The Library of Legends

by Janie Chang

  “If I may ask, what about you?” he asked. He could hold back no more. “Once the Library of Legends is stored away safely, will you also go to the Kunlun Mountains? As you say, the Palace gates will close.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “I’ve grown less certain since we began our journey, Professor. More attuned to the human passage of time. More affected by human emotions. I know the Prince will never remember me.” She sounded very sad and very lost.

  “Don’t lose hope,” he said. “Eternity is porous. How many times have I heard you say that?”

  “But I don’t have eternity anymore,” she said quietly. “Now there’s less than a year of your time before the Palace gates close. I must come to a decision.”

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Minghua 123 reached the town of Lu’an. The principal of Lu’an Middle School met them at the school gates, apologetic. There weren’t enough billets for all the students and faculty.

  “No problem, no problem,” Mr. Lee said, “our senior professors can lodge with families. Everyone else can sleep in the assembly hall. We’re used to camping.”

  But they didn’t manage to sleep. Air-raid sirens woke them and the students scrambled for the school’s shelter. They huddled there until the all clear sounded then returned to the assembly hall. Nothing else disturbed the night, but the students were too tense to rest.

  The next day, sirens sounded as soon as the morning mists cleared. Their time in Lu’an extended from a day to several more. They couldn’t go on the road, not while the town and its surrounding areas were under attack nearly every day. Minghua 123 remained in Lu’an Middle School’s assembly hall. When attacks came, they shared the bomb shelter with the school’s pupils and teachers, the ones who had dared come to classes that day. When air raids caught students out on the town, they ran to the public shelters, but these were so crowded and claustrophobic they made every effort to reach the school and its large bomb shelter. Professor Kang had the wooden crates holding the Legends brought there. It gave the students some comfort. The Library of Legends was their talisman, their lucky star.

  Airplanes roared overhead, sometimes on their way to other targets, sometimes to drop bombs. And sometimes the aircraft flew by for one final pass to release propaganda leaflets, sheets that floated down like giant feathers. They landed in streets and courtyards, sometimes swirling in the hot currents above blazing buildings, drifting until heat scorched them into ash.

  The air raids were short, usually lasting no more than an hour before the all clear sounded, but they felt ten times longer. The shelter’s wooden buckets that were used as chamber pots filled quickly as nervous bladders emptied. Their stench permeated the shelter, uncomfortably warm from the heat of so many bodies.

  AFTER WAITING OUT several raids, Lian could gauge how far away the bombs were by sound, the whistling noise as they fell through the air, and by the shudder of the shelter’s ground and walls with each explosion. Some of the students studied, or at least pretended to, opening textbooks under the quivering light of a few dim bulbs strung across the ceiling. They took turns reading out loud from the Library of Legends to the boys of Lu’an Middle School. So far, the boys had heard from Tales of the Horse Gods, Tales of Forest Spirits, and Tales of Magical and Benevolent Creatures.

  All of Minghua 123 joined the town’s cleanup brigade. As soon as the all clear sounded, the male students helped put out fires and cleared the streets of wreckage. They helped homeowners salvage furniture and belongings. They searched for survivors, carried away the injured and the dead. The female students hurried across town to volunteer at the hospital.

  Lian followed behind Meirong as they picked their way through debris-strewn streets, barely keeping up as her friend clambered over piles of rubble. If there was one good thing about being trapped in Lu’an, it was that they’d been so busy that Meirong hadn’t had much time to mope. In helping others, she’d regained some of her liveliness.

  Lian felt a hand on her back and turned to see Shao’s smiling face, framed between a pair of chubby legs, a toddler riding on his shoulders.

  “Is he hurt?” she said. “We’re heading for the hospital.”

  “No, he’s fine,” he said, “but his father is busy putting out fires and asked me to take him to his mother. She works at the hospital.”

  “Would you like me to carry you?” Meirong asked, lifting her arms up. The child shook his head and clung to Shao.

