Paper Mage

by Cutter, Leah

  How dare that priest question why she prayed alone? Someone needed to burn incense and ask for kindness for Young Lu's unborn child. Just because Mei-Mei wasn't escorted by her mother didn't mean she was willful, like Young Lu. . . .

  Mei-Mei looked back the way she'd come. She couldn't see the city walls. On her left, the river Quang ran slick and gray in the morning sunshine, full of melted snow from the northern mountains. Crickets chirped in the low grass, and small fluffy clouds played tag with each other across a perfect blue sky.

  It looked so peaceful, but soldiers could be hiding in the stand of oaks on the far side of the river. Mei-Mei jumped to her feet, suddenly regretting her rash behavior. She needed to hurry back before anyone discovered she was gone.

  A rattling sound came from behind her, rhythmic and hollow, like metal against a dry reed. She turned toward the noise.

  An old fisherman stood on the far side of the pavilion. He held one hand out over the river, shaking a long bamboo pole. Something inside the pole made the clanking noise. His face held only a light map of wrinkles, yet Mei-Mei had the impression he was extremely old. He smiled with childlike joy. His jacket had faded to a muddy beige from too many washings. Muscular calves bulged beneath his rolled-up pant legs. Mysterious bags hung from his wide leather belt.

  The old man's rhythm grew faster, sharper. He called out to Mei-Mei, excited and happy, “Come here, miss.”

  Mei-Mei hesitated. He was obviously poor. It wasn't safe here beyond Bao Fang's wall. She should go home.

  “Come see!” the old man called out again.

  Duty to all elders compelled Mei-Mei to walk toward him.

  The old man gestured with his free hand at the river. Mei-Mei caught her breath in surprise. A school of fish had gathered under the clear water. They moved forward and back, turned a quarter turn together, then moved from side to side. The fish danced in time to the old man's rhythm.

  Was he a sorcerer? Mei-Mei took two steps backward.

  He turned to smile at her. His teeth were faultlessly placed—no gaps or irregularities—white with fine shading, like bright jade. How could such an old man have perfect teeth? The wrinkles around his eyes reflected many summers of looking into the sun. His laughter, though, was carefree. “Oh, gentle miss,” he said, still smiling, “might I have the honor of knowing your name?”

  Mei-Mei bowed her head low at his quaint request. “My surname is Li, my formal name is Kong-Jing.”

  “And what do you call yourself?” the old man asked.

  It wasn't proper for him to ask. Only family and close friends used a person's milk name. On the other hand, his smile warmed her heart more than the sun warmed her back. “My friends call me Mei-Mei.”

  “Ah, Mei-Mei, you're as fair as the plum blossoms for which you're named. You may call me Old Zhang.” He bowed deeply. Without straightening up, he twisted his head and grinned at her.

  Mei-Mei couldn't help herself. He looked so comical, stooped over with his head at such an odd angle. She put her hand in front of her mouth and giggled.

  Old Zhang laughed with her as he stood up. “Good,” he said. “You can tell more about a person when they laugh. You,” he paused, then nodded, “are young, not quite conventional, and as precise as a dagger in the hands of an assassin. I like that.”

  Mei-Mei didn't like his mention of assassins, but she was too polite to let it show.

  “I'm a stranger here. Tell me about this city,” he said, leading her back to the pavilion.

  They sat on one of the benches next to the altar and talked. Mei-Mei told him which merchants had the best goods, which ones would try to cheat him, and a little about her family. Of course, she never mentioned Young Lu. Then their conversation wandered. They tried to define the exact color of the setting sun, the different sounds water makes, which flowers bloom first in the spring and why. From flowers, they moved to peaches.

  “Would you accept a peach from the garden of Xi Mong Yu? If one were offered to you?” Old Zhang asked.

  “A peach that would make me immortal?”

  The old man frowned for the first time that afternoon. “Peaches from Xi Mong Yu's garden allow you to leave the eternal wheel of death, rebirth and suffering. But you don't become one of the eight immortals that wander the earth. Instead, you live on Peng Lai, the Isle of the Blessed, forever at peace.”

