8
Mulan sat in front of a fire, trying to warm her hands. The fire was small. She had not had the strength or energy to search the surrounding woods for more than a handful of twigs. But as she tried to warm up, she wished she had spent a little more time gathering firewood.
Groaning, she pulled off her father’s boots. The rags she had stuffed in the shoes to help them fit better came out tinged red. Blisters, some new and some old, lined her feet, which were bloody and raw. She grimaced at the sight and then stretched them toward the fire. Reaching down, she grabbed her small food bag and looked inside. There was only one lonely apple remaining. Sighing, she offered it up to Black Wind, who devoured it.
“Maybe if I beg forgiveness, my family will take me back . . .” she said when the sound of Black Wind’s chomping had grown quiet. The horse didn’t respond. Looking across the fire, Mulan’s eyes grew wide.
The bird was back.
The same ugly, strange bird that she had now seen three separate times sat on a nearby log, watching her. Mulan’s stomach rumbled. “Is that hideous bird too ugly to eat?” she asked Black Wind.
In answer, the bird let out a loud squawk.
Mulan’s stomach rumbled again. She reached for her sword. Ugly didn’t necessarily mean not tasty. She was pushing herself to her feet when she heard footsteps behind her. Startled, she turned, giving the bird a chance to hop to safety.
“Greetings!”
The sound of a man’s voice bounced off the trees. Wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her sword, Mulan turned, the weapon raised in front of her. Two monks, with long beards and ragged cloaks, were looking at her from across the fire. They appeared to be much older than her, their faces weathered with age. One’s skin and hair were darker, while the other had a lighter complexion. Behind them was a pathetic-looking donkey.
“Be at ease, my friend,” the monk with the darker hair said. “We are simply monks traveling the world, doing good deeds to ensure happiness and keep chaos at bay.” The other monk nodded and flashed her a smile. Mulan’s face remained stony. The dark-haired man went on, pointing at the smiling monk. “This is Brother Ramtish. I am Brother Skatch. We bring you food and fellowship.”
Food?
Just the word itself made Mulan’s mouth water. And when the two monks brought the food out, any remaining fear vanished. Dropping her weapon, she grabbed a plate and some rice and sat down. Despite the overwhelming urge to shovel all of it in her mouth at once, she heard her mother’s voice in her head, telling her to eat slowly, with grace.
But Mother was never on the verge of starving
, Mulan thought, though she did as she had been taught.
Watching her, Ramtish chuckled. Turning, he looked at Skatch. “I think he’s the most polite starving person I’ve ever seen.”
Skatch nodded. “Yes, he is a gentleman of remarkably good manners.” He reached toward his bag. “Brother Ramtish, I say we celebrate this repast with a taste of wine.”
Mulan stifled a smile. She had a feeling the good brothers liked to celebrate—a lot. But they had been referring to her as a man thus far, so if their celebration allowed her to remain anonymous, she would look the other way. But then Skatch poured a drink and offered it to her.
“Thank you,” Mulan said, shaking her head. “But I do not drink.”
“A soldier who doesn’t drink?” Skatch repeated. “Brother Ramtish, there’s something peculiar about our dining companion.”
Mulan stopped chewing, her heartbeat quickening as both monks turned and gazed at her searchingly.
Skatch went on, “Does he look like any soldier you’ve ever seen?”
“He does not,” Ramtish answered.
Mulan swallowed the rest of the rice that now felt like rocks in her stomach. Then, clearing her throat, she tried to explain away their doubts. “Well, technically,” she began, being sure to keep her voice low, “I am not a soldier yet. This is my father’s sword and armor.” She pointed to both. “I am a conscript for the Imperial Army in the fight against the northern invaders.”
Skatch’s eyes narrowed but he nodded. “Yes, the northern invaders,” he said, taking a deep drink from his cup. “Led by Böri Khan. We heard they were back.”
“He was angry before they killed him,” Ramtish said, taking his own drink with a chuckle. “Imagine how furious he is now?”
