When the Sea Turned to Silver

by Grace Lin

  They jumped up, nodding.

  “Come!” the servant said. “The emperor wants to see you.”

  The waiting guards said nothing, but their eyes bulged like crickets’ as the children passed. “Goodbye, gentlemen,” Yishan said with a wink, and Pinmei marveled at his composure. They were going to the Imperial Palace! They were going to see the emperor! She could scarcely breathe.

  They stepped out into the immense courtyard with red walls and columns, carved green and gold. Five marble bridges lay ahead of them, their jutting posts like bones of a skeleton. As they walked over one of the bridges, ­Pinmei looked down and saw a fish trapped in the ice. She shivered.

  They passed through another elaborate gate and courtyard, their footsteps the only sound in the emptiness. Ahead, a commanding ­gold-­topped building of ­blood-­red loomed before them.

  “Come,” the servant said with impatience as Pinmei stopped to stare. The building, everything inside the imperial gates, was cold and imposing.

  Pinmei gulped, but Yishan nudged her. “I like the Sea King’s palace better,” he said. “More light, lots of ­colors—­this is a bit ­off-­putting, don’t you think?”

  Pinmei gave Yishan a weak smile and shook her head, but her awe lessened. Her dread, however, remained. Her knees shook as they climbed the tiered staircase, the carved dragons frozen on their ramps of marble slabs. The servant continued forward to push open the studded crimson doors.

  In front of them was the emperor.

  CHAPTER

  68

  He was like the sun, sitting above them and dazzling in his gold robes. All around were red columns, decorated ceilings, court attendants, and guards, but Pinmei noticed none of those. All she saw were the emperor’s piercing black eyes. They were the same eyes that Pinmei had seen through the crack in the gang so long ago. She would have stood there gaping, but the servant shoved her as he himself bent over. “Kneel!” he ordered.

  Pinmei fell to the ground, letting her forehead touch the cold floor. She sneaked a glance at Yishan. He too had gotten on his knees, but his head was bowed only slightly, his eyes scanning the room. Pinmei knew he was hoping for a hint of the Black Tortoise.

  The emperor waved his hand with impatience. “Have you a Luminous Stone That Lights the Night?” he said, the eagerness straining through his voice.

  Yishan straightened. “Yes,” he said in his confident way, and he patted his pocket.

  “We’ll give it to you in exchange,” Pinmei said, trying to speak as boldly as Yishan. She clenched her fists to hide their trembling. “For my grandmother.”

  “And who is your grandmother?” the emperor said.

  “She is the Storyteller,” Pinmei said, and, despite her efforts, her voice sounded thin in the echoing room.

  “Ahh,” the emperor said, sitting back. “The Storyteller.”

  “Yes,” Pinmei said, and her anger gave her voice the volume she had been trying for. “You took her from our mountain hut.”

  “Did I?” the emperor said. His mouth curved into an amused smile, but his eyes remained fixed upon them.

  “Let me see the stone,” the emperor said. Pinmei looked at Yishan.

  “Let us see the Storyteller,” Yishan said, nodding at her. The room murmured with gasps.

  The emperor laughed, a harsh, unkind noise. “Very well,” he said, and he sat up and looked at the window. A faint light streamed through the carved openings, causing a decoration on the emperor’s collar to flash in Pinmei’s eyes. She squinted, a vague memory flicking past her as the emperor continued, “We cannot test the stone in the day, in any case.”

  “We will wait for night in the courtyard of the Hall of Imperial Longevity,” he said, standing and causing all the attendants to rush forward in a flutter. “That will be fitting.”

  “My grandmother?” Pinmei inquired.

  The emperor waved his hands impatiently at one of the guards. “Get the old woman,” he barked, “and bring her through the Black Tortoise Gate.”

  CHAPTER

  69

  The emperor’s attendants and guards flapped and scattered in a large wave. From nowhere, a large, elaborate sedan chair was brought forward, which the emperor settled into with great comfort. “Food and wine!” he ordered before closing the thick drapes. “It may be some time before nightfall, and I get hungry in the cold.”