  The crickets in the grass stopped their calls, and the river hushed, as if holding its breath. The stillness went straight to Mei-Mei's heart. She tried to shake off the feeling with a laugh. “Of course I'd accept,” she said. “Wouldn't everyone? It'd be such an honor for my family to have a daughter who was immortal, who'd pray for them and look over them forever. It might make up for . . .” Mei-Mei paused, not wanting to discuss family matters. “Wear your broken arm inside your sleeve,” her mother had always told her.

  “Even if you had to say good-bye to your family? Once you reach the Isle of the Blessed, you can never return to this sweet Middle Kingdom,” the old man said, leaning forward.

  Mei-Mei didn't know what to say. To leave her family forever seemed a great price, even for the honor of immortality. Yet, to change the set pattern of her life, to be immortal, reverenced forever, her name a legend . . .

  In the distance, the evening bells rang in deep, somber tones. It was the hour of the Rooster. She was late for dinner. “I must go home,” she said. She'd never had such a fascinating conversation, or talked so easily with someone, not even Young Lu.

  “Please meet me again. I wish to talk with you more,” Old Zhang said.

  “I don't know,” Mei-Mei said, hesitating. “I shouldn't be here. What if someone saw?”

  “Doesn't your grandmother nap every afternoon? You can slip away then,” he said in a reassuring voice.

  “But I have someone else I must visit . . .” Mei-Mei said. She must go see Young Lu at least one more time.

  “I predict your mother will send you on errands tomorrow morning so you'll be able to see your friend. Then, your grandmother will sleep so well after lunch you'll be able to come straight here,” Old Zhang said.

  Mei-Mei pulled back from him a little. Was he a sorcerer? She liked him so much, but if he hurt her family . . .

  Her concern must have shown on her face because Old Zhang laughed and said, “Don't worry. I'm lonely, and in your company my soul feels complete.”

  Mei-Mei smiled and her cheeks burned. Now she knew how Young Lu felt about Old Lu.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he said as she turned to go.

  Mei-Mei said, “Only if I can. If Father finds out . . .” She couldn't finish. She didn't know what her father would do if he thought he had two wild daughters. She'd come to the altar of the river dragon that afternoon because she hadn't been thinking. To come back deliberately was something different. She couldn't risk making Father angry. Not even for a soul mate. Or an immortal peach.

  She turned and ran back toward the safety of Bao Fang.

  * * *

  The next morning, as Mei-Mei approached the kiln, she heard shouting. She paused. Should she go back? What if Young Lu was in trouble? Mei-Mei made herself hurry forward.

  A pale white water buffalo stood in front of the kiln. A small wagon piled with goods rested behind the animal. Old Lu and another man argued with each other on the far side of the buffalo. Old Lu wanted the man to tie the bed down tighter, while the man thought it was tight enough. They didn't see Mei-Mei, so she walked around the wagon into the kiln.

  The cracked, yellowing bamboo mats still lay on the floor, but everything else had been removed. Young Lu stood in the center of the room waving a piece of paper, as if it were a magic wand that had made everything disappear.

  “Young Lu?” Mei-Mei called, holding her basket with both hands in front of her.

  Young Lu whipped around, the spell broken. “Mei-Mei! Why did you come here again? I told you it was dangerous,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.

  Mei-Mei looked down at the
heavy basket in her hands, surprised by Young Lu's welcome, unsure of what to say.

  “I am glad you came,” Young Lu said, relenting. “Old Lu's friend in Khan Hua sent word. He has work. One of the traders here is taking a caravan north, and hired Old Lu as a guard. We're meeting the rest of the caravan within the hour.” Young Lu paused and took a deep breath. “I wrote you a farewell note, so you'd know what happened to us.” She held the forlorn piece of paper out to her sister.

  Mei-Mei made herself smile and handed her basket to Young Lu. “A fair exchange. You need some food for the road,” she said. She glanced at the letter, the characters flowing in firm lines, telling of Young Lu's good fortune. “Is there anyone else . . . ?” Mei-Mei asked, pausing.

  “No,” Young Lu replied. “Father still wants me dead.” She hesitated, then continued. “I wish I could talk with him, at least one more time, before I go. I may never see him again.” She turned away from Mei-Mei, her voice full of unshed tears. “I know I should hate Father, hate all this,” she said, gesturing at the blackened walls of the kiln. “I should be happy I have a new chance in a new place, that won't have heard of the scandal. But I'm not. I can't be. He's my father. And I'm leaving.” Young Lu turned back toward Mei-Mei.