The two monks shared another laugh, and another drink, before Skatch returned his attention to Mulan. She had, in the meantime, scooted farther away. But the clearing was small. There wasn’t much room for her to move. “So, what’s your name, soldier-to-be?” Skatch asked.
“I represent the Hua family,” Mulan answered.
“You don’t have a first name?” Skatch probed. Mulan frowned. It was clear the monk was not going to let this go. She ran through the boys in her village before settling on a name. “My first name is . . . Jun,” she told him.
“Well, Hua Jun,” Skatch said, stretching out the name, “I’m going to be honest with you. I can’t see you lasting a day in the army. You’re going to be eaten alive.” From where he sat, Ramtish nodded in agreement. “If you’re going to be a soldier, you’ve got to be a man.”
Mulan’s breath hitched in her throat and she hoped her cheeks weren’t flushing red. “What makes you think I’m not a man?”
Skatch laughed. “You act like a boy,” he answered. He mimicked her careful placement of food in her mouth. “You’ve got to look like a man, smell like a man, act like a man!”
The breath escaped her lungs in a whoosh as she realized her secret was still safe. Unaware of her thoughts, the monk began to tromp around the fire. Mulan bit back a smile. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pounded on his chest and yelled for effect. Still, what he was saying was intriguing, and something she had not given much thought to. “How does a man act?” she asked.
“For one thing, he doesn’t eat like a woman.” Once again, Skatch pretended to be her, daintily picking at a grain of rice. “Men eat like it’s the last meal they’ll ever have.” This time, he mimed shoveling food into his face, even lapping his tongue at the air as though licking a bowl. Mulan had to stop herself from grimacing. He looked like a pig.
But that was Skatch’s point: men behaved like pigs. They were also almost always confident. “You walked into that tavern tonight like you were hiding something.” This time, he imitated Mulan’s shrinking figure as she entered the tavern. Ramtish laughed. Skatch stopped and planted his feet, squaring his shoulders before going on. “When a real man enters a room, he owns that room. It’s his territory. You might not announce it, but you’ve got to believe it.” Then, to Mulan’s amusement, he actually did pound his chest. “Ha!” he yelled. Then he gestured to Mulan to stand by him. “Show me.”
Taking a deep breath, Mulan walked over to the monk. She planted her feet, just as he had. Then she squared her shoulders, just as he had. And finally, she pounded her chest, just as he had. “HA!” she shouted. To her ears, the word came out as a squeak.
But Skatch seemed pleased. “Yes!” he cried. “That’s it! You don’t go looking for trouble, but you don’t back away from it, either. Especially from a snaggle-toothed, foul-odored innkeeper.”
His hand whipped forward, grabbing the sword out of Mulan’s grasp. Before she could even blink, he had the tip of the blade pointed right below her chin. “Pay before I eat?” he said, as though he were addressing the innkeeper himself. “My payment’s the tip of my blade. So, either I eat now . . . or you die.”
Mulan couldn’t help thinking that, for a monk, he seemed remarkably capable with a weapon. Flipping the sword in his hand, Skatch held out the handle to Mulan.
“Never let someone take your sword, by the way,” he said. “Very bad idea.”
“Oh. Sorry—” Mulan began.
“Apologizing isn’t recommended, either,” Skatch said, cutting her off. “And another thing—”
This time, he was the one who was interrupted. Letting out a loud burp, Ramtish hit his chest with his fist. “Brother Skatch,” he said, “this man’s trying to eat his dinner and you’re blabbering on like a woman.”
Skatch held his hand to his heart. “Apologies, Hua Jun,” he said. “Please—let us sit. Relax. Enjoy your meal.”
He turned and joined Ramtish, who had made himself quite comfortable on a fallen log. Running his hand through his dark hair, he smiled at his friend as Ramtish refilled both their cups. A few drops spilled over, staining the ground where they fell a light red.
Mulan’s eyes narrowed as she watched the two men tilt back their cups and drink deeply.
“There are many paths to truth,” Skatch said, in response to the judgment he saw in Mulan’s eyes.
