Reflection

by Elizabeth Lim

  “Sweeping away the bad luck gives me something to do,” Grandmother Fa always responded. “And having something to do keeps me young.”

  Mulan kept walking. Something inside her yearned to touch everything she saw, but she was afraid it would all vanish if she did.

  Four scrolls hung on the east-facing wall, their edges slightly wrinkled with age. Her great-grandfather had spent years painting the scrolls. Each one portrayed a different season—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—in their family garden.

  Mulan stopped in front of the scroll of spring, studying her ancestor’s confident brushstrokes and the delicate cherry blossoms forever captured in midbloom. Her fingers crept up, skimming the painting from the top of the trees to the bright yellow carp swimming in the pond. The garden outside still looked the same.

  She took a step back, her boot creaking against the wooden floor.

  This isn’t real, she reminded herself. This isn’t real.

  Even if it wasn’t, she felt some guilt about wearing her boots inside her family’s home. Dirt from her soles smudged the wooden floor panels, and she could almost hear her mother scolding her for wearing shoes inside the house.

  She started to head out, but she passed her room. It was the same as she’d left it: a pile of cushions by her bed for Little Brother to sleep on, a stack of poetry and famous literature on her desk that she was supposed to study to become a “model bride,” and the lavender shawl and silk robes she’d worn the day before she left home. The jade comb Mulan had left in exchange for the conscription notice caught her eye; it now rested in front of her mirror.

  Mulan’s gaze lingered on the comb, on its green teeth and the pearl-colored flower nestled on its shoulder. She wanted to hold it, to put it in her hair and show her family—to show everyone—she was worthy. After all, her surname, Fa, meant flower. She needed to show them that she had bloomed to be worthy of her family name.

  But no one was here, and she didn’t want to face her reflection. Who knew what it would show, especially in Diyu?

  She isn’t a boy, her mother had told her father once. She shouldn’t be riding horses and letting her hair loose. The neighbors will talk. She won’t find a good husband—

  Let her, Fa Zhou had consoled his wife. When she leaves this household as a bride, she’ll no longer be able to do these things.

  Mulan hadn’t understood what he meant then. She hadn’t understood the significance of what it meant for her to be the only girl in the village who skipped learning ribbon dances to ride Khan through the village rice fields, who chased after chickens and helped herd the cows instead of learning the zither or practicing her painting, who was allowed to have opinions—at all.

  She’d taken the freedom of her childhood for granted.

  When she turned fourteen, everything changed.

  I know this will be a hard change to make, Fa Li had told her, but it’s for your own good. Men want a girl who is quiet and demure, polite and poised—not someone who speaks out of turn and runs wild about the garden. A girl who can’t make a good match won’t bring honor to the family. And worse yet, she’ll have nothing: not respect, or money of her own, or a home. She’d touched Mulan’s cheek with a resigned sigh. I don’t want that fate for you, Mulan.

  Every morning for a year, her mother tied a rod of bamboo to Mulan’s spine to remind her to stand straight, stuffed her mouth with persimmon seeds to remind her to speak softly, and helped Mulan practice wearing heeled shoes by tying ribbons to her feet and guiding her along the garden.

  Oh, how she’d wanted to please her mother, and especially her father. She hadn’t wanted to let them down. But maybe she hadn’t tried enough. For despite Fa Li’s careful preparation, she had failed the Matchmaker’s exam. The look of hopefulness on her father’s face that day—the thought that she’d disappointed him still haunted her.

  Then fate had taken its turn, and Mulan had thrown everything away to become a soldier. To learn how to punch and kick and hold a sword and shield, to shoot arrows and run and yell. To save her country, and bring honor home to her family.

  How much she had wanted them to be proud of her.

  But when I go home—to my real home—will Mama and Baba forgive me for leaving? Or will there be nothing but disappointment on Baba’s face when he sees me?

  Heart heavy with emotion, she turned to go.

  As she passed a line of milky-white paper windows in the hall, she looked through one and noticed movement in the garden. Someone was sitting on the bench outside!

