“The Eternal Emperor is immortal because…he dreams?”
I should wait for the High Master’s permission to speak, but I can’t hold my question back. The fabled elixir of eternal life has to be more complicated than that.
“Qin Shi Huang lives forever,” Master Ning says, “because Xu Fu taught him how to form an eternal link. A properly focused Fifth Amplitude bridges dimensions, forever linking a dreamer to his or her alternate self.”
He lets me sit silently to absorb what I’m hearing, but it still makes absolutely no sense.
“I can’t be linked,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to focus my amplitudes. Awake or in my sleep I don’t know how to do it.”
“On rare occasions it has happened without the dreamer consciously attempting it,” Master Ning says. “I’m aware of one other instance. A girl like you. She lived in Xu Fu’s ancient era.”
I’m shivering. Could this be the explanation for why my dreams have become so vividly real?
“Tell me what you see when you sleep at night, Student Jade. Tell me about your dreams.”
My mouth drops open. I quickly shut it again. I’ve told no one about my dreams, but somehow he knows.
“Your brain emits a particularly strong Fifth Amplitude,” the Master says as if reading my thoughts, “and recently this amplitude has been increasing in power. I suspect a repeating dream. A vision of an intriguing young woman in an alien place. Tell me about her. What is her name?”
My first impulse is to deny the charge. Dreams are illegal. The High Master will be forced to turn me over to Imperial officials. And yet no Imperial investigators have been summoned to the library. Maybe Master Ning’s intentions are benign.
“Jenna,” I reply. “Her name is Jenna.” I secretly like the way her name sounds when I say it aloud.
“And what does she look like?”
“Like me. Except…different. In her world, people wear clothing unlike any I’ve ever seen.”
My heart is hammering. My pulse is racing. If I’m put to death, will it be quick and painless or long and excruciating?
Master Ning, looking thoughtful, pinches the long drooping ends of his mustache.
“How about her personality. Is it different from yours?”
“She doesn’t conform to imperial formalities,” I whisper. “But I don’t think anyone in her society does.”
“You admire her,” Master Ning says. “You admire this girl, and you’re fascinated by her world. That, in small part, is why you keep returning to her reality.”
This time I say nothing. It would be too painful to explain the reason I began dreaming.
“Dreams are forbidden,” he says. “You know that, Jade. Especially repeating dreams like yours.”
I nod and bow my head. Here it comes. The moment where he informs me the bingmayong are on their way.
“That is why we must teach you how to conceal your dreams from others who might detect them the way I have.”
I must look like a jinyu—a dazed goldfish. Teachers are duty-bound to suppress dreams, not encourage them.
Master Ning lifts his steaming gaiwan and calmly takes another sip.
“You want to train me?” I whisper.
“A dangerous proposition,” Master Ning replies. “You, of course, have the right to decline.”
Early in this conversation we dropped all pretenses of formality, so I no longer worry that I’m gawking. Danger hovers over me. I feel its hot, moist breath dripping down my neck. Despite this, he knows I’ll agree. He wouldn’t have extended the invitation if he had any doubts about it.
“When do I begin?” I ask.
EIGHT
八
JENNA
The TSA official waves me through, and my x-rayed possessions roll out of the machine in a black plastic tray. I retrieve my carry-on, cell phone, and jewelry, and quickly slip my tennis shoes back onto my feet.
“Do you have all your things?” Mom asks.
I nod and we proceed to the boarding area. We’re in some kind of pre-fab building because the airport is being remodeled. The floor squeaks under a thin layer of blue carpet. I wonder how long it will be before someone falls through it.
“Are you excited?” Mom asks. “It’s been so long since you flew you probably don’t remember what it’s like.”
“I’m a little excited,” I admit. “I guess this might be fun.”
Mom smiles and checks her watch.
“Our flight departs at 5:17,” she says. “We have a half hour. Do you want me to get you something to eat?”
I glance at the sandwiches in a nearby display case. The lettuce is wilted and the bread looks soggy.
“I think I’ll pass,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m positive.”
She examines the overpriced sandwiches, wrinkles her nose, and we find two unoccupied seats by a window. I’m exhausted. I lean my head against the glass and stare at my bleary-eyed reflection. When I woke up this morning, I was more tired than when I fell asleep. Lately, it’s like I’ve been living two lives in two vastly different worlds. I consider telling Mom about it, but she’s already checking her university email on her tablet, so I fish my phone out of my purse and send a quick text to Lily. Unless her phone is dead or her parents have grounded her from it, Lily will respond in less than a minute. I wait five with no answer and pull up the internet to pass some time.
Xu Fu. I type his name in the search field and click on a link. A web page pops up. I scroll down and see an illustration of a bearded man in billowing robes. 255 B.C. Court sorcerer. Elixir of life.
I scroll a little farther and find a picture of two ships with snarling faces painted across their bows. I’ve seen this painting before. There’s a photograph of it in my World History textbook. It’s what started this whole disturbing dream thing.
