Mulan Page 2

  She could still see the Healer. He was far ahead of her—he had crossed the village’s well-worn path and walked in the light-frosted grass toward the forest. His crimson cloak was streaming behind him like spilled wine, and with every step he took away from her, he seemed to grow smaller. Mulan squinted. No, the Healer did not seem to be growing smaller—he was growing smaller.

  The Healer had been tall and lean, but now it was as if the sky pressed an invisible weight upon him to make him shorter and stockier. His silver hair was shortening, too. It spread over the skin of his neck like fur. His clothes adapted to his size, and when he appeared almost egg-shaped, two pointed forms sprouted out from his head. They were long and white, like two crane feathers. Were they ears? Yes, they were! This is impossible, Mulan thought. I must be imagining this.

  But her eyes continued to show her senselessness. Because the Healer was shrinking even further! He was now the size of a dog. Mulan stared, her mouth gaping and her hands still pushed into the ground. The sky filled with the yellow light of the sun casting its colors behind the distant forested mountains as it fought its fade to darkness. The Healer’s new pointed ears were tipped in this last golden light, but the grass mostly obscured his diminishing, round figure. The Healer stopped suddenly and shuddered. His clothes fell from him like the petals of an opening peony flower, and for a moment he seemed a soft mound of silver fur, brushed with the colors of the sunset. But then, in a sudden motion, he straightened, his long ears pointing upward, and Mulan’s eyes widened to echo her perpetually open mouth. For against the orange-and-pink-streaked sky, the Healer’s figure made an unmistakable silhouette. He had turned into a rabbit.

  THE RABBIT bounded forward in a smooth, fluid motion, and Mulan saw that the Healer’s robes had also somehow transformed, becoming a bag that was slung across the rabbit’s back like a thin crescent moon. The sky was now tinged purple, the night finally winning its struggle with the sun. The rabbit leapt again, a silver, sinuous curve soaring above the grass.

  But then, as if made from the shadows of dusk, two canine creatures burst forth and surged toward the rabbit like shooting arrows. Foxes!

  One was small and dark. The other was larger and gleaming white, even in the dimming light. It was the larger one that shrieked so viciously that Mulan flinched. It attacked first, its sharp claws glinting as it pounced upon the fleeing rabbit. Mulan watched in horror as the rabbit collapsed, crumpling to the ground like an autumn leaf.

  “No!” Mulan heard herself shout. She momentarily forgot about the Healer’s strange transformation, the sleeping village, and her sister and parents, and saw only the pouncing foxes—savage beasts about to kill a helpless animal. She bolted up from the earth and rushed toward them.

  Oddly, however, instead of devouring the fallen rabbit, the foxes were circling it as if watching for a return attack. Their snarls became a combined growl that seemed to grow larger and larger in the wind, filling Mulan’s ears with a menacing melody punctuated by the drumming of her heart and feet.

  She squinted. Perhaps it was the dimness of the night or the quickness of the foxes, but did the white fox have more than one tail? Mulan couldn’t count them all and did not even try, for the white fox had pulled itself upward. She could see it preparing to strike again; its bared teeth and extended claws glittered against the now-black sky.

  “No! Stop!” Mulan shouted again. Without thinking, she reached to the ground, grabbed a stone, and threw it at the white fox—just as she had thrown at thieving crows hundreds of times before. Even in the dark, she was a good shot, and the white fox yelped in anger and surprise. Mulan scooped up another handful of stones and wound her arm, ready to continue, when both foxes turned to her.

  Their eyes met and Mulan froze. The moon broke through the night gloom, casting a soft light onto the quivering shape of the helpless rabbit. Now she could see that the smaller fox was red, the color of cinnabar. But it was the other fox, the white fox with many tails, that had startled her to stillness. The white fox’s eyes glinted like black diamonds, cold and hard, and Mulan felt them bear into hers with the sharpness of a knife. A chill of terror crawled up her neck, but Mulan clenched her teeth and forced herself to raise her chin.

  The white fox’s piercing eyes narrowed, glaring with such fury that Mulan tightened her grip on the stone, tensing all her muscles. Then, with a toss of its head, the white fox dismissed her, spat in the direction of the rabbit, and shot away into the night.

