But now, Grandpa wasn’t there. They were all alone.
It was time for the trip.
Twenty minutes later, Mei read off the packing list in the kitchen.
“Boots?”
“Check,” answered Yun.
“Knife?”
“Check.”
“Blanket?”
“Check.”
“Bandages, water jug, lantern?”
“Check, check, check.”
“Hm.” Mei looked up. “We should take some leftover buns for food, too.”
When the buns were packed, the twins peered outside the window. The snow had stopped. The early morning sun had come out, painting the pale blue sky with shades of pink and orange. It looked almost deceptively peaceful.
“One more thing.” Yun grabbed Grandpa’s porcelain jar from the floor and placed it inside his duffel bag with their other equipment.
“Why are you taking that?” asked Mei.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll come in handy.”
The twins bid farewell to Smelly Tail and cracked open the window for her. Yun spent several minutes mixing a fish-and-rice leftover dish and set it on the floor. It was the same dish they’d often seen their mother make in the middle of the night for the cat, when the rest of the family had fallen asleep.
“We’ll be back,” Mei promised. “Until then, you’ll have to make do with this, and mice.”
Then they left the house. The village was quiet. Every house was covered by a thick layer of snow. Nobody else had come outside yet. There were no tracks on the path; even the village outhouse was undisturbed.
Mei and Yun trudged through the snow, huddled inside their winter jackets, stiff with multiple patches from years of mending. Their breaths made clouds of fog in the air. The cold sank into their skin, and they drew closer to the small, ironclad coal burner that Yun carried—a traveling pocket heater, to sustain them for the journey. By the time they reached the river, which had frozen white like the willow trees along the banks, their cheeks were numb. They wondered what it was like the morning their parents had left so long ago. Had they been scared? Determined? Excited?
Yun knelt beside the river to fill their travel jugs with water that still ran below the surface. As he tapped on the ice, Mei stood still. “Wait a minute,” she said as she stared into the distance.
Something didn’t seem right. She went to the nearest willow tree and carefully climbed her way up. The tree was much more slippery when it was frozen. Bits of snow and ice sprinkled the air as she clutched the icy branches, but she found her footing and soon was near the top. There, she looked into the distance again. A single, frosty-white path ran through the hills and mountains surrounding the village.
“There’s a trail of snow,” she called down to Yun. “But everything else around it is untouched.”
Yun squinted in the direction his sister pointed. “Impossible,” he started, but even with his blurry vision, he could make out the unscathed green trees as far as the eye could see. It was as if a giant creature had walked off carrying an enormous, leaky bucket of snow, sprinkling it along its way and nowhere else.
“It’s like the weather followed someone—or something,” Mei whispered. “Right here to our village.”
“Or away from it,” Yun added. “Can you see where the snow leads?”
Mei’s eyes followed the strange snow trail, watched it wind through the hills here and there, until it came to a stop. She nodded.
“You know,” she said slowly. “I’m starting to think that city is cursed after all.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
七
The Curse
On the night Lotus drank the elixir, a series of odd, rolling clouds swept over the City of Blossoms. Shortly after, the moon vanished suddenly from the sky. That was when everything went downhill.
Blossom trees wilted. Here and there, people randomly disappeared from their beds. Storm after storm raged: hailstorms and thunderstorms and snowstorms. In between the storms, houses caught on fire for no apparent reason, trapping those inside. At one point, there was a dry spell on the city for two months straight, and flames raged in every corner until the sky was bloodred. The blazes stripped the gilded linings off rooftops until the city lost all its glitter, and ashes and corpses piled the streets.
At the heart of it all was Lotus, who had come to possess a powerful magic the likes of which no one had ever seen. Her words, once enchanting on paper, now seemed to gain a life of their own. She walked around the city with her baby in her arms and recited her poetry to passersby with a solemn look on her face.
One of her poems went as such:
“The birds, let them carry
The sorrows of the skies
And bring them to this city
To swallow the sunrise.”
The next moment, hundreds of black crows closed in on the city. When they finally left, the sun did not rise for three days.
The Noble General had fled the city the very first day after Lotus returned from the mountaintop. Most people were not sure what had happened to him, only that his house had been set aflame, and that he barely managed to escape by jumping out the window, hopping on his horse, and galloping off in the direction of the Imperial City. But I saw Lotus standing quietly in his garden before the inferno as she spoke:
“You will speak in riddles
Until the end of time,
Confused, like a babbling frog.
The skies will rain suffering
Should you or your descendants return.”
Others fled the city, too. Some families decided to stay, thinking the events would surely end. They locked their shutters and placed bowls of goldfish on their doorsteps for good luck. By that point, none of the city officials were left to take charge. Lotus, powerful beyond belief, became the de facto ruler of the city. Some were drawn to her power and tried to follow and serve her, partially so they’d be spared from her wrath, partially in the vain hopes of sharing some of that power. Others simply feared her.
