Paper Mage

by Leah R. Cutter

  Mei-Mei’s blush spread from her cheeks all the way to her ears. Young Lu had defied Father. She’d changed her life, wrenched it out of the fixed shape laid out for her by all the generations of women who’d come before her. Like their dead cousins, she’d paid a horrible price. Mei-Mei couldn’t imagine doing anything like that. She’d end her days at home, surrounded by her family, secure, safe, and stifled.

  “Let’s be cheerful,” Mei-Mei said. “Marrying Wang Po Kao means I’ll soon have my own babies. And that is something I look forward to. As well as to the birth of your little one. I’m sure you’ll have a fine son.”

  When the bells tolled the change from the hour of the Sheep to the hour of the Monkey, Young Lu got up and escorted her sister to the door. She made Mei-Mei wait inside the kiln while she went out to the road to check that it was empty. Then she beckoned for Mei-Mei.

  Mei-Mei approached with her hands out, saying the traditional words of parting, “Until we meet again, may . . .”

  Young Lu held up her hand, indicating Mei-Mei should stop. Without another word, Young Lu limped back into the kiln. Mei-Mei blinked hard to keep the tears out of her eyes. She might never see her sister again. Then her chin stiffened. She would see her, at least one more time. Plus, she wouldn’t just bring a few cakes from the market. She’d bring the biggest basket of food she could carry.

  The next afternoon, after Mei-Mei had sung her grandmother to sleep, she decided to go light incense for Young Lu and her unborn child. Though Mei-Mei and her family considered themselves Buddhist, they were also practical, and prayed at a number of different temples, depending on the occasion. Today, Mei-Mei decided to go to the Fire Mountain Temple and pray to Fu Xi and Nü-gua. Though they’d been brother and sister, the other gods had decreed that they should be together, and so had invented marriage just for them. Mei-Mei loved the representation of the two that hung on the wall above the altar—the top, human-halves of their bodies faced away from each other, while their snake tails intertwined together, inseparable, as white as crane feathers.

  The Fire Mountain Temple was just up the street from the southern gate. Before she could approach the altar in the main building, a priest in a tan robe stopped her.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. He was a skinny man, tall like a foreigner, and looked down his nose at Mei-Mei.

  “No, thank you, sir,” Mei-Mei responded. It was always better to be polite to priests. Her grandmother believed priests talked directly with the gods. Mei-Mei thought priests were more like scholars, whose knowledge came from study, not divine intervention.

  “Are you certain? Tell me who you pray for. I can help.” The man licked his thin lips, like a cat smelling a treat.

  Mei-Mei couldn’t tell him that she prayed for Young Lu. He might have heard of the scandal, and forbidden it. Plus, she didn’t have any coins to pay him for his services, as he was obviously anticipating.

  “Please, sir, just let me—”

  “Are you here alone?” the priest interrupted. He peered past her shoulder. “Where’s your mother? Or your nurse? Nice girls like you shouldn’t be going to temples by themselves,” he admonished.

  The priest was right. Mei-Mei shouldn’t be there alone. It wasn’t proper. More than one market tale of illicit romance took place in a temple. Her anger flared. She remained silent.

  “You need to go home now,” he said. “You don’t want another disgrace to mar your family’s name.” The priest turned away and walked back into the main temple.

  Alternate courses of shame and rage washed through Mei-Mei. The priest had recognized her. But she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Someone needed to pray for Young Lu.

  The anger won. Mei-Mei turned on her heel and stormed out of the Fire Mountain Temple compound. Instead of turning to her right and going back into the city, she turned to her left, and marched out the southern gate. Then she continued along the path, straight to a small pavilion that sat next to the river Quang. The previous summer, her family had picnicked there. An unattended altar to the river dragon sat in one corner of the pavilion.

  Without another thought, Mei-Mei lit her incense, knelt, pressed the incense to her forehead, and bowed the customary three times, praying for a son for Young Lu. Then she bowed three more times, praying for Young Lu herself.

  “There,” thought Mei-Mei as she reached above her head to place the incense in the brazier. That would show that meddlesome priest. She sat back on her heels and watched with satisfaction as the thin curls of smoke rose above the red lacquered altar table.

  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. Her mother had always told her, “Wear your broken arm inside your sleeve.”

  “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. Tha
t 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 kindhearted 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.