jammy Cupcake.” He turned to the next pair of staring black eyes. “Hamish, a TV celebrity, no less, who dances the Highland fling better than anybody else on Strictly Come Scottish Dancing! Awa’ the noo, Hamish! And the bravest of brave bullfighters…” Ping acknowledged the panda from Spain with a sweep of his arm. “Manuel,” he said, bowing his head. “I salute your courage. And finally… Nattapong.”
The panda cub from Thailand was still bowing down.
“You,” said Ping, “who not only lead a life of goodness and quiet contemplation, are also National Thai Kick-boxing Champion. It’s not right that you should bow to me. I am the one who is not worthy. You are the guys who do the amazing stuff while all I do is sit in this nature reserve week in, week out, eating bamboo and disappearing into the forest to poo forty-seven times a day.”
To be absolutely honest, Ping felt he might have gone a little bit over the top at the end, but he didn’t really care. At least he’d told the truth and now he felt better—much better—as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
An uncomfortable silence greeted Ping’s confession. As An was once heard to remark, you could have heard a Ping drop. It was not a hostile silence; it was embarrassment. Nobody quite knew what to say.
It was Ping’s mother who spoke first, raising her voice above An’s gentle sobbing.
“There are three types of bravery,” Mao Mao said. “Bravery in battle, bravery in love, and bravery in truth. And of these three, the most brave is bravery in truth because telling the truth strips a bear bare and leaves him nowhere to hide.”
Then a lone voice piped up from the back.
“I think you’re being rather hard on yourself, old man,” it said.
To the astonishment of all, Jack stepped into the middle of the circle.
“I mean, we all knew that what you told us in your letters wasn’t true, but then… maybe what we wrote back wasn’t exactly true, either.”
Ping shook his head. What was this?
“I’ve never met The Queen,” Jack went on. “And I’ve certainly never designed blinds for Buckingham Palace.”
“And I can’t bake for toffee,” chipped in Viveka. “In fact, I hate the taste of cake. It’s got nothing on bamboo.”
Ping could not believe what he was hearing.
“So why did you say that you did?” he asked, realizing the stupidity of his question before it had even passed his lips.
“Same reason you did,” answered Adelaide.
“Haven’t you ever surfed then?” he asked.
“Nope. Henry and I have never even been to the beach.”
“And I tried the Highland fling once, fell over, and broke my leg,” said Hamish. “That was the end of my dancing career, thankfully.”
Ping had become slightly giddy with excitement. It was as if all his worries had grown wings and were leaving his body one by one through the top of his head.
“And you, Manuel?” he ventured.
“You wouldn’t catch me fighting bulls,” the Spanish panda replied. “Much too dangerous.”
“Nattapong, what about you?” Ping asked. “No kickboxing?”
“Not on your life,” said Nattapong. “Why would I want to do that? It might hurt.”
“And your life of calm and tranquility?”
Nattapong shrugged. “I’m a panda, Ping. What can I say? I eat bamboo, I sleep all the time, and forty-seven times a day I need to poo. If that’s not calm and tranquil, what is?”
“So we’re all the same?” Ping said eagerly.
“We are all the same,” confirmed Nattapong. “Giant pandas through and through.”
“Not entirely,” said An, pushing into the circle. “I mean, Ping and I live in the wild, but you all live in zoos.”
“The young lady has a point,” said Jack. “Where you live, Ping, is utterly amazing. All this space in whi
ch to have these great adventures.”
“And you are so brave to live somewhere where snow leopards run free,” added Hamish.
“You think I’m brave?” said Ping, smiling.
“I do,” Hamish said. “Very brave. You didn’t have to make up stories to impress us.”
“But you are pretty great at it!” laughed Adelaide. “That sure is some imagination you’ve got there, Ping.”
“It’s not just me,” Ping said. “I think we’re all good storytellers, don’t you? In fact, if there’s one thing we’ve discovered from all this, it’s that giant pandas have the best imaginations in the world and can make an adventure out of anything. We might look a bit boring, but as the old saying goes—Never judge a book by its cover!”
“Hear, hear,” said Jack, and everyone cheered and whooped in agreement.
“Nobody knows what incredible yarns we’re spinning in our heads!”
And with that, they made preparations for a giant party that night—at which all the pandas sat together in front of a roaring campfire, toasting bamboo sticks in the flames and telling each other wild and interesting stories from around the world.
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