  Countless servants rushed ahead, carrying ornamental lanterns and heaters. Bodyguards stood on either side of the sedan, and swaying ladies of the court trailed at the back. Pinmei and Yishan found themselves behind the sedan carriers, surrounded by the emperor’s entourage. They walked silently out of the hall, a grand procession in the snow.

  Just as the emperor was being carried over the last carved ramp, a servant came running up with a large, steaming bamboo basket. He thrust the container between the curtains of the chair and, after a bark from the emperor, jumped into the chair himself.

  “Food taster,” Yishan whispered to Pinmei, who watched the proceedings with confusion. “For poison!”

  Pinmei nodded. He doesn’t trust anyone, Pinmei realized. Everyone is an enemy. Unexpectedly, she felt a pang of pity.

  Lost in these thoughts, Pinmei scarcely noticed how long they walked or where they were going. Everything was bleak and grim; even the red of the palace walls were cold.

  As they approached another gate, Yishan nudged her. “The Black Tortoise Gate,” he said, giving her a look. She scanned the area, but she saw nothing, only the same scarlet walls and white snow.

  However, after they passed through the gate, Pinmei realized they were now in the Imperial Garden. In front of them, flanking the courtyard, plants and trees slept under their thick blankets of snow. All was still and silent except for a quick, high movement of a monkey tail disappearing in the shadow of the pines.

  “Stop here!” the emperor’s voice barked out from the sedan chair. As the procession stopped and the chair was lowered, the emperor called out again. “The children with the stone! Where are they?”

  The guards shoved them forward and all dropped onto their knees in the cold snow as the emperor pushed open the drapes of his sedan chair. He was chewing a dumpling, silver chopsticks in one hand and a bowl in the other. When Pinmei raised her head, a shock ran through her. The bowl in his hand was Amah’s special rice bowl! The rabbit rice bowl he had taken from their hut! Any pity Pinmei had felt disappeared, her eyes now flashing.

  But before Pinmei could do more than scowl, there was movement at the gate. Three people were walking toward them. Two were soldiers, each gripping the arm of the small, shuffling figure in the middle. Pinmei felt as if she were breathing jade stones. For, even from a distance, she knew who the third person was.

  Amah.

  CHAPTER

  70

  Amah was thinner and grayer, her robe dirty and stained. However, even as she staggered through the snow, her back was straight and her head, high. As she came closer, Pinmei’s anger reignited, for Amah had a white cloth tied around her mouth. They had gagged her! But Pinmei stayed silent, for above the gag, Amah’s eyes flashed frantic warnings at her. What was wrong? What was Amah trying to say?

  “Ah, the Storyteller has arrived,” the emperor said. He looked at Yishan and said, “The stone?”

  Yishan took his handkerchief from his sleeve and opened it. The emperor leaned forward, and the crowd murmured. The stone seemed to reflect all the splendors of the world: the glittering of the sun on the sea, the flickering of fire, and the shine of silken threads.

  The emperor sat back as if satisfied. “Now,” he said, picking up his bowl and chopsticks again, “we wait for night.”

  He waved his hand and an attendant laid more dishes on a small lacquered table. The scent of bird’s nest with smoked chicken, ­meat-­stuffed peaches, and ­wine-­stewed pork floated in the air. Pinmei heard Yishan’s stomach grumble.

  The emperor inserted his silver chopsticks in the dishes several times, inspecting the ch
opsticks after each jab. As he bent, the glint from his collar caught Pinmei’s eye again. What was it? Like a tiny fish, a thought wavered in her ­mind—­only to swim away as the emperor sat up and grunted. As the waiting servant began to taste each of his dishes, the emperor looked again at Pinmei and Yishan.

  “This is a good time for a story,” the emperor said with an unkind smile. “Too bad the Storyteller is a bit limited right now.”

  “You could take her gag off,” Yishan said. He too had noticed the alarm in Amah’s eyes.

  “I think not,” the emperor said. “It’s best not to underestimate the power of the Storyteller’s voice.” He filled the white-rabbit rice bowl with noodles, the long strips hanging from his chopsticks like limp threads. “But you,” the emperor continued, looking at Pinmei, “you must know a story of your grandmother’s. You tell one.”