  Could it be her grandmother? From this distance, Mulan couldn’t be sure.

  She hurried out of the house, her shoes tapping against the stone steps—sometimes two at a time—for the garden. Once she reached the moon gate, Mulan caught her breath and winced at the pain from her ankle. Then she looked up.

  On the marble bench was Meng Po, fanning herself with her feathered fan. A bushy, striped fox tail peeked out from under her skirt, and a pot of incense burned at her side.

  Mulan gasped. “It was you! You tricked me.”

  Meng Po opened her hands. “Sit with me, young Ping.”

  “No.” Mulan reached for her sword.

  “Put away your weapon,” Meng Po said calmly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “I don’t believe you. I know what you are.” Mulan pointed the blade at the cup of tea Meng Po cradled on her palm. “I know what’s in that tea.”

  “I was not lying when I told you my tea was a consolation,” Meng Po intoned. “Most consider the tea of forgetfulness a gift. It is a blessing to forget the troubles of one’s past.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then strike me with your sword and be on your way. I will not fight you.”

  A gust of wind blew, and a swirl of cherry blossoms brushed against the top of Mulan’s head. Her anger melted.

  She squeezed the hilt. Try as she might, she couldn’t fight Meng Po. The old woman was unarmed.

  She doesn’t need weapons. She’s an enchantress.

  Still, Mulan couldn’t do it. “Let me go,” she said tiredly. “I need to find my fr—” She couldn’t call them her friends anymore, not after what had happened. Not when they hated her. “I need to find Captain Li and his guardian.”

  “They are safe,” Meng Po said. “They are on their way to the gates.”

  “You sent your demons after them,” Mulan retorted. “How can they be safe?”

  Meng Po reached for the pot of incense and set it on her lap. “Trust me.”

  “I might as well trust a fox,” said Mulan bitterly. “This is all an illusion.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” Meng Po blew the incense’s smoke in Mulan’s direction. “Isn’t life but a dream?”

  Mulan coughed, fanning the smoke away with her hand. “I’m not here to discuss philosophy with you.”

  “What better place to discuss it than in the Underworld?” Meng Po said. “All of life is a dream walking—”

  “All of death is a going home,” Mulan finished, reciting the words written in King Yama’s throne room. She inhaled, the garden’s sweet floral smell stirring the sadness in her heart.

  “You are home, Fa Mulan.”

  “This isn’t home.” Mulan opened her arms at the illusion around them. “This is your doing.”

  “This is where you belong. Up there, in the real world, no one understands you for who you are. Not even yourself. But here, here you can be your true self.”

  “How would you know anything about my true self?”

  Meng Po cast a sly, sidelong glance at Mulan’s sword. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  Before Mulan could protest, Meng Po took her wrist and guided her to the edge of the pool. Mulan’s watery reflection stared back at her: a girl with bloodshot, swollen eyes, pale cheeks, and bruises all over her arms and legs.

  But that wasn’t all Mulan saw. She saw a young woman who’d thrown her heart into becoming a warrior, who’d fought battle after battle, wheth
er it was to please her family and honor their expectations, or to protect China from invaders.

  And the one friend she’d thought might understand—hadn’t.

  She’d lost him.

  And she’d learned a cold lesson. She couldn’t be herself.

  “I’ve failed,” Mulan whispered. “I thought I could prove that I was someone worthwhile, but I was wrong.”

  Meng Po knelt beside her. “I can change that, child.”

  In the old woman’s hand was a white porcelain cup of tea. It rested between the lines of her palm, a tempest of steam swirling into the air.

  Mulan’s instinct was to throw the tea into the pond, but the Lady of Forgetfulness’s power was too strong. Wind carried the tea’s steam over to Mulan’s nostrils. She held her breath, refusing to breathe it in.

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what life would be like if they were proud of you?” Meng Po asked.

  Mulan refused to reply. She watched her reflection in the pond ripple.

  “I can give that to you. If you drink. Everything will be much easier.”