I brush my fingers through my hair, lean back against my hard plastic seat, and close my eyes. Maybe if I read a few articles about unicorns and rainbows, I can start dreaming about them instead. I must be a glutton for punishment, however, because instead of leaving the topic alone, I pull up several other web pages to compare to the first article. I learn that Xu Fu served one of China’s emperors, Qin Shi Huang, and this crazy emperor sent Xu Fu to search for a mysterious island where a magic potion was supposed to exist. If he drank this potion, Qin Shi Huang would be rewarded with immortality.
Apparently the Xu Fu from my world knew better than to help crazed monarchs live forever, because he sailed to Japan with several thousand young men and women, settled there, and never came back.
My phone pings. Lily’s finally returning my text.
Sorry, she says. Washing dishes. Where R U?
Airport, I answer.
Remember to bring me something from Chinatown.
How about a fortune cookie?
Very funny. Guess what! My mom got the assistant manager job at the mall. :)
That’s great, I reply. Does she get employee discounts?
You know it! LOL!
We text until Lily’s mom threatens to confiscate her phone if she doesn’t stop and do her homework. I check the time. Mom and I will be boarding our flight soon.
Maybe this weekend away from home will be exactly what I need. A change of scenery. A change of pace.
Maybe I’ll finally get a good night’s sleep.
NINE
九
JADE
I enter the Pagoda of Sublime Enlightenment and look nervously around. A light rainfall has started outside and raindrops drum softly across the rooftop.
Master Ning isn’t here, but Mistress Song, the academy’s art and calligraphy teacher, kneels in the middle of the room on a velvet cushion. She’s sketching something with a charcoal stick and greets me without looking up.
“Wanshang hao, Student Jade.”
“Wanshang hao, Mistress Song.”
I scan the room again.
“I was told to come here
for…special lessons,” I say. “Master Ning—”
“Has already informed me you would be coming. Please get five sheets of mulberry paper and a charcoal stick from the supply shelf and kneel here beside me.”
I stare at her, confused.
“Master Ning told me I was here for—”
“Additional training,” she interrupts again. “Yes, I know. The High Master and I have discussed your potential, and we both agree these extra lessons are in order.”
Thoroughly bewildered, I retrieve the art supplies and prepare to kneel on the bare floor. Mistress Song moves to one side and gestures me down onto the cushion.
“Here, please. It will help your concentration.”
I accept the cushion with some hesitance. It feels awkward to allow my knees to enjoy a soft pillow while my elegant teacher kneels on the hardwood floor, but she doesn’t seem to notice my discomfiture.
Mistress Song is a willowy thin, hauntingly beautiful woman with delicate features and porcelain-smooth skin. She’s everyone’s favorite teacher. The boys’ because she’s pretty. The girls’ because she’s kind.
“Master Yao has expressed concerns about your inability to concentrate,” she says.
“Sometimes I…get distracted in his class and daydream,” I admit.
“Perhaps this evening’s instruction will help with that. We’ll practice focusing attention on action lines while sketching figures in motion.”
She ignores my perplexed expression and shows me her charcoal drawing.
“You’re a clever girl,” she says. “Look at this image. Tell me how many action lines you see.”
I inspect the picture. Her skills are impressive. Two tigers circle around a bamboo stalk, warily eyeing each other. Their tails seem to flick, and their raised paws flex, exposing claws so sharp they threaten to tear through the paper. I see one obvious line, but subtler lines also arc through the drawing. I almost miss the bamboo’s gentle swaying but mentally add its line before giving my answer.
“Five?”
“Exactly. There are five. And notice how the lines flow around each other like water. Notice how I’ve used them to convey a sense of impending danger.”
Why is she watching me so intently? And why has she put a barely detectable stress on the last word of each sentence?
Water. Shui. Five lines. These words are all related to the Fifth Amplitude… But ‘danger’?
Her eyes shift toward one of the pagoda’s rectangular, bamboo-screened windows, and a chill creeps up my spine.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” I say.
“Very good. I knew you were a fast learner.”
Something moves behind the screen’s intricate geometric pattern. A shadow. A human silhouette. It disappears almost as soon as I see it, but Mistress Song distracts me by placing a sheet of paper in my hands.
“Let’s see what you can do with action lines,” she says. “Show me a hummingbird in flight. Visualize its motion as you draw it. Try to feel its beating wings.”
It’s difficult not to stare at the window. Mistress Song, sensing my dilemma, carefully positions herself between our anonymous watcher and me.
“Try lighter strokes for the wings,” she says. “Good. Just like that.”
I sketch while she gives intermittent praise and advice.
“Do your best to concentrate,” she says. “Focus on your task to the exclusion of all else. When you see nothing but the bird and its movements, you have reached an adequate level of artistic meditation.”
She’s trying to communicate something more than the obvious with her words, but I was lucky to catch her references to the Fifth Amplitude and lurking danger. We work on my sketch until my feet, tucked under me, begin to lose feeling. Finally, Mistress Song furtively glances at the window, frowns, and brings my “art” lesson to an end.
“Beautiful,” she says, scrutinizing my masterpiece. “I think that will be enough for one night. For our next lesson, come prepared to do brush painting.”
We stand, bow to each other, and I leave the pagoda feeling more confused than I did when I entered. Rain is still coming down, and it sounds like a million whispering footsteps are moving around me.