The storms and fires eventually stopped, but then the curse took another turn. As time went on, there came a period when the sky was cloudy for months on end, and people became unusually frightened, then morose, then frightened again, as if trapped in a never-ending nightmare. Neighbors came to distrust one another. No one helped when someone else was in need. A strange weight descended upon the people of the city. Their fears, multiplied by the magic, enfolded the area and slowly detached the people from the physical world.
Through it all, Lotus’s anger continued to burn. Anger is one of those emotions that fuels itself, growing bigger and fiercer until it extinguishes everything in its path, yet it is still never satisfied. It very soon became clear the magic was consuming Lotus from within. She found she was not content with the Noble General’s hasty departure, nor was she pleased with the curse she’d cast upon him. She tried to hunt him down to the place he’d fled, but discovered that, try as she might, she physically could not. Her fury against the City of Blossoms, whose citizens had betrayed her husband, now turned on itself and tethered her, ironically, to the very place and people she detested. She was unable to leave. It was as if an invisible wall blocked her path. Her emotions, like rain, drenched the premises but no farther.
On the advice of the Noble General, who had managed to reach his old home in the Imperial City, the emperor sent troops down to the City of Blossoms to barricade it with a real wall.
Lotus did not stop them. She gathered her son and a few possessions and took refuge in one of the temples after shooing out the monks who lived there. She did not venture outside again.
Months stretched to years. The city crumbled into disarray. Its inhabitants had now completely separated from the present world and become trapped in the past. Lotus, too, became a relic in time.
Officials from the emperor’s palace passed a law forbidding anyone from venturing to the desolate place that was now known as the City of Ashes.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER EIGHT
八
Before the Gates
The trail of snow led right to the City of Ashes. By the time Mei and Yun reached the gates, it was nightfall.
Oddly enough, their journey had been smoother than expected. There had been no sudden blizzards or heat waves. The previous snowfall had rendered the forest in the mountains still and quiet, without even the faintest rustling of leaves. The twins had thought the snow would make it difficult to trek, but if anything, the crusty layer cushioned the steep mountain trails and made it easier to hike, like walking on a thick quilt that protected against jagged steps and sharp falls. They’d followed the snowy path, winding their way through trees and brambles, until they reached the city walls. It was easy, much easier than the fabled Mountain of Ten Thousand Steps in the north. The path of snow had guided their way like the North Star.
It helped, too, that the twins knew the area well. They’d foraged the mountains before, collecting wild mushrooms with Grandpa or gathering herbs for Doctor Po. Mei and Yun also had excellent navigational skills. Mei had a natural sense of direction; she was one of those people who could travel to a brand-new place miles away while simultaneously memorizing the entire way back. Yun, meanwhile, knew his way around by relying on all sorts of miscellaneous knowledge, like the fact that moss grew on the north side of trees, or that all waters flowed downstream. Together, the twins rarely got lost.
And perhaps a little bit of whatever caused the recent events—the magic, the unnatural forces—had factored into their trip, so that time and distance had been shortened for the twelve-year-olds.
(But I am merely speculating.)
The twins now stood in the moonless night before the thick iron doors, around ten times their height and nearly just as wide. Grayish yellow walls stretched out on either side of the sealed doors. The fortress surrounded the city on all sides, making it impossible for even an army of grown soldiers to climb.
“I guess this is what Grandpa was up against,” said Mei.
“Hello?” shouted Yun. His voice echoed in the vast emptiness.
“Anyone home?” called Mei.
The twins called out several more times, to no avail.
“You’re sure you can’t climb those walls?” Yun asked his sister.
“You can’t be serious.”
“It shouldn’t be that much different than climbing a tree, right?” Yun caught Mei’s furious expression. “Never mind.”
“I knew this was a bad idea,” sighed Mei. She shivered; all the coals in their pocket heater had nearly burned up. “Let’s set up camp for the night and go home first thing in the morning.”
“No, there must be a way in.” Yun closed his eyes and thought hard. Suddenly, an idea hit him.
He fumbled for a match, then lit the small gas lantern they’d packed. Guided by the circle of orange flame, he moved slowly alongside the stone wall, his hands touching the rough stone surface. Toward the corner of the fortress, he knelt and examined the bottom closely. Aha! A tiny hole was burrowed under the wall, large enough for a small dog to crawl through. No doubt the people who built the wall did not consider tiny animals as a threat.
Yun kicked away the snow at his feet. The frosted ground below it was hard as rocks. He dug out the knife from his duffel bag and carved the blade into the ground. The dirt crumbled.
“I’ve got it!” he called to Mei.
They both dug at the ground with tools they had brought—knife, spoons, and eventually their hands. Their fingers stung from digging in the cold, but an hour later there was a small crater beneath the hole, just large enough for two skinny children to squeeze through.
“Bet the other kids will stop making fun of us for being wimpy now, when they hear we saved them by going to the City of Ashes,” Mei remarked after they wriggled and twisted inside the wall to the other side. They dusted off the dirt that clung to their fingers the best they could, then looked at their new surroundings.
The inside of the fabled city walls was completely black. The light from their lantern cast long, distorted shadows of the twins along the long, dark street. Dark and deserted street. No one else seemed to be there.