  Pinmei looked at him, his black eyes mocking and triumphant, and she felt something deeper than rage steel itself inside her. “I can tell you a story,” Pinmei said, her voice as hard as iron, “but it is not one of my grandmother’s.”

  “Better!” the emperor said. “Hers are tiresome.”

  “This one won’t be,” Pinmei said, her eyes the sparks of heated metal. “It’s never been heard before.”

  “Good,” the emperor said. “Begin!”

  The mountain we are from has been called many names—­Endless Mountain, Moon-Holding Peak, even ­Never-­Ending Mountain. They say the earth, the sea, and the heavens meet at the tip of it, and it is there that the moon rests.

  Also at the top of the mountain is supposed to be an old man, a man who too has many names. They have called him the Wise Sage, the Spirit of the Mountain, and the Old Man of the Moon.

  Because of this, our mountain is sacred. It is ­tradition for newly made rulers to come and pay tribute to it. They are supposed to climb to the top of the mountain to meet with the Mountain Spirit, to gain his wisdom and approval, and, by doing so, to prove they are the fated ruler. Many have come and claimed to have climbed to the top, but we who live in the middle of the mountain have not yet looked up at any of them.

  Some we do not even get to look down at, for they never even reach halfway. But even though we do not see them, we hear about them. Perhaps the Mountain Spirit whispers in our dreams, or maybe the moon cannot help showing us when we close our eyes.

  Such is the story of the last ruler who tried to visit our mountain. This ruler began his trip after the start of the winter, a winter that came early and harshly with winds that whipped and screamed at the mountain peak. When his ministers timidly suggested waiting until spring, he refused.

  “I want everyone to see I am the destined ruler,” he said, lifting his head above them, his gaze toward the sky. “Even the Old Man of the Moon.”

  So, in his ­best-­built sedan chair and with his strongest servants and warmest furs, the new ruler traveled to the mountain. By the time they arrived at the village at the foot of the mountain, all the horses were spent and the servants exhausted. They were all grateful that tradition called for the ruler to mount the cliff alone, for the mountain can only use its powers for one person at a time.

  And so he began to climb. But as soon as he was out of sight, gusts of wind and snow, as if kicked from the stone beneath, flew up at him. He was struck and slapped with small, sharp pebbles, and the snow blinded him. He tried to continue, stumbling and thrashing, but a large rock tripped him and he found himself sprawled on the ground. As he sat himself up, he heard laughing. He glanced around quickly, his hand on his sword, but saw only rock and snow.

  “You dare laugh at me?” the man shouted. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I do,” a mocking voice said in his ear. The man whirled around but again saw nothing. “But do you know who you are?”

  “Of course!” the man retorted, drawing his sword.

  “Do you?” the voice teased. “Were you a man transformed into a green tiger or were you a green tiger that was transformed into a man? Will you ever know?”

  The man bellowed his fury and swung his sword into swirling snow, only to hear laughter again in his ear.

  “Trying to fight the snow?” the voice mocked him. “You best get used to it! You are stuck with winter until you let go of the Black Tortoise.”

  The ruler swung his sword in the other direction, squinting through the threads of snow.

  “You poor mortal,” the voice said with contempt.

  “Poor!” the man shouted, outraged. “I am not poor!”

  “You are so poor you had to steal a bite of a ­long-­life peach,” the voice said in scorn. “And even that was not enough for you. The Iron Rod, the power of the Black Tortoise… what else have you stolen?”

  “Everything is mine!” the man shouted. “I am ruler!”

  “You are a thief,” the voice said in disdain. “Poor mortal.”

  “I am ruler!” the man bellowed. “That is who I am!”

  But his words were thrown away by the wind. “Poor mortal,” the voice whispered, and the stone under his feet jerked and jolted, flinging him down again. The mountain seemed to swell and break, tossing the man so he reeled and rolled. “Poor mortal,” the mountain murmured. The words repeated again and again, twisting inside his head as he fell. Finally, the ground stopped moving, and the mountain gave one last faded whisper. “Poor mortal.”

  The ruler sat up. He was at the foot of the mountain. His servants and a crowd of villagers surrounded him, staring. He glared and ordered that they return him to his palace immediately.