  Mulan stiffened. Meng Po’s offer was tempting, much as she didn’t want to admit it. Against her better judgment, she leaned toward the Lady of Forgetfulness, accidentally inhaling a waft of the tea. The smell was overwhelming, and it calmed her immediately.

  Meng Po’s eyes mesmerized her. “It was cruel of your friends to leave you, to not even try to understand. I understand, Fa Mulan.”

  Mulan frowned at her. “How can you? You’ve never lived in the world above. You’re the Lady of Forgetfulness.”

  Wrinkles dimpled the old woman’s cheeks as she laughed. “You say that as though I were a monster.”

  “Not a monster,” Mulan said, shaking her head. “But you’re not human. You’re a creature of Diyu.”

  “I wasn’t always what you see here,” Meng Po said. “You’re right, I have been here a long, long time. It has changed me, no doubt. Yet I still remember who I was once before. Regardless of my past, I sensed you carried a secret the moment I saw you. Even King Yama and your ancestors did not. I understand you better than you know.”

  “That’s what the fox—you said earlier. You were trying to trick me.”

  “Too many doubts cloud your mind,” said Meng Po, ignoring the accusation. Her voice soothed Mulan, even as she tried to fight it. “Too much fear and restlessness. You will never complete your journey if you continue like this. Drink to clear your doubts. Drink so you will have the strength to go home.”

  Mulan’s hands trembled as she took the cup of tea. She meant to throw it into the pond, but its weight was surprisingly heavy on her palm. The tea leaves churned inside the porcelain lips, spinning and spinning. Mulan held the cup far from her face, but she couldn’t resist looking at it.

  Her vision blurred. When she looked up, she was no longer in the garden. She was home again, except this time she wasn’t alone.

  “Mulan?” called her father’s voice.

  Her head reeled. What just happened?

  “Mulan?” her father called again. He sounded nearby, but that was impossible. “Are you listening to me?”

  Mulan blinked, and everything cleared. She was sitting at the dining table with her parents. Little Brother yapped at her side, eager for a bone.

  “Little Brother,” Mulan said, laughing as her dog jumped to lick her face.

  Her father cleared his throat, and Mulan held her breath when she saw him.

  Fa Zhou looked the same as when she’d last seen him. A smile perched on his narrow face, even though he was pretending to look displeased with her for not listening. “Ahem.”

  I know this isn’t real, Mulan thought, staring at her father. No disappointment or anger lurked in his expression. Would it be so terrible if I pretended just for a moment it was?

  Just seeing Fa Zhou helped banish some of her sadness…at least temporarily. I’m not going to think about Shang or ShiShi or what life will really be like when I go home. Let me just enjoy this.

  “Mama, Baba,” Mulan breathed. “I’m…home.”

  Fa Li put her hands on her hips. Jade earrings dangled by her cheeks as she said, “And not a second too soon. I’m glad you decided not to be late to dinner for once.”

  Mulan turned to her father, who was quiet as usual but wore a proud smile. She loved that expression on his face. The corners of his eyes wrinkled, lifting his face with a touch of humor. “Your mother has some news for you.”

  “News?”

  Fa Li knelt, taking her place at the table. Normally, she didn’t let Little Brother sit beside Mulan at the dining table, but she didn’t say anything about it today. “Eat, first. Eat, eat, before the food gets cold.”

  Mulan picked up her chopsticks and dipped them into the soup. The noodles inside were yellow as wheat, with chunks of beef and pork and crunchy stalks of green spinach. Her stomach growled, but she picked up one of the chunks and gave it to Little Brother instead. She was too curious to eat.

  She folded her hands on her lap. Her armor was gone, she noted absentmindedly. Her hair was long again, brushing against her back. And she wore a crisp silk robe, tied at the waist by a red satin sash. “What’s going on?”

  Fa Li beamed. “We heard back from the Matchmaker this morning. She was very impressed with your examination yesterday.”

  “We are very proud,” Fa Zhou said. “She’s made a good match for you, Mulan.”

  “What?” Mulan was glad she hadn’t eaten any noodles, because she likely would have choked. “I thought I failed the exam.”

