Reflection: A Twisted Tale Page 3

  “You aren’t going to d—”

  “I wanted to become a general like my father,” Shang interrupted. “I wanted to win battles and bring honor to my family name. Is it selfish—to wish I could keep living? Is it dishonorable of me, Ping? I want to continue protecting our country, our Emperor.”

  “No,” said Mulan. “It isn’t selfish or dishonorable at all.”

  Shang lay back, letting his head settle into the blankets. “The Huns won’t be the last of China’s problems. The Emperor will always face new threats, new invaders. He needs to have strong, brave men at his side. Men like you, Ping.”

  “Shang,” Mulan said, trying again, “stop talking like this.”

  “Now that it’s all over, now that my time on this earth is done, do you know what comforts me the most?”

  He waited, so Mulan gave in. “What?” she asked quietly.

  Shang lowered his voice. “That I’ve made a friend like you, Ping. Someone I can trust completely.”

  Tears pricked the edges of Mulan’s eyes. This time, she didn’t try to hold them back. She knew she couldn’t. She swallowed, choking on her words. “Stop talking like this. It’s my fault you’re wounded.”

  “I would never have thought of firing that last cannon at the mountain,” Shang confessed. “I went after you to get the cannon back, but you—you saved us. It was an honor to protect you.”

  How strange, then, that Mulan’s tongue grew heavy. There was so much she wanted to tell him. That it was her fault he was hurt; that if only she’d been more alert, she would have anticipated Shan-Yu’s attack. She wanted to tell him he was the best leader their troops could have hoped for; a lesser man would have left her to die at Shan-Yu’s hands, but Shang was not only courageous—he believed in his soldiers, and treated them as part of his team. She remembered how proud he’d been during their training when she’d defeated him in one-on-one combat. The satisfied smile that’d lit up his face as he wiped his jaw after her kick—she would never forget it. She wanted to tell him that she admired him and had always wanted his friendship.

  Yet not a word could crawl out of her mouth. Only a choke, and a guttural sound she barely recognized as her own, except that it burned in her throat. She turned away and fumbled with her canteen so Shang wouldn’t see the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  “What will you do now that the war is over, Ping?” Shang asked. “Will you go home?”

  “Home?” Mulan repeated. She hadn’t thought about that yet. Would things be different when she returned home, now that she’d served as a soldier in the army? Or would they go back to the way they had been? How could they, though, after everything that had happened…everything she’d done? “Yes. I would like to.”

  Shang reached for her arm. “Your family will be very proud of you, Ping. I heard that you’d taken your father’s place. He was an esteemed warrior. My father always held him in high regard.”

  Mulan kept silent. How could she tell Shang that she was really a girl? That she’d stolen her father’s armor and conscription notice to join the army?

  Yes, she’d done it to save her father from having to serve again. He was an old man now. He walked with a cane and had never fully recovered from his battle injuries fighting for China decades ago.

  Just thinking about it made her heart heavy. The last night she’d been home, she’d stolen a glimpse at Baba practicing his battle stances with his sword. Not even a minute into his exercise, he’d collapsed, clutching his injured leg in pain. Seeing that, she knew he wouldn’t survive. She had to be the one to go in his place.

  But her reasons didn’t matter. She’d disobeyed her parents, dishonored them. They must have been so angry when they found she’d left.

  They had a right to be angry. She’d not only disobeyed them, but worse, she’d lied to them. She’d deceived them.

  The same way she’d deceived Shang.

  Oh, how she wanted to tell him the truth! But not now. Not like this.

  The silence dragged on. Mulan knew she should say something, but what? Shang’s words had been so honest, so sincere. He thought of her as a true friend, someone he trusted. Little did he know that she’d been lying to him this whole time.

  You think he’s a great captain, she reminded herself. That was never a lie, and now…now you think of him as a friend, too.

  “I’m glad to be your friend,” she said quietly.

  Shang smiled again. A smaller smile than last time—Mulan could tell he was struggling not to show his pain. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she blurted. “Anything.”