  He was soon in his sedan chair, his servants carry­ing him again on the arduous road. “The tortoise must never escape,” they heard him mutter to himself as they panted. “I can surround it with stone, just in case it slips the Iron Rod… reinforce it with great deeds… I will not be a poor mortal!”

  And when they reached the palace, even before he had stepped out from behind the curtains of the sedan, the ruler was already calling out orders.

  “I want a wall built,” he said. “A stone wall around the entire kingdom, with special reinforcements I will oversee.”

  “A wall of that size…” one of the ministers began, and stopped in nervousness.

  “It’s for protection,” the ruler said, his eyes dangerous. “Begin at once.”

  And so it was done. Work began on the wall, a wall so vast it could span the sea. Mountain villagers, as if being punished for the ruler’s humiliation, were forced to work on ­it—­many dying in the harsh cold. But no one dared to complain or protest. For after the ruler had returned from the mountain, all finally saw the madness in him. It was a cruel, ruthless madness, and it made them shiver more than a bitter, endless winter.

  The emperor stood, shoving aside his bowl and chopsticks. The small table fell, the crashing and shattering of dishes making Pinmei jump. Everyone except Yishan fell to their knees as the emperor pushed his way off the sedan chair, his eyes glittering.

  “That was quite an interesting story,” the emperor said, his voice dangerous.

  Pinmei felt her words disappear. The emperor was moving closer, like a stalking animal. His eyes pierced hers, and Pinmei began to tremble.

  “Tell me,” the emperor said, “is that the end?”

  Pinmei opened her mouth, but instead of speaking, she stared. For in the falling light, she could see what had glinted from the emperor’s collar. She had seen it before, under the emperor’s green soldier’s uniform. That metal pin! Now Pinmei could see it was sticking out of some sort of dark embroidered image. Was it a…

  “Because,” the emperor said with the beginning of an ominous roar, “I think you…”

  But he stopped, for a silver light began to shine upon him. The emperor switched his gaze to Yishan, or rather to ­Yishan’s upheld hands. Just as if he were cupping the moon, a clear, soft brightness spilled from his hands and poured into the sky. The Luminous Stone was lighting the night.

  “It glows!” the emperor said, his eyes wid
ening. “It is the stone!”

  The crowd gasped and, as the guards loosened their hold, Amah yanked off the gag. “Yishan! Pinmei!” she cried out. “He doesn’t want the stone! It’s a trap!”

  CHAPTER

  71

  The guards growled, and one of them struck Amah a ­brutal blow. She crumpled to the ground. Pinmei screamed, and her scream froze in the air, along with her legs.

  The emperor laughed, a cruel, cold laugh that filled the sky.

  “She’s right!” he said to them as his laughter echoed. “I never wanted the stone!”

  The emperor was looking at Yishan with malicious triumph, an almost hungry look in his eyes.

  “It was you!” the emperor said. “It was you I wanted all this time! I knew only you could bring me the stone, Ginseng Boy!”

  Ginseng Boy? Pinmei whisked her head to look, openmouthed, at Yishan. He was staring back at the emperor in shock and, for the first time Pinmei could remember, she saw a flicker of fear on Yishan’s face. Pinmei suddenly felt as if she were seeing him for the first time, the redness of Yishan’s hat and clothes burning with a light of its own.

  “Old Man of the Moon! Spirit of the Mountain! Whatever they call you!” the emperor continued. “You, who can never ignore mortal suffering! You, who always come to help! That’s how I knew you would come! And now that I have you, I will have my immortality!”

  “No!” Yishan hissed, and he threw the stone at the emperor. For a moment, the world silenced. The stone flew in a direct arc toward the emperor’s chest, like a shooting star in the dark sky. The emperor’s eyes flashed in the light of the lanterns, showing sudden terror. But right before the stone hit, out of nowhere, a black shadow jumped in and seized it!

  The shadow fell to the ground with a thud so hard the stones beneath it cracked, and Pinmei saw the shadow was a monkey. The ugly creature was on its back with its arms and legs flailing, but unable to move because of the weight of the stone on his chest. He was spitting and sputtering, and another monkey, a green bracelet around its arm gleaming in the light, scrambled to it. The second monkey struggled and hissed, trying to lift the stone, but it could no more move it than it could move the moon.