Footsteps. I wonder…
I turn back toward the pagoda, skin prickling. How wise is it to snoop around, alone, in the dark? After the bomb incident nothing feels safe, and yet I’m compelled to look.
The rain muffles my footsteps as I creep toward the pagoda’s back window. If anyone still lurks there, he won’t see or hear me coming. I won’t see or hear him either. Not until it’s too late to turn and run. This thought sends a cold tingle through me. I take a deep breath, steeling myself against fear, edge to the pagoda’s corner and slowly lean around it. Nothing here. My body shudders with relief. Bare grass stretches between the pagoda and the Martial Pavilion. Even in the darkness I can tell I’m alone.
I start toward the window and something resting in the wet grass attracts my attention. It’s long and dark. When I stoop to get a better look, I stop breathing and draw quickly back.
A dagger. It’s the same kind the Fourth-Year boy used when he attacked the government official. I also see slight impressions in the grass, footprints no larger than my own. Heavy moisture has prevented the grass from springing back, and I can trace the footprints as they head off into the night.
My pulse thuds in my ears. I lean closer and warily stretch a finger toward the knife’s bone handle…
“Don’t.”
I gasp and jump back, spinning toward the lithe silhouette parting the rainfall’s silvery curtain behind me.
“It can be examined for amplitude signatures,” Mistress Song says. “We might be able to uncover its master’s identity.”
I nod and back a few more steps away from the knife.
“Hurry to your dormitory,” Mistress Song tells me. “I’ll bring Master Ning to examine it.”
I start to move away.
“And Jade…”
I pause to meet her dark eyes.
“Tell no one what you’ve seen here tonight. It could cause panic. It could bring Imperial scrutiny that would jeopardize your safety.”
I nod. She indicates that I can leave now, and I hurry toward the girls’ dormitory. As I go, I notice our watcher was headed the same direction.
I hope I don’t meet him out here alone.
I fight back a shudder. Mysterious events are happening at this academy, and I’m caught squarely in the middle of them.
TEN
十
JENNA
I made the mistake of dozing on the plane, and now I feel edgy—like I’m the one being watched by knife-toting shadows. Nothing against Jade, but I don’t like her world. I have no interest in visiting it in my sleep.
“You need taxi ride?”
A skinny Asian guy approaches us and gestures toward his cab.
“Thank you, yes,” Mom says. “How fast can you get us to Grant Avenue and Broadway?”
“I get you there fast! Twenty-five, maybe thirty, minutes.”
“Wonderful.”
“Let me help you with luggage.”
We hand our bags to the cab driver, and I check my phone to see if Lily texted while I was napping on the plane. That’s when I feel it—the same skin-prickling sensation Jade experienced when she was with Mistress Song in the Pagoda of Sublime Enlightenment.
I glance over my shoulder. A second Asian man stares back at me. He’s unshaven, dressed in filthy clothing, and wears the tattered remains of a straw hat over long, greasy hair. There’s something familiar about his face. I feel like I should know it from somewhere, but that’s impossible because I don’t hang out with homeless people who have obviously spent a lot of time sleeping behind rusty dumpsters.
Without warning, Mom grabs my hand and pulls me back. Her face is chalk-white, her eyes alarmed. Our cab driver also notices the scraggly homeless man and walks toward him yelling something in another language while m
aking shooing motions with both hands.
The unkempt transient shuffles away, still keeping his eyes on me, not freeing me from his chilling gaze until he disappears around a building.
“How he keep getting past airport security,” our cabbie says, shaking his head, “I not know. You come. I take you quick to Grant and Broadway.”
Mom ushers me into the cab. I slide across the seat, and she slips in next to me.
“You visit San Francisco before?” the driver asks as he starts the car.
“I grew up here,” Mom says, throwing a glance out the back window. She wears a puzzled expression as if trying to bring back a lost memory.
“Wonderful city,” the driver says, pulling her attention back to the conversation. “I live here five years now. Bring family from Ho Chi Minh City. Big city from Viet Nam.”
The cab lurches away from the curb, and Mom relaxes a little. She and our cabbie converse for a few minutes about his family and then she tells him about hers. I learn that Yeye immigrated from Hong Kong when he was in his early twenties and worked odd jobs until he’d saved enough to start his own business. It’s the most I’ve ever heard about him. Mom never talks about her family or my dad’s family, but something about being back where she was raised opens her up. I sit silently, not wanting to break the spell.
While Mom talks, the streets around us begin to take on a decidedly Chinese look. Tall white buildings with brightly colored awnings crowd against each other, and Chinese characters jump off large signs. Some storefronts advertise only in Chinese, but most help me out by providing English translations.
“You grew up in Chinatown?” I say to Mom, wondering if it’s a mistake to show interest.
“No, I grew up in Belmont. The only time I came here was to visit Yeye and celebrate the Chinese New Year.”
I feel cheated. This place—this culture—is a part of who I am. Mom got to experience it. I didn’t. I have only a few vague memories of a crowded apartment that smells like cabbage and a wrinkled hand patting my head. I can’t understand why she completely turned her back on her Chinese roots.
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