  When Mulan turned back, she saw that the red fox and the rabbit were locked in an unreadable gaze. Mulan glanced back and forth between the two animals, the red fox’s eyes flickering like a wavering flame, while the rabbit’s were as steady as moonlight. Finally, the rabbit shook its head sadly.

  “Will you ever find your place?” the rabbit said, still looking directly at the fox.

  Mulan’s eyes bulged. The rabbit talks? she thought. She suddenly remembered all the oddities she had just seen and began to feel almost dizzy with shock. The stones dropped from her hand, thumping onto the ground like a dull rain.

  The red fox swiveled its head toward the sound and hissed at her with spite. Then it turned and ran away, disappearing into the darkness just as the white fox had.

  MULAN STOOD in a daze. What was happening to her? Was she still Mulan, the older, untalented daughter of the Hua family? Once, when she was younger, her father had told her the story of the Jade Rabbit on the moon who used a mortar and pestle to make medicine. She had been so enthralled by the story that she had wheedled the job of pounding the rice into flour just so she could pretend to be the great Jade Rabbit. Mulan tried to do her job dutifully, but there had been one grain that repeatedly escaped her. Determined to do well, she had struck at the grain with all her might. And then, crack! From the force of her blow, the mortar split in two and the rice flour flew up into the air, covering her in white dust. Ma had run out, crying, “Mulan! What are you doing? Control yourself!”

  Maybe I have lost control of my mind, Mulan thought. Or maybe it’s not that everyone else is asleep; maybe I’m the one who’s sleeping, and all this is a dream.

  “Could you help me?” a voice called politely. It was the rabbit. “Please?”

  Mulan hesitantly walked over to the fallen rabbit. But as she came closer, she tried not to gasp. What she had thought were spots on the rabbit were really blotches of blood. Four black gashes on the rabbit’s hind leg were seeping, staining the fur like spilled crimson ink. The rabbit looked up at her with serene eyes even while his body trembled with pain and weakness.

  “You?” the rabbit said, sounding more amused than annoyed. His voice was still the Healer’s voice, but somehow smoother and more flutelike. “You should be asleep with the rest of the village. But I am glad for your help. Could you get my bag, please?”

  Mulan shook away all the confusion and reached for the rabbit’s bag. It had fallen off during the foxes’ attack and lay unharmed in the grass, gleaming pale and silvery in the twilight. As she grasped it, the rich silk felt as smooth as water in her rough fingers.

  “Take out the blue bandage,” the rabbit said, and stretched out his wounded leg, “and tie it here.”

  Mulan reached into the bag and found a blue cloth in her hand. It was light and soft as goose down, and when she held it up, it was like holding a piece of the sky. She knelt next to the rabbit and, as gently as she could, lifted his leg. Dark liquid continued to drip from the evil-looking slashes, so she quickly wrapped the cloth around the leg, making sure she covered the entire wound. As she tied the cloth securely, she saw a strange look in the rabbit’s eyes—a mixture of admiration and respect. Mulan smiled to herself. Somehow, she had impressed this extraordinary talking-rabbit-healer being.

  “Well done,” he said, nodding.

  Mulan stood up, but then began to gawk. For the cloth she had just tied was now melting into the rabbit’s leg. As it disappeared into the fur, the ugly marks of blood also disappeared. In the space of a breath, th
e rabbit’s hair returned to silver, shimmering in the light of the moon. The only remains of the violent attack were four long dark marks on his leg that looked as if someone had drawn them with a burned branch.

  Mulan continued to stare, her eyes as round as rice bowls. Just when she had begun to think that she couldn’t be more surprised.…“Who…” she choked, “who are you?”

  The rabbit gave a wry smile, and Mulan found herself even more bewildered to see such a human expression on an animal’s face.

  “Who do you think I am?” the rabbit said, gazing up at her with the same tranquility as before. His eyes are like a cat’s, Mulan thought, or maybe more like a tiger’s? They were round and amber with pupils as black as a starless night, leaf-shaped eyebrows jutting above. They seem familiar somehow. But she couldn’t remember how. Her thoughts felt as stuffed as her nose. Perhaps she just needed to clear her head? Mulan sniffed and began to hunt among her clothes for a handkerchief.