Silence settled over the small clearing as the two monks stared into the flickering flames of the fire and Mulan stared at them. She was still unsure exactly what they were doing there. They had fed her, for which she was grateful, but she had assumed they would soon be on their way. Yet they lingered.
Since they didn’t appear to be going anywhere, Mulan figured she should at least make conversation. “You said there was another thing.”
“Pardon?” Skatch said, looking up from his cup. His eyes already seemed a little glazed and his voice less clear.
“You know,” Mulan prompted. “About being a man. Another thing I should know?”
Skatch frowned, and Ramtish nudged him. The pair shared a look that Mulan couldn’t quite read before Ramtish said, “Oh, go on. You might as well tell him now.”
For a moment, Skatch hesitated, and Mulan wondered if he was going to heed his friend’s advice or ignore him. Mulan felt a flash of impatience, but then he nodded. “Here’s the most fundamental thing of all.” Skatch paused, his eyes locking with Mulan’s and all traces of his fogginess disappearing. “A real man never refuses a drink.”
As Skatch finished his “lesson,” Ramtish casually placed a cup of wine in front of Mulan. She looked down at the red liquid, then up at the monks, and then back down at the wine. She had never tasted a drop of the liquid in her life. Even at the few celebrations she had attended in her village, her mother had strictly forbidden it, telling Mulan it would make her act unladylike. But now she didn’t have a choice. If she refused, the monks would figure out her secret.
So, taking a deep breath, she grabbed the cup, brought it to her lips . . . and drank the contents down in one long gulp.
Skatch looked down at the young soldier, who was now lying beside the fire. He was out cold. The liquid had done its trick. The moment he had spotted the young man, Skatch had known he would be an easy mark. The boy reeked of innocence and naiveté. All it had taken was the one glass of wine and Hua Jun had passed out. Now he lay there, half his face covered in dirt, oblivious to the movement around him.
Lifting a hand, Skatch rubbed his now hairless chin. The fake beard he had been wearing was hanging underneath his chin, giving his skin a chance to feel the fresh air. Turning, he saw Ramtish strapping the warrior’s sword to the back of the horse’s saddle. The huge animal shifted on his feet, clearly aware that something strange was going on.
“We have the horse and the sword,” Ramtish said, giving the rope around the sword one final tug to make sure it was secure. He nodded at the warrior on the ground. “Let’s strip him and take his armor.”
Not waiting for Skatch’s permission, Ramtish leaned down and reached to unlace the young warrior’s armor. But before he could finish, a loud, ugly bird appeared out of nowhere. Ramtish swung his arms around, trying to keep the bird at bay. But the creature kept coming, its eyes wild and sparse feathers flying. With a shout, he managed to swat the bird, sending it soaring.
But it doubled back immediately, attacking again. This time, Ramtish didn’t bother with his hand. Instead, he reached down and unsheathed his own sword. It whooshed through the air as he brought it up, the tip pointing directly at the oncoming bird.
This time, the bird stopped.
“Brother?” Skatch asked, watching the interaction with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. He wasn’t sure why the bird seemed so protective of the warrior, but it was clear the creature wanted Ramtish nowhere near him. “Leave his armor. And the sword.”
Ramtish looked over, surprise on his face. “What?” he said. He and Skatch had been working together for years. Never once, in all that time, had Skatch left something of value behind when there was something of value to be had.
“There’s something about this young man I like,” Skatch said, shrugging. His eyes lingered on the warrior. In sleep, the young man looked even more innocent. “He’s an underdog, like ourselves,” he added.
“Speak for yourself,” Ramtish retorted. “As dogs go, I prefer to think of myself as a champion.”
Skatch laughed as he hooked his fake beard around his ears and pushed it back into place. “Leave him the donkey, too,” Skatch added. “Since I am in a very generous mood.” Then, grabbing the horse’s reins, he led the big animal out of the clearing. Ramtish took one last longing look at the armor and weapon and then, with a sigh, followed.
Behind them, the warrior lay, his breath heavy, his eyes still closed.
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