  Shang stared up at the clouds drifting across the sky. Mulan looked up, too. Geese threaded the clouds, like they were sifting through snow.

  “Take my ashes home to my mother,” he whispered, “so I might be buried beside my ancestors. It will mean so much to her.”

  “Shang.” His name clung to her throat. It hurt to speak. “You can’t give up. You have to fight on. You have to live.”

  “Tell her…not to be sad. Tell her I’m with Father.”

  Mulan bit her lip. She was trembling, and not from the cold. The bleakness in Shang’s face, the certainty in his words that he was going to die. It couldn’t be!

  A swell of heat burst in her throat, and she had to fight not to let the tears come. She would not let Shang’s words shatter her, not without a fight.

  She took his hand—his cold, limp hand—and entwined her fingers in his. She squeezed gently. “Yes,” she whispered. “I promise. But you—”

  “You, too, Ping,” Shang interrupted. “Don’t blame yourself.” That small smile again. It pained Mulan to see it more than it comforted her.

  She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. A silent sob escaped her throat. Her lungs burned. “You have to keep fighting. We’ll be in the Imperial City in a few days. Just hang on, Shang. Please.”

  “At least now I know.…” He stopped to gather his breath, then closed his eyes again. “Now…I know…that China will be in good hands.”

  It was dark by the time Mulan made it down the mountain and caught up with the other soldiers. Lighting a lantern to help guide their way to the camp, Mulan saw Shang’s breath curl into the cold air. She shivered. It was warmer down off the pass, but the air was still chilled, and she knew it would only get colder as night went on. She adjusted the blanket over Shang’s body, then chirped to hurry Khan along.

  “Almost there,” she chanted, not sure whether the reassurance was meant more for her horse or for the sleeping Shang. “Almost there, almost there.”

  The soldiers had made camp along the outskirts of a small forest around the base of the mountain. The sight of a blazing fire with smoke unfurling into the sky, a pile of freshly cut wood, and a cluster of sturdy, wind-blocking tents lifted Mulan’s heart. And Khan’s, it appeared. Once the horse saw the fire, he picked up speed.

  “Ping!” Yao and Ling hurried over to help her lift Shang off Khan’s back. Chi Fu saw her, too. He crossed his arms and glared at Yao and Ling.

  “Where do you two think you are going?” he shouted. “Come back here.”

  “We’re going to cut some more wood,” Ling responded. “Be right back!”

  “Insubordinate ruffians!” Chi Fu harrumphed, then pushed open his tent flap to go back inside. He glanced back, fixing a stare on Mulan. “I knew Captain Li wasn’t ready to lead. I knew he didn’t deserve such a great responsibility. And look now; if his soldiers had learned to follow his orders, he wouldn’t be dying.”

  Yao raised a fist at the Emperor’s counsel. “The captain isn’t dead!”

  But Chi Fu had already swiveled on his heel and gone inside his tent.

  Mulan bit her lip and turned to her friends. “Thanks for your help.”

  “We were worried you got lost,” replied Ling. “How’s Captain Li doing?”

  Mulan shook her head. Her eyes were swollen, her voice raw. “Not great.”

  Yao�
��s shoulders slumped. He was usually the most belligerent of the group, but even his bruised black eye looked sad. “We caught some pigeons. Chien-Po’s making soup. I’ll bring you some.”

  “All right,” Mulan said tiredly. How long had it been since she’d eaten? How could she be hungry when Shang was fighting for his life? Still, she forced a smile. “Shang could use some good, hot soup. Are there any more tents?”

  “Take mine,” Ling offered, pointing. “We made it ready for you.”

  Mulan looked at her friends gratefully. “You guys are the best.”

  “It’s the least we can do,” Ling replied with a shrug. He picked up Shang by the shoulders, Yao lifted the captain’s legs, and they walked with her to the tent.

  “What are you doing?” Chi Fu cried, popping out to observe the soldiers carry Shang into Ling’s tent. “I said no one is permitted to help Ping.”

  “We made camp,” Yao argued. “What does it matter if we help him now or not? So report me.”