  “Failed?” Fa Li sipped her tea. “After so many weeks of studying and preparing? And after Baba prayed so hard to the ancestors? No daughter of ours would fail. The Matchmaker said she had a difficult time deciding on a husband for you because there were so many young men who’d make a fine match.”

  “What about the war?” Mulan blurted.

  Fa Zhou placed his chopsticks to the side of his bowl. “What about it?”

  “Baba, you were conscripted to go to war. The Emperor’s counsel called your name in front of everyone in the village. Don’t you remember?”

  Fa Zhou chewed on his noodles, then patted his mouth dry with his sleeve. “The war is over. We won.”

  Worry creased Fa Li’s forehead. “Are you not feeling all right, Mulan?”

  What is going on?

  Mulan knelt deeper onto the cushion under her legs. “I’m not sure. I feel a little dizzy.”

  “That’s because you should eat something.” Her mother gestured at the food with her chopsticks. “All this running around—at least there’s no hay in your hair this evening, Mulan. But you’re so thin. Eat something to replenish your energy. And drink your tea. Baba’s already on his second cup.”

  The smell of Fa Zhou’s medicinal tea reminded Mulan of his poor health. Six cups a day, the doctor had told him—three in the morning, and three in the evening.

  Mulan sobered. There was nothing she wanted more than to make Baba happy. She warmed her hands over the cup. She was thirsty—and hungry, yet something held her back from joining her parents as they ate and drank.

  This isn’t real, a voice nagged at Mulan. The reminder shot a pang of loneliness through her. I should leave.

  She started to get up, but Grandmother Fa appeared, carrying a plate of orange slices and steamed pork buns. She set them in the center of the table, then plopped onto the cushion opposite Mulan’s father. Her eyes were different, Mulan noticed. Darker, more hooded.

  That’s just because she’s sitting in the shadows.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” said her grandmother cheerfully. “To make us proud? You’ve done it.”

  Forgetting her plan to leave, Mulan relaxed and nodded.

  Her family looked so happy. She’d never seen them so proud of her before. This was what she’d always wanted. To uphold the family honor, to do her duty as a daughter.

  This moment was perfect. It was everything she could have
asked for.

  So why did she feel so hollow inside?

  She turned to her father. The glow on Fa Zhou’s face and the tenderness in his eyes melted her. That emptiness in her stomach twisted. This is what you wanted. Embrace it.

  “Eat something, Mulan. You’re making me nervous just sitting there.”

  Little Brother barked in agreement.

  Mulan reached for one of the steamed buns in the center of the table and pulled apart its soft white dough. She laid it on her plate, then reached for her tea again and inhaled its hot steam. The hollowness inside her faded, and that nagging voice reminding her things weren’t real—blurred into the distance.

  “So,” she said, “tell me what the Matchmaker said.”

  “She was very impressed with you. It took her a while to find a suitable match, but there’s a young man from the capital who she believes would be perfect. He comes from a good family, your stars align harmoniously, and he has a bright future ahead of him.”

  That told Mulan absolutely nothing. Suddenly she wondered why she’d wanted this so much—to be given away to a stranger to marry. Couldn’t a woman be worth something without having to be a bride?

  She bit back her comments. I can’t change the law. I can’t own land or even speak my mind. Mama and Baba only want what’s best for me.

  “What’s his name?” Mulan asked, trying her hardest to sound interested.

  The gate outside shuddered, and two sets of footsteps echoed across the courtyard, growing haltingly closer.

  Fa Li froze. “Who could that be? We’re not expecting anyone.”

  Mulan tumbled off her cushion. She was already up. “Bandits?”

  “Sit down, Mulan,” said Fa Zhou. “I’ll deal with it.”

  Mulan pretended not to hear. Gripping her chopsticks in her fist, she crouched beside the window behind the dining table and peered outside.

  No, not bandits.

  A soldier. He was surprisingly light-footed for being so tall and strapping, and stranger still, he’d arrived with an enormous lion with a disheveled mane. At first she thought he was stealing one of the stone statues from their ancestral temple, but then the lion moved, his tail curving behind him like a cat’s.