  “The residents of Lu’an used to joke about feeling left out of the war,” Shao said. “They said they felt slighted because Japanese bombers never ‘paid their respects’ to the town.”

  “They must be feeling very honored now that the Japanese visit so often,” Meirong said.

  Shao laughed, which made the little boy laugh too. The child jiggled up and down. “That means he wants me to go faster,” Shao said. “See you at the hospital.”

  Meirong grinned at Lian, looking for a moment like her mischievous self again. Lian shook her head at the insinuation and stuck her tongue out. She had vowed to stay aloof but while she did her best to keep her distance, she couldn’t stop caring about her friend. She was responsible for Jenmei’s death. And, therefore, Meirong’s sorrow.

  As for Shao, she wanted very much to know if he mourned Jenmei. What had Jenmei meant to him? Lian alternated between wanting to avoid his company and studying him surreptitiously for signs that might reveal his feelings.

  From up the street, the little boy squealed with delight as Shao broke into a trot.

  Chapter 18

  The principal of Lu’an Middle School told Professor Kang about a nearby temple whose walls were decorated with a pair of calligraphy scrolls attributed to the Ming Dynasty artist Wen Zhengming. Whether or not the scrolls were really Wen Zhengming’s work, the professor enjoyed chasing down such literary relics, so he made an outing of it. The laborer Old Fan, who had somehow attached himself to Professor Kang, insisted on going along. It was his duty to protect the professor, the stocky servant said.

  The scrolls turned out to be a disappointment, the calligraphy as mediocre as the lines of verse. But the walk had been pleasant, the temple no more than an hour down the road from Lu’an.

  “Either they were forgeries,” Professor Kang said to Old Fan, “or Wen Zhengming was having a bad day.”

  But Old Fan’s head was cocked, listening for the now-familiar sound rolling in from the eastern horizon. From the direction of Lu’an, air-raid sirens began their wail. Old Fan took the professor by the elbow, guided him quickly to the side of the road, then helped him down the embankment into the fields. A few scattered groups of people, farmers on their way back from the market in Lu’an, also slipped down the verge with practiced agility. The roar of airplane engines came closer and the two men settled into a ditch. The ground at the bottom of the trench was cold and hard, which Professor Kang deemed better than muddy and wet.

  At first he thought they were the only ones in the ditch. Then he saw a small, motionless figure some twenty feet away. It looked like a child, a girl. The professor frowned. He began crawling along the trench but Old Fan tugged at his ankle.

  “Please, Professor,” he said. “Keep still until the planes have gone away.”

  So the professor remained beside Old Fan and pressed his back against the side of the trench, looking up as the planes passed overhead, going on to Lu’an. Then came the explosions. He sighed, thinking of the townspeople’s terror, the destruction.

  Then he heard another rumbling, which at first he thought was more planes. But there was something wild in that pounding. He squinted toward the horizon and blinked. A herd of horses thundered toward the field. The ground shook. They were larger than oxen, larger even than elephants, long maned with coats sleek as satin, hooves shining like polished brass. Every ripple of their strong haunches, every toss of their necks made him yearn to gallop with them, to feel the sheer joy of running. They were heading north. As the horses neared the ditch, the professor sa
w that some carried riders, the most beautiful men and women he’d ever seen. Riding bareback, dressed in bright silks, the Horse Gods’ long hair flowed behind them like banners.

  One of the Horse Gods stopped beside the child and leaned down, laughing. “Come with us, Little One,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  The little girl sat up with a delighted smile and the Horse God swung her up in front of him. A moment later, the hoofbeats faded and all Professor Kang saw was an empty field. Beside him, Old Fan scanned the sky. He showed no signs of having seen anything unusual. He clambered out of the ditch.

  “That was loud, but it didn’t last too long,” Old Fan said. “Shall I help you onto the road, sir?”