Mei and Yun instinctively huddled close together. At least they were not alone, they reminded themselves quietly. In spooky tales, monsters always came after the lone protagonist—a lost little girl in the woods or a boy wandering on his own. Down the street were dim outlines of buildings, so faint they blended with the inky night. The twins slowly began walking.
Inside the gated city were more gates. Yun and Mei had read that in many cities across China, the houses were arranged around private courtyards, like mini neighborhoods. They passed several blocks of such dwellings, each neighborhood surrounded by windowless walls and one closed gate. If anybody had been living behind these walls, there were no signs to indicate their presence. Some of the walls were half crumbled, revealing houses with missing rooftops and broken foundations behind them.
Yun tried one of the gates. Locked. Same with the next four.
“Mama and Baba might be in one of these neighborhoods,” he whispered in response to Mei’s questioning gaze.
Something caught in Mei’s throat. She cleared it, then said with a trace of defiance, “Probably. Seems like everyone’s home asleep, though.”
Deep down, both twins weren’t sure how they’d feel seeing their parents again after all these years. Joy, certainly. Or maybe they’d just feel angry and betrayed that they’d left in the first place. That was why Mei didn’t like to think about it too long, and why Yun felt the need to overanalyze it.
It was indeed a strange city to visit on a whim, even for a curious scholar like their father. According to the rumors, they were supposed to hear wailing and other noises in the walled city. But now, there was only silence coming from all directions. Still, it was very true that the place felt haunted, from the seemingly empty houses to the lack of noises. What’s more, every little draft brushed their skin with a ghostlike sigh, making their spines tingle and their hair stand up. Now and then, the twins glanced over their shoulders.
They turned onto a new street. That was when they saw the first shadow approaching.
Mei was the first to see it with her sharp vision. She froze mid-step and clutched Yun’s arm.
“What?” asked Yun.
“Don’t move.” Mei trembled.
Yun squinted into the distance, but he couldn’t make out anything in the dark. He hated being nearsighted in times like this.
“Why?” he whispered in alarm. “What do you see?”
Then he saw the figure, too. An old man in a cloak walked toward them down the street.
Encountering a stranger in the dark at night is always a bit unnerving. Doubly so, if it’s in a deserted city with no one else in sight. The twins’ first instinct was to drop the lantern and run in the opposite direction, but then they realized this was a person who could potentially help them.
The figure continued walking closer until the twins could clearly see his features. He had grayish white hair and wrinkles in his somber face. There was something odd about his cloak and skin—the old man looked like he was made of a thin shadowy material, as if someone had traced a drawing and didn’t fully color in the lines. He did not look at the twins; instead, he looked straight ahead, as if the children didn’t exist.
“Excuse me, um, sir,” Mei said.
The man kept walking.
“Sir—hey, sir?” Yun tried.
They waved and called hello, but even when the man was within five inches of them, he didn’t pay them the slightest attention. The twins jumped aside at the last minute so the old man wouldn’t walk into them. He passed through without a single glance at either one.
Mei and Yun shared a look of bewilderment. Mei went after the old man and tapped his shoulder. But her hand felt nothing but air. The two of them watched the shadowy figure disappear past what the lantern’s light could reach.
“Mei, you okay
?” Yun said. His sister was still holding her hand midair. “Don’t worry about him, he’s old and couldn’t hear or feel you.”
Mei didn’t want to say out loud that she couldn’t feel the old man. “I’m fine,” she warbled after a few moments.
They continued walking. Mei, however, was still shaken by her encounter. Had she touched some kind of ghost? She tried hard not to think about what else lurked in the gloom.
Something crunched under their feet. Yun lowered the lantern, then looked sick. Underneath his boot was a blackened, smiling skull.
CHAPTER NINE
九
The Moon Children
And what of Lotus’s baby boy, you ask?
For the answer to that question, we must go back to the days that followed Lotus drinking the elixir.
The Jade Rabbit was devastated when the curse began. Although it normally did not intervene in humans’ problems, it knew it had indirectly caused the terrible events now plaguing the City of Blossoms. The rabbit took pity on the newly orphaned children in the city. It loved children; they did not bear grudges the way adults did, they were witty, and their smiles shone for miles around. A child without a family was a tragic thing.
So the rabbit gathered all the orphans it could and sent them out of the city’s walls. Across China that year, there was a strange phenomenon known as “moon children,” where kindhearted people would stumble upon little children under the moonlight—next to a tree in the forest, or beside a grassy field, or on the doorstep of a house. These orphans were taken in and welcomed with open hearts.
The Jade Rabbit took particular pity on Lotus’s baby, who lived restlessly in the temple. By that time, his mother could no longer tend to him. She was a phantom now, like the people in the city—one who lives in a dream, real yet not real, disconnected from the rest of the world.
So one moonlit night, the magical creature took him away, too. “Your mother can care for you no longer,” it told him. “You do not understand it now, but revenge always destroys the people who carry it out, like a burning log that dissolves into flames.”
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