  Mei-Mei took a step toward her. She wanted to hug her little sister, to hold her apart from the world and protect her, just for a moment.

  Young Lu held up her hand. “Don't,” she said. “Or I might squeeze you to death like a snake demon. We have to say good-bye too.”

  The silence in the room lengthened. The voices outside faded. The two sisters stood at arm's length from each other, trying to say with their eyes all the things they'd never speak aloud.

  “It's time to go,” Mei-Mei heard from behind her. Young Lu looked away from Mei-Mei, switching her gaze to Old Lu. Though their gaze held fire, Mei-Mei felt cold. She was alone with these two people, on the outside. Young Lu limped to where Old Lu stood.

  “Can't I walk with you? At least to the river?” Mei-Mei asked.

  “You're a good sister,” Old Lu said, taking the basket from Young Lu. He weighed it in his hands. “A very good sister. But I won't have others blacken your name.”

  “I don't care,” Mei-Mei replied.

  “I do,” Young Lu said. “It was dangerous for you to come see me.”

  “But I met this fisherman—he reflects my soul—I want to talk with you . . .”

  “You can always talk with me in your heart,” Young Lu said, ending the conversation.

  Old Lu led Young Lu to the wagon. He gave the basket to the other man and lifted his wife onto the seat as if she were a fragile present from the Emperor. He nodded once to Mei-Mei then walked beside the wagon as it trundled along. Young Lu never looked back.

  Mei-Mei had a wild impulse to run after the wagon, to ask Young Lu to take her with them. But no, that was just a dream. Her mother always told her that a person who followed their dreams spent their life asleep. Mei-Mei waited awhile more, then plodded back to Bao Fang, alone.

  * * *

  Old Zhang had been right. Mei-Mei had been able to visit Young Lu in the morning while doing the errands her mother had sent her on, and her grandmother had gone right to sleep after lunch.

  Mei-Mei hurried toward the pavilion covering the river dragon altar. She didn't have much time. Today was the twenty-fifth day of the seventh moon. That evening was the family dedication ceremony. Every year just before ghost month her entire family—all her cousins and aunts and uncles—knelt before the family poem and swore to uphold its tenets: be loyal to the Emperor, show obedience to family elders, uphold the family honor and bring prosperity to all.

  The pavilion was empty. Mei-Mei circled the eight-sided structure, trying not to step on the profuse bluebells. She didn't see Old Zhang anywhere. Her heart thudded heavily in her ears, louder than the river. Maybe he was a sorcerer, and yesterday had been a dream. Or maybe the soldiers . . .

  Notes from a sad, solitary flute floated from the trees beyond the pavilion. Mei-Mei followed the sorrowful melody along a trail, away from the river. Old Zhang sat on a bench enclosed by bushes and trees, playing a black lacquered flute. The river sounded louder here, though she could no longer see it. It was the perfect place for a tryst. A warm glow started in her belly, but she didn't sit down.

  Old Zhang finished playing with a pensive trill that placed a question mark between them. “You're wary. Good. But you have nothing to fear from me. I'm just lonely, like a wind whispering bad news. I didn't want to see anyone except you, so I hid back here. Please join me, won't you?” He smiled at her with his perfect teeth.

  Mei-Mei still didn't sit, but she did take a step forward. “I shouldn't be here. What if someone saw us? I'm worried . . .”

  Old Zhang laughed. “I'd be disappointed if you weren't. You're a pretty young girl, with eyebrows curved as softly as a butterfly's wing. I'm not asking for solace, just for the company of a dear friend on this sad, fleeting day.”

  Mei-Mei cautiously sat on the bench. A quick breeze through the curtain of green in front of her entangled the leaves and branches until she couldn't see the trail. Before she could say anything, a brilliant sapphire-colored bird landed near her feet. It sang a song, pecked at the ground, then looked up at her, first with one eye, then the other. Mei-Mei giggled and forgot about being nervous.

  Old Zhang told her about the begging birds in the west. Monks trained them to fetch food from the people in the nearby village and bring it back to the monastery. Then their talk wandered all over the world, from the barbarians and dwarves north of the Tian mountains, to the kind hearted people south of the Yellow River, and the terrible dragons in the eastern sea. Eventually they arrived again at Peng Lai, the Isle of the Blessed.