  Professor Kang looked along the ditch. He’d seen the Horse God take the girl away, but the small body was still there, still lying in the ditch. He moved along the trench toward the little girl. She lay curled up on her side, one thumb in her mouth. He took the other hand and felt for a pulse but there was none. She was dead. Gently he put her hand back. Something pale and round rolled out from the curve of the frail body. A turnip.

  “Old Fan,” he called. “I need you to carry this girl to Lu’an with us. She deserves a burial even if we don’t know her name.”

  “That’s my sister.” A child’s voice. A bedraggled girl looked down into the trench at the professor, blank eyes in a gaunt face. “My little sister,” she added, as if to clarify. She picked up the turnip and tucked it in her tunic.

  “Where are your parents?” the professor asked.

  She shook her head. He understood. Either they were dead, or they had left the two girls behind. Families started out bringing all their children. But after weeks of walking and running out of food, the weakest children died. Parents abandoned daughters so that sons could eat. Some, too exhausted to carry their children anymore, left behind the smallest ones who couldn’t walk. There were always orphans at refugee camps, children picked up by kindly strangers or by workers from the camp. They were mostly girls, some still babies, starving and lice infested.

  He would take her to the orphanage in Lu’an. Which was already overcrowded. There was nowhere else.

  “Did you see horses?” he asked, unable to help himself. She just gazed at him with the same blank look and shook her head again.

  They got back on the road to Lu’an, Old Fan carrying the dead child, Professor Kang holding the older sister by the hand.

  Chapter 19

  The prospect of staying in a big city and comparing stories with other students lifted Minghua 123’s spirits. The city of Wuhan, their next destination, had transformed into a hub for military and civilian evacuees, including universities. From Wuhan, they might even catch a train to Changsha, where the rest of Minghua University waited for them.

  They were six days on the road from Lu’an to Wuhan when Professor Kang returned from a meeting in the village of Fanzhen with a smile of satisfaction. The army was moving a detachment of soldiers to Wuhan by riverboat. The officer in charge had agreed to take some of Minghua’s students. They just had to get to the wharf, only a few miles from the village.

  Minghua 123’s female students would take the boat, which was scheduled to reach Wuhan just a day or two ahead of the main group. It wasn’t that much faster, but it meant the girls wouldn’t have to walk the whole way. Minghua 123 unanimously voted for Professor Kang and another elderly professor to accompany the girls, and to save them from the long walk.

  The antiquated tugboat sailed that night. There was no moon, a good omen. The tugboat stayed close to shore, so weighed down an occasional wave splashed over its bow and wet the deck. The two barges it towed were equally overburdened, soldiers and supplies sharing the space with equipment, students, and the Library of Legends, stacked in their new crates.

  The Bashui River’s current ran deep and swift between narrow banks. Here they were more likely to meet bandits than Japanese patrols. The army captain in charge assured the students that bandits in this area were ragged gangs of deserters and petty thieves, unlike the gangs up north, their members hardened soldiers who used to fight in warlord armies. Bandits on this river would never dare take on a boatload of real soldiers. The engines’ steady reverberation was louder than any conversation, but the passengers remained quiet all the same.

  Lian leaned on the railing of the second barge, a wooden platform built on a shallow hull, half the deck covered by a brown canvas canopy for shelter against sun and rain. She watched the river, its currents swirling under starlight. Soon they would sail out of the Bashui and into the wider waters of the Yangtze River. Everyone had found a place on deck to settle for the night but she couldn’t stop pacing, her mind as restless as her limbs.

  Mr. Lee hadn’t been the same since Jenmei’s murder. He was still cheery and affable, but she could tell he was more nervous now. She shivered, not wanting to think how he might’ve had a hand in Jenmei’s murder. There hadn’t been an opportunity for him to approach her alone; she’d managed to avoid that so far. She hoped that in a big city like Wuhan, with so many arrangements to make, he would have other distractions.

  Then there was Meirong. She had recovered some of her outgoing personality. But there were nights when Lian still heard her sobbing. She didn’t know how to comfort her. She wished she didn’t care so much, but once kindled, the warmth of her feelings for Meirong proved difficult to extinguish.