  “Ah, that’s it,” the rabbit said, in the tone of a mystery solved. Mulan gave up her search, for, as usual, she had no handkerchief. She looked at the rabbit quizzically.

  “You didn’t breathe in the herbs,” the rabbit said, answering her look. “That’s why you didn’t fall asleep.”

  The rabbit stood, and Mulan saw that he was larger than she had thought, his ears reaching the height of her knees. She watched as the rabbit hopped slowly to the bag, favoring his injured leg. Then he pulled out a small embroidered pouch, the color and shape of a persimmon. The rabbit handed it to Mulan. “Smell this.”

  Mulan hesitated, looking at the pouch. A purple flower surrounded by the five poisons—viper, spider, toad, centipede, and scorpion—had been stitched into it with silk threads. That, too, seemed slightly familiar.

  “It’s not going to put you to sleep,” the rabbit said, the amusement returning to his voice. “It’ll clear your nose.”

  Mulan grimaced and then took a deep sniff. To her wonder, her nose did clear. She breathed the cool wind into her chest and marveled as air rushed out of her nose. She smiled. “So,” she said hopefully, “you really are a healer, then?”

  “Yes,” the rabbit replied, taking back the pouch and returning it to the bag, “among other things.”

  “And those foxes weren’t normal foxes, were they?” Mulan said. “I mean, they didn’t even try to eat you!”

  “No,” the rabbit said with a laugh. “She wouldn’t eat me now. That would be much too barbaric for one as cultured as her.”

  “As her?” Mulan said. “You know one of the foxes?”

  “I know them both,” the rabbit said, and a shadow passed over his face. “But it was the white one I was referring to.”

  “How do you know her?” Mulan said. She couldn’t help asking, even though she knew it might be rude. She could hear Ba’s quiet but firm voice reproving her. A young girl like you should not be asking questions like that. Try to remember your place.

  But the rabbit did not seem offended. Instead, he was looking at Mulan thoughtfully, as if unsure where to begin. “I have known her for a long time,” the rabbit said, finally. “But I only truly knew who she was when I died.”

  “YOU…YOU died?” Mulan stammered. Everything from the silver light to the talking rabbit was giving her a dizzy, dazzled feeling, as if she had suddenly stepped into an imaginary land. She sat down on the ground, glad to feel the solid earth beneath her, and shook her head in wonder. Then she looked again at the rabbit standing before her.

  He had been gazing off into the distance, lost in a dream. But at Mulan’s words, his head turned and his eyes refocused upon her.

  “Yes,” the rabbit said, “I died. It was a long time ago. It was like this.…”

  When the land was young, the Supreme August Jade Emperor, the Ruler of the Heavens, decreed that the night of the full moon of the seventh month was to be sacred. On that night, those of the spirit world and of the Heavens could roam freely on Earth, and all mortal creatures were to prepare generous feasts in their honor. No person or animal, no spirit or Immortal was to feel hunger that night; anyone in need was to be given food if they asked. To refuse would not only be shameful, but bring dishonor to one’s family and ancestors.

  The beasts, too, were given this decree, and all planned accordingly. The monkey gathered chestnuts from the trees. The otter caught a supply of fish. The dog dug up a pile of taro roots and radishes.

  But the rabbit worried about his feast. The rabbit ate only grass and realized that would be a poor offering to the hungry. So the rabbit decided to prepare differently. He went from animal to person and, with much bartering and wheedling, collected a grand assortment of food—from the monkey’s chestnuts to a pot of milk from the cow.

  But no matter what the rabbit promised or said, there was one being who refused to contribute to his feast. It was the white fox.

  “Look at you,” the fox mocked, “scurrying around like a peasant slave! Some dirty beggar is just going to gorge himself with your hard work, you know.”

  “I would rather work hard than risk the shame of dishonor,” the rabbit said, stiffly and with a bit of haughtiness. “What about your own feast? Or does disgrace mean nothing to you?”