  “And me.”

  “And me,” Chien-Po chimed in, holding up a soup ladle.

  Chi Fu grunted, and he scribbled furiously on his scroll. “I will.”

  Chien-Po shrugged. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, as cheerfully as he could muster. A pot bubbled over the fire, and Mulan inhaled, savoring the delicious aroma of hot, freshly prepared soup.

  As the soldiers crowded around the pot, eagerly slurping, Chien-Po helped Mulan and the others settle Shang into Ling’s tent.

  Most of the tents in the camp were patched together out of saddle blankets, capes, and animal skins, but Ling had managed to procure one of the Huns’ tents. Several wooden poles propped up its triangular roof, and the material was thick muslin, like the tents in their training barracks at the Wu Zong camp. Chien-Po could barely fit inside.

  “We made him a bed out of some wood,” Chien-Po said, gesturing at the makeshift bed in the center of the tent, outfitted with a thin pallet of extra blankets. “He’ll be more comfortable traveling that way. We will help you carry him tomorrow.”

  Mulan’s heart warmed and her spirits lifted. Her friends had thought of everything. There was even a little stool and a bucket of clean water with a neat stack of cloths next to it.

  She dipped one of the cloths into the bucket, wrung out the excess water, and started peeling away Shang’s bandages to clean his wound.

  Yao and Ling returned with two steaming bowls of soup.

  “I’ll eat later,” Mulan said. Too much to do now. She filled another cloth with snow and placed it on Shang’s forehead.

  Ling crouched beside the captain and tried to feed him some soup. “He’s still unconscious.”

  She nodded. “He woke up a couple hours ago, but he’s been out since then.” She swallowed, trying to stay positive. “He’s stopped bleeding, so we won’t have to cauterize the wound.” She let out a small sigh of relief. “And I don’t think it’s infected, which is good news.”

  Her voice fell soft. “But I can’t get his fever down.”

  The wind whistled outside, shuffling the tent’s flaps. Mulan leaned against one of the wooden poles and started removing her armor. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, how her muscles ached and her body demanded rest. She could hardly keep her shoulders up.

  “You need to eat something,” Yao said, observing her.

  “You need to sleep,” Chien-Po said, noting the dark circles under her eyes.

  Mulan shook her head. “The only reason Shang is injured is because he saved me from Shan-Yu. It’s my duty to take care of him.”

  “We could all take shifts.”

  “You three have been a great help already. We fought hard today, and we all need our rest.”

  Her voice was firm. No one dared argue.

  Yao patted her shoulder. “All right, Ping,” he said reluctantly. “You got it. But let us know if you need anything. We’ll be right outside.”

  “I will,” Mulan promised.

  Her friends left the tent, and Mushu crawled out of his hiding place in Mulan’s pack and went to her side.

  Mulan knelt and covered her face with her hands. “What if he doesn’t wake up, Mushu?” she whispered. “What if he dies?”

  Shang’s request to have her take his ashes home to his mother haunted her. Even he thought he was going to die.

  “This is all because of me.”

  “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself,” said Mushu, climbing on top of the stack of cloths. “What happened to Shang is not your fault.”

  “If I had been a better warrior, if I’d been more prepared for Shan-Yu’s attack, none of this—”

  “Hey.” Mushu reached out a claw to pat Mulan on the shoulder. “If not for you, everyone would be dead. You can’t forget that. You protected your people. You saved your country. You can’t save everybody.”

  Mulan didn’t reply. Deep down, she feared Mushu was right.

  Staying awake was hard. She rubbed her temples. They throbbed, the pain shooting up behind her eyes. She’d promised herself she’d watch Shang all night, but she was so, so tired.

  The fire outside was dying, and Mulan left Shang’s side briefly to feed its embers. The sky was black and starless; all was quiet in the camp. Yao and Ling, who were supposed to be on guard duty, had nodded off, and when she went back into her tent, she heard Mushu snoring. Even Cri-Kee was asleep, comfortably resting on top of Mushu’s scaly stomach.