  Then there was Shao. Just picturing his face gave rise to a confused tangle of emotions. She ran one finger lightly along the railing, wondered what it would feel like to run her finger along his arm. Stars spilled across the sky, like glittering dust emptied from a celestial bucket.

  “So many poems about the moon, but what about the stars?” Professor Kang said, breaking into her thoughts. “The moon comes and goes through its cycles but the stars always shine for us, constant and true. We should honor them more.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said, “but you’re right. We always have starlight.”

  “Your classmates are sound asleep,” the professor said, gently chiding. “You should rest, too, Miss Hu.”

  Lian sat down beside some crates just inside the canopy’s shelter and pulled a blanket around herself. The others rested leaning against each other or curled up on thin sleeping mats. She allowed the motion of the boat to lull her into lethargy, turned her head for a view of the night sky, then fell asleep to the whisper of willow branches brushing the canvas above.

  She dreamed of another boat ride, something pulled from a childhood memory. Instead of the cold, summertime. A canal with willows hanging overhead. Her mother’s arms around her, a soft rhythmic splash behind them, the boatwoman singing to keep time as she pushed on the oar.

  Then she was back on the barge, holding on to the rail to keep her balance. Large waves splashed over the stern of the deck, frothing as if a huge creature churned the waters beside the hull. Something surged up from the depths, a long sinuous shape with silver fins and a broad tail. It flashed through the current, following the barge for a moment before it launched away, slicing through the waves. Shining and scaly, terrible and beautiful. The River God gleamed, reflecting starlight from its scales. The silvery body surged up, a brilliant arc of light. Then vanished into the depths.

  SUNSHINE WOKE LIAN. She peered up at daylight drifting through branches of soft green needles. Moored in a bend of the river, the boats had sheltered beneath a dense stand of swamp cypress, their trunks jutting up from the shallows along the shore. They would stay here until nightfall. The fragrant smell of steamed rice tickled her nose.

  And from the front of the barge, an unexpected sound. A child’s giggle.

  She was called Duckling. She was three years old and the most enchanting little girl anyone had ever seen. The child had slept quietly in her father’s arms all night and now she tottered on deck enjoying the attention. The female students had nothing to do except read and chat while the boats waited out the
day. They happily fussed over the little girl. They gave Duckling candies and dried fruit, sugar to sweeten her soy milk, even a doll hastily sewn from towels and handkerchiefs. Ying-Ying found some red yarn, which she crocheted into ribbons. She braided Duckling’s fine hair in two pigtails, red ribbons tied to flutter at the ends.

  Duckling’s bright face never dimmed, only grew more delighted. She walked unsteadily, laughing whenever a wave made the barge pitch, even if it made her fall. Duckling was so irresistible she even made Professor Kang laugh. The little girl quickly learned the songs they sang to her, mimicking their words without understanding them.

  Little Duck, Little Duck,

  Sing the moon, dance the stars!

  The skies shine out from the pond tonight,

  Come with us, Little Duck!

  “It’s actually a song about little frogs,” Meirong said, clapping her hands in time to the tune. “But ‘little duck’ works just as well. And she loves hearing her name in the words.”

  Duckling’s father was equally cheerful, a young soldier named Fung. He was probably the same age as the students, too thin for his uniform, forehead already weathered by seasons of labor under the hot sun. He watched his daughter’s antics, beaming with pride at the students’ praise for her sweet nature and happy smile.

  Fung’s detachment was made up of peasants from Shaanxi Province. They spoke a quaint and rustic dialect the girls found difficult to understand. Ying-Ying, whose grandmother came from Shaanxi, was best able to converse with the soldiers.

  “They suffered several bad harvests and his wife died last year,” Ying-Ying said. “When Fung joined up he had the choice of leaving the girl behind with an uncle or bringing her along. Well, he really wasn’t supposed to bring her along but he did it anyway.”