  “Oh, I’ll provide a feast,” the fox said, in her sly way, “and mine will be the best of the lot. I’m not going to have to work like some poor drudge, either. Don’t you worry about me.”

  The rabbit shook his head in disdain, his low opinion of the fox not improved by this interaction. The rabbit and the fox had never been friends—the fox often mocked the rabbit for being so serious and fastidious, and the rabbit found the fox shallow and unscrupulous. But the rabbit had never realized just how unscrupulous the fox was until the night of the full moon.

  While it was still light, all the people and beasts arranged their displays of food. And what displays they were! Such an abundance had rarely been seen before. Tables seem to sag from the weight of the plates of noodles and dumplings and steamed buns. Heaps of lotus seeds and golden longan fruits sat next to bowls of wrinkled red dates. But the most lavish, the most bountiful—the jewel of all the displays—was the one the rabbit had prepared. His feast was an overflowing banquet. Mountains of blushing wax apples, pale round pears, and vibrant oranges rose over a landscape of soups and steamed rice.

  Many mouths watered, and all wandered from neighbor to neighbor to take note of what would be on the night’s menu.

  One animal seemed especially curious about everyone’s feasts. That animal was the fox. She went to each array of food and stared at it as if trying to balance each load with her mind. When she reached the rabbit’s display, she stared so intently that the rabbit began to feel irritated.

  “Why are you looking at my feast that way?” the rabbit demanded.

  “Oh,” the white fox said, that familiar, scheming smile beginning to curve on her face, “I’m just admiring it. I think yours is the best, actually.”

  The rabbit distrusted the fox’s compliment, but could only nod in thanks. “And where is your feast?” the rabbit asked.

  “Over there,” the fox said, nodding her head at a covered mound. She saw the rabbit frown at the drapery. “It’s still a long way until night, you know. I don’t want all my food getting dried up and flyspecked. I’m surprised you’re leaving yours all out in the open like this.”

  As she left, the rabbit’s nose twitched and he looked up at the sky. The fox was right; there was still a while until nightfall. The rabbit hopped away and returned with a cloth of his own. Quickly and carefully, he covered his food as well.

  So when night finally fell, the rabbit felt quite confident about his food offerings. And with this assurance, he was almost eager when the first beggar arrived in the animals’ area. The beggar was obviously a pauper—an old bent man, with unattractive boils on his face and a long dirty beard. His clothes reeked so much of dung and dirt that the dog, sitting a li away, perked up his nose in interest.

  “Supposed to be f
ood for me tonight,” the pauper cackled, his voice like a crow’s. “What do you animals have for me?”

  The monkey presented her chestnuts while the old man inspected the otter’s fish.

  “Can’t eat those,” the beggar yawped. “Raw nuts? Raw fish? How am I gonna eat that? I should’ve stuck to the people’s area. Stupid of me to come here. You animals don’t know how to be hospitable.”

  The animals looked at each other anxiously. Would they all face dishonor this evening?

  “If you only give us a moment,” the monkey chattered nervously while giving the otter a panicked look, “we’ll get your meal cooked right away.”

  The man grunted as the monkey and otter rushed to set up a fire. He investigated the dog’s radishes and the pig’s turnips. “RAW!” the beggar bawled again, which caused those animals to join the monkey and otter in building an even larger fire.

  “If you please,” the rabbit said, speaking over the man’s various noises of disgust, “I have food that you might enjoy.”

  The rabbit led the beggar to his covered feast. With a flourish, the rabbit removed the sheltering cloth, only to hear all the watching animals gasp in unison. Alarmed, the rabbit moved to take a quick look at his feast, then stared in horror.

  All his food was gone!

  Instead of mounds of rice and fruit, there were only bundles of grass. They were strewn across the ground cloth like fallen leaves, and the aghast rabbit felt as if he had turned to stone.

  “GRASS?” the beggar howled. “YOU EXPECT ME TO EAT GRASS?! YOU ANIMALS ARE—”

  “Come with me.” The fox’s coaxing voice broke the beggar’s rant, and he turned to look at her. Giving him a beguiling look, she led him over to her covered display. Then, with a wink in the rabbit’s direction, she plucked off the cloth.