  A pang of loneliness tugged at Mulan. She leaned against the tent pole and looked at Shang. He hadn’t moved since they’d arrived at the camp; hadn’t made a sound, either. The only reason she knew he was still alive was the slight rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flinch of his brow, and the faint tinge of color in his cheeks.

  She’d had no success at all getting him to drink Chien-Po’s soup. Every time she’d tipped the bowl to his parted lips, the soup just dribbled out of his mouth. Once or twice his teeth clenched, as if he were in terrible pain.

  So she watched him, waiting for any sign that he might awaken. But he didn’t.

  The broth was cold now, almost frozen. She picked at it with a chopstick, then sipped the liquid dribbling from underneath the layer of ice on top. Once the ice cracked, she tilted the bowl toward her lips, forcing the broth down with one gulp.

  As she drank, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was drinking her grandmother’s porridge. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bowl of fish congee, sprinkled with green scallions and topped with a dollop of sesame oil! She’d even have willingly downed one of her mother’s herbal soups; Fa Li used to make red sage soup almost every day when Mulan was growing up. How she’d hated the smell and pungent taste. She used to pick out the chopped pieces of the root and chew on the sweet wolfberries instead.

  She missed home so much.

  “If you wake up, Shang,” she said aloud, “I’ll take you home for dinner. No, not for my cooking. I still have a lot to learn. But my grandmother…my nai nai, she’s the best chef on this side of China. Her pork dumplings would wake a dead man just to eat them.” She cringed at the saying, but forced a laugh. “What do you say?”

  She waited.

  No answer, of course.

  Feeling foolish as well as dejected, Mulan set the bowl aside. Her stomach still growled, but not as urgently as before.

  She lay down by Shang’s side, propping herself on an elbow, and gently swept his hair off his face. His jaw was still tight, but his forehead was smooth, and his breathing was quiet. He looked more peaceful than earlier.

  Then she curled up and rested her head on her hands. She wondered if Shang was dreaming—of his home, his family, his friends back in his town. She hoped so. She hoped he was fighting to live.

  She realized how little she knew about him. She knew nothing about his family other than that his father had been the Emperor’s most trusted general. She didn’t know anything about his life growing up, either; what he liked to eat or read, even where he was from.

 
; As their leader, Shang had avoided socializing with the troops. He’d never joined in drinking games or jokes. After meals, he had always retreated to his tent to study battle plans and maps.

  Then again, no one had ever sought him out. Now Mulan wished she’d gotten to know him better. She hadn’t realized until now how dedicated Shang had been to ensuring the regiment became a team. Most other captains probably wouldn’t even have known her name. But Shang would run alongside her and the other recruits to make sure no man was left behind, he sculpted each soldier’s individual weaknesses into strengths, and he had even risked his life—for her.

  Stop thinking like that, she thought miserably. You sound like he’s going to die.

  She watched his chest rise and fall, the movement so imperceptible she wondered if she imagined it. She couldn’t even hear him breathe. Reaching for his wrist, she kept her hand over his, feeling for his pulse.

  Still there. Still faint.

  “Shang is not going to die,” Mulan whispered aloud. She choked back a sob. “He’s not.”

  But even she couldn’t persuade herself. Moisture tingled in her eyes, and the swell in her throat hurt more and more as she tried to hold in her emotions. He’s not.

  Hot tears trickled down her cheeks as she unfolded her arms and sat up. She wiped her face, tasting the salt in her tears as they slipped into the corner of her mouth.

  Her hands trembled at her side, and her head felt light. Fatigue was catching up with her, and she blamed it for her doubts.

  Need to sleep, her body begged. Just a little. Just for a few minutes.

  No. The world swayed. Her eyelids half closed. Must watch Shang. Must. Watch.

  You can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself. Sleep. Just a little.

  Just a little. Finally, Mulan crawled away from Shang’s side and retreated to the back corner of the tent, leaning against a pole. She hugged her arms against her chest and stretched out her legs over the frosted grass. Her breathing slowed.