When the Sea Turned to Silver
Page 7
A soldier lifted her off the horse. “Come, Storyteller,” he said. “We are stopping for the night.”
Soon she found herself alone in a tent. A luxury, she realized, when compared with the soldiers crowded in their shared tents or the prisoners left to huddle together without shelter. She shivered for them, listening to their moans and cries. Quietly, another soldier entered with a small torch, unbound her hands, and offered her a cake.
“Eat,” the soldier said.
Amah looked and saw it was a half-eaten portion of a soldier’s ration. It was his own food he was sharing. “You are kind to remember me,” she said as she took it.
“You are the Storyteller,” he replied as if answering a question. After she had finished eating, he tied her hands again almost with reluctance.
Another soldier burst into the tent. He was in green, and was older and larger than any of the other soldiers.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the first soldier, a menacing, low roar beginning to sound in his throat.
“He was the only one who answered me,” Amah said, trying her best to sound like a petulant child. “Do you plan to starve an old woman?”
The soldier in green looked at Amah, and a shock ran through her. Eyes full of anger and power, almost to madness… Where had she seen eyes like that before?
“I will take care of her,” he said to the other soldier. “Leave.”
When the soldier left, the man in green took off his helmet. He looked at Amah closely, his eyes boring into her face as if searching. She looked back at him, the rigid tilt of his head telling her it rarely bowed.
“You are not just a soldier,” Amah said to him. The roar of his voice echoed in her ears, calling up a strange fear she had not felt since she was a child.
“And you are not just an old woman,” he spat back. “Everyone knows you! Every corner of this land has heard a tale you have whispered. Even now, the men outside wish they could sit like small children at your feet!”
The tent flapped open, and the low melancholy moan of the wind blew tiny snowflakes, like silver seeds, over Amah.
“What do you wish from me?” Amah said. She spoke slowly and carefully, swallowing to hide her dread.
“What does one always want from the Storyteller?” The man laughed with harshness. “A story, of course. Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy.”
The Story of the Ginseng Boy? Amah swallowed her gasp of surprise. She would never forget when she had told it last. Auntie Meiya had requested that story; now it seemed so long ago. Amah closed her eyes, remembering.
“Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy,” Auntie Meiya said.
She was lying in bed, smiling, and her many wrinkles could not hide the light in her eyes. But the hand she laid in Amah’s was weak and almost transparent.
“It’s the last story I wish to hear before I die,” Auntie Meiya said. She looked at Pinmei and Yishan, also standing by her bed. “When you are as old as me, you are just happy you have friends to say goodbye to.”
“But…” Yishan protested. “But…”
“Yishan,” Auntie Meiya said, her smile melting away as she looked at him. “It is time. You are young and you will grow older every day. I will see my parents and old friends who have been gone from my life for so long. I will miss you, but it is time to end our string.”
Yishan bowed his head.
“Please,” Meiya said to Amah. “Tell me the story.”
A long time ago, a little girl was sent away to live with an old aunt and uncle at the foot of a mountain. She had loved her small village. There had been green fields, a lake with a happy, joyful fish, and friends and parents. Here, there was only gray rock, a shadowy forest, and two old people. While the old people were not unkind, they were not interested in the girl—they spent most of their time telling her to hush or to leave them alone.
However, even the most lax of guardians could not help but notice when the girl began to eagerly leave the house. Every once in a while, when the old people looked up from their checkers game, they thought they could hear faint peals of laughter. So one morning, as the girl was rushing out the door, the aunt stopped her.
“Where are you going?” the old woman asked.
“I’m going to play!” the girl said, eager to leave.
“There’s no one around here for miles,” the aunt said. “A little girl like you can’t play by herself all day.”
“I don’t,” the girl said. “I have a friend!”
“A friend?” the uncle asked. “What friend?”
“A boy,” the girl said. “He wears a red hat.”
“A red hat?” the aunt said, and in her wonder she loosened her hold on the girl, who quickly slipped away. As the girl’s figure disappeared, the two old people looked at each other.
“Did you hear that, old man?” the woman said, drops of spit sputtering from her mouth with her words. “A boy, a red hat? Here?”
“Could it be the Ginseng Boy?” the man replied, licking his lips as if hungry.
“Be patient,” the woman scolded. “We have to wait for the night of the red moon.”
The old people said nothing, allowing the little girl to do as she pleased. They watched the moon