When the Sea Turned to Silver
Page 50
“My grandmother?” Pinmei inquired.
The emperor waved his hands impatiently at one of the guards. “Get the old woman,” he barked, “and bring her through the Black Tortoise Gate.”
CHAPTER
69
The emperor’s attendants and guards flapped and scattered in a large wave. From nowhere, a large, elaborate sedan chair was brought forward, which the emperor settled into with great comfort. “Food and wine!” he ordered before closing the thick drapes. “It may be some time before nightfall, and I get hungry in the cold.”
Countless servants rushed ahead, carrying ornamental lanterns and heaters. Bodyguards stood on either side of the sedan, and swaying ladies of the court trailed at the back. Pinmei and Yishan found themselves behind the sedan carriers, surrounded by the emperor’s entourage. They walked silently out of the hall, a grand procession in the snow.
Just as the emperor was being carried over the last carved ramp, a servant came running up with a large, steaming bamboo basket. He thrust the container between the curtains of the chair and, after a bark from the emperor, jumped into the chair himself.
“Food taster,” Yishan whispered to Pinmei, who watched the proceedings with confusion. “For poison!”
Pinmei nodded. He doesn’t trust anyone, Pinmei realized. Everyone is an enemy. Unexpectedly, she felt a pang of pity.
Lost in these thoughts, Pinmei scarcely noticed how long they walked or where they were going. Everything was bleak and grim; even the red of the palace walls were cold.
As they approached another gate, Yishan nudged her. “The Black Tortoise Gate,” he said, giving her a look. She scanned the area, but she saw nothing, only the same scarlet walls and white snow.
However, after they passed through the gate, Pinmei realized they were now in the Imperial Garden. In front of them, flanking the courtyard, plants and trees slept under their thick blankets of snow. All was still and silent except for a quick, high movement of a monkey tail disappearing in the shadow of the pines.
“Stop here!” the emperor’s voice barked out from the sedan chair. As the procession stopped and the chair was lowered, the emperor called out again. “The children with the stone! Where are they?”
The guards shoved them forward and all dropped onto their knees in the cold snow as the emperor pushed open the drapes of his sedan chair. He was chewing a dumpling, silver chopsticks in one hand and a bowl in the other. When Pinmei raised her head, a shock ran through her. The bowl in his hand was Amah’s special rice bowl! The rabbit rice bowl he had taken from their hut! Any pity Pinmei had felt disappeared, her eyes now flashing.
But before Pinmei could do more than scowl, there was movement at the gate. Three people were walking toward them. Two were soldiers, each gripping the arm of the small, shuffling figure in the middle. Pinmei felt as if she were breathing jade stones. For, even from a distance, she knew who the third person was.
Amah.
CHAPTER
70
Amah was thinner and grayer, her robe dirty and stained. However, even as she staggered through the snow, her back was straight and her head, high. As she came closer, Pinmei’s anger reignited, for Amah had a white cloth tied around her mouth. They had gagged her! But Pinmei stayed silent, for above the gag, Amah’s eyes flashed frantic warnings at her. What was wrong? What was Amah trying to say?
“Ah, the Storyteller has arrived,” the emperor said. He looked at Yishan and said, “The stone?”
Yishan took his handkerchief from his sleeve and opened it. The emperor leaned forward, and the crowd murmured. The stone seemed to reflect all the splendors of the world: the glittering of the sun on the sea, the flickering of fire, and the shine of silken threads.
The emperor sat back as if satisfied. “Now,” he said, picking up his bowl and chopsticks again, “we wait for night.”
He waved his hand and an attendant laid more dishes on a small lacquered table. The scent of bird’s nest with smoked chicken, meat-stuffed peaches, and wine-stewed pork floated in the air. Pinmei heard Yishan’s stomach grumble.
The emperor inserted his silver chopsticks in the dishes several times, inspecting the chopsticks after each jab. As he bent, the glint from his collar caught Pinmei’s eye again. What was it? Like a tiny fish, a thought wavered in her mind—only to swim away as the emperor sat up and grunted. As the waiting servant began to taste each of his dishes, the emperor looked again at Pinmei and Yishan.
“This is a good time for a story,” the emperor said with an unkind smile. “Too bad the Storyteller is a bit limited right now.”
“You could take her gag off,” Yishan said. He too had noticed the alarm in Amah’s eyes.
“I think not,” the emperor said. “It’s best not to underestimate the power of the Storyteller’s voice.” He filled the white-rabbit rice bowl with noodles, the long strips hanging from his chopsticks like limp threads. “But you,” the emperor continued, looking at Pinmei, “you must know a story of your grandmother’s. You tell one.”
Pinmei looked at him, his black eyes mocking and triumphant, and she felt something deeper than rage steel itself inside her. “I can tell you a story,” Pinmei said, her voice as hard as iron, “but it is not one of my grandmother’s.”
“Better!” the emperor said. “Hers are tiresome.”
“This one won’t be,” Pinmei said, her eyes the sparks of heated metal. “It’s never been heard before.”
“Good,” the emperor said. “Begin!”
The mountain we are from has been called many names—Endless Mountain, Moon-Holding Peak, even Never-Ending Mountain. They say the earth, the sea, and the heavens meet at the tip of it, and it is there that the moon rests.
Also at the top of the mountain is supposed to be an old man, a man who too has many names. They have called him the Wise Sage, the Spirit of the Mountain, and the Old Man of the Moon.
Because of this, our mountain is sacred. It is tradition for newly made rulers to come and pay tribute to it. They are supposed to climb to the top of the mountain to meet with the Mountain Spirit, to gain his wisdom and approval, and, by doing so, to prove they are the fated ruler. Many have come and claimed to have climbed to the top, but we who live in the middle of the mountain have not yet looked up at any of them.
The emperor waved his hands impatiently at one of the guards. “Get the old woman,” he barked, “and bring her through the Black Tortoise Gate.”
CHAPTER
69
The emperor’s attendants and guards flapped and scattered in a large wave. From nowhere, a large, elaborate sedan chair was brought forward, which the emperor settled into with great comfort. “Food and wine!” he ordered before closing the thick drapes. “It may be some time before nightfall, and I get hungry in the cold.”
Countless servants rushed ahead, carrying ornamental lanterns and heaters. Bodyguards stood on either side of the sedan, and swaying ladies of the court trailed at the back. Pinmei and Yishan found themselves behind the sedan carriers, surrounded by the emperor’s entourage. They walked silently out of the hall, a grand procession in the snow.
Just as the emperor was being carried over the last carved ramp, a servant came running up with a large, steaming bamboo basket. He thrust the container between the curtains of the chair and, after a bark from the emperor, jumped into the chair himself.
“Food taster,” Yishan whispered to Pinmei, who watched the proceedings with confusion. “For poison!”
Pinmei nodded. He doesn’t trust anyone, Pinmei realized. Everyone is an enemy. Unexpectedly, she felt a pang of pity.
Lost in these thoughts, Pinmei scarcely noticed how long they walked or where they were going. Everything was bleak and grim; even the red of the palace walls were cold.
As they approached another gate, Yishan nudged her. “The Black Tortoise Gate,” he said, giving her a look. She scanned the area, but she saw nothing, only the same scarlet walls and white snow.
However, after they passed through the gate, Pinmei realized they were now in the Imperial Garden. In front of them, flanking the courtyard, plants and trees slept under their thick blankets of snow. All was still and silent except for a quick, high movement of a monkey tail disappearing in the shadow of the pines.
“Stop here!” the emperor’s voice barked out from the sedan chair. As the procession stopped and the chair was lowered, the emperor called out again. “The children with the stone! Where are they?”
The guards shoved them forward and all dropped onto their knees in the cold snow as the emperor pushed open the drapes of his sedan chair. He was chewing a dumpling, silver chopsticks in one hand and a bowl in the other. When Pinmei raised her head, a shock ran through her. The bowl in his hand was Amah’s special rice bowl! The rabbit rice bowl he had taken from their hut! Any pity Pinmei had felt disappeared, her eyes now flashing.
But before Pinmei could do more than scowl, there was movement at the gate. Three people were walking toward them. Two were soldiers, each gripping the arm of the small, shuffling figure in the middle. Pinmei felt as if she were breathing jade stones. For, even from a distance, she knew who the third person was.
Amah.
CHAPTER
70
Amah was thinner and grayer, her robe dirty and stained. However, even as she staggered through the snow, her back was straight and her head, high. As she came closer, Pinmei’s anger reignited, for Amah had a white cloth tied around her mouth. They had gagged her! But Pinmei stayed silent, for above the gag, Amah’s eyes flashed frantic warnings at her. What was wrong? What was Amah trying to say?
“Ah, the Storyteller has arrived,” the emperor said. He looked at Yishan and said, “The stone?”
Yishan took his handkerchief from his sleeve and opened it. The emperor leaned forward, and the crowd murmured. The stone seemed to reflect all the splendors of the world: the glittering of the sun on the sea, the flickering of fire, and the shine of silken threads.
The emperor sat back as if satisfied. “Now,” he said, picking up his bowl and chopsticks again, “we wait for night.”
He waved his hand and an attendant laid more dishes on a small lacquered table. The scent of bird’s nest with smoked chicken, meat-stuffed peaches, and wine-stewed pork floated in the air. Pinmei heard Yishan’s stomach grumble.
The emperor inserted his silver chopsticks in the dishes several times, inspecting the chopsticks after each jab. As he bent, the glint from his collar caught Pinmei’s eye again. What was it? Like a tiny fish, a thought wavered in her mind—only to swim away as the emperor sat up and grunted. As the waiting servant began to taste each of his dishes, the emperor looked again at Pinmei and Yishan.
“This is a good time for a story,” the emperor said with an unkind smile. “Too bad the Storyteller is a bit limited right now.”
“You could take her gag off,” Yishan said. He too had noticed the alarm in Amah’s eyes.
“I think not,” the emperor said. “It’s best not to underestimate the power of the Storyteller’s voice.” He filled the white-rabbit rice bowl with noodles, the long strips hanging from his chopsticks like limp threads. “But you,” the emperor continued, looking at Pinmei, “you must know a story of your grandmother’s. You tell one.”
Pinmei looked at him, his black eyes mocking and triumphant, and she felt something deeper than rage steel itself inside her. “I can tell you a story,” Pinmei said, her voice as hard as iron, “but it is not one of my grandmother’s.”
“Better!” the emperor said. “Hers are tiresome.”
“This one won’t be,” Pinmei said, her eyes the sparks of heated metal. “It’s never been heard before.”
“Good,” the emperor said. “Begin!”
The mountain we are from has been called many names—Endless Mountain, Moon-Holding Peak, even Never-Ending Mountain. They say the earth, the sea, and the heavens meet at the tip of it, and it is there that the moon rests.
Also at the top of the mountain is supposed to be an old man, a man who too has many names. They have called him the Wise Sage, the Spirit of the Mountain, and the Old Man of the Moon.
Because of this, our mountain is sacred. It is tradition for newly made rulers to come and pay tribute to it. They are supposed to climb to the top of the mountain to meet with the Mountain Spirit, to gain his wisdom and approval, and, by doing so, to prove they are the fated ruler. Many have come and claimed to have climbed to the top, but we who live in the middle of the mountain have not yet looked up at any of them.