  “Are you certain you'd choose to be an immortal?” Old Zhang asked.

  Mei-Mei began the speech she'd prepared the night before. “Of course, if someone favored such an unworthy person as myself with that choice, I'd have to consider it for a long while. But in the end, the honor would be too great to turn down.”

  “And your family?” he asked.

  Mei-Mei bit her lip. She didn't want to hurt her family. They'd lost so many relatives during the war, and now they'd lost Young Lu. Who would take her place in the ceremony that night? But a chance to be free of her marriage to Wang Po Ko, away from Father's wicked temper . . .

  “Watching a child pass beyond the Great River is the hardest thing in the world,” Old Zhang said, rubbing his hands. “Even if they've lived a long full life.”

  Mei-Mei examined the fisherman, noting again the discrepancy between his old eyes and his young face. “You're an immortal, aren't you? One of the eight who wander the Middle Kingdom?” she asked.

  The breeze rattled the bushes again and the sound of the river died. The silence was muted, expectant. “Yes. I am.” Old Zhang hesitated, then continued. “I love wandering the Middle Kingdom, helping people in small ways. Now, though, it isn't enough. The barbarian horseman, Vakhtang, just killed the last of my family. Nothing holds me to the earth anymore. I'm afraid when I sleep at night, if I don't tie myself to the ground, I'll turn into a wind and blow away.”

  Mei-Mei knew there weren't enough tears in the world to ease his heart. “What about the other seven immortals . . . ?” she began.

  “They can't help. Immortality just means being alone, without your family, forever.”

  Mei-Mei nodded. She knew a little of his sorrow, and of being alone. She suspected she'd learn more.

  She took the old man's face in her hands and rubbed his cold nose with hers. She didn't know what made her do it: whether it was his bleak words; because she wanted to touch his magic; or because she wanted to hold, just for a moment, the kind of feelings Young Lu had.

  Old Zhang placed his warm hands on hers and pulled her into his arms.

  Then the dragon played with the pearl, the hen showed her teeth, and they entered the land of thunder and rain.

  * * * />
  Mei-Mei's knees ached even though she knelt on a silk cushion her grandmother had embroidered for her. She'd been kneeling with the rest of the family for the entire hour of the Dog while her father and uncles performed the family dedication ceremony. Another trickle of sweat squeezed out from where her thighs met her calves.

  The family poem hung above a skinny black-lacquer altar, its characters dark and solid on the yellowing silk. Many narrow, crimson tablets stood on top of the altar, each about the length of an arm from fingertips to elbow. Every lacquered tablet had the name of one of Mei-Mei's ancestors written on it in raised gold characters. Tendrils of sweet smoke rose from the ball-shaped, silver filigree censer that also sat on the altar.

  The empty spot next to Mei-Mei nagged at her worse than her younger cousins begging for sweets. This was the first time Young Lu hadn't been there to read her stanza. Who would take her place?

  When the men finished, one by one the women rose, prostrated themselves before the altar, and read a stanza from the family poem. Mei-Mei trembled inside. Her mother stood up, read her part of the poem; then her two older sisters did the same. She would be next. How could she swear to uphold the family honor when she'd stained it that afternoon with Old Zhang?

  Her knees unbent slowly, like leather stiff with age. How could she be part of her family anymore? She should accept the immortal peach from Old Zhang, and become another tablet in her family's Hall of Ancestors. She walked toward the altar, unable to feel her feet. Yet she didn't trip or stumble. At least her association with Old Zhang hadn't brought her bad luck.

  Mei-Mei knelt back on the ground, then prostrated herself. She stayed flat on the floor for a moment, not wanting to continue. What if her throat suddenly closed and she couldn't speak? She forced herself up to a kneeling position. She had to continue. It was the only path she knew.

  She began reading. The words flowed out of her mouth like rain from the heavens, cleansing her conscience, bathing her soul. She could dedicate herself, from this moment on, to her family. She took a deep breath when she finished her part. She wanted the relief she felt to continue, so she read the next stanza as well, the one that Young Lu usually read. She wasn't trying to take Young Lu's place. She would never be called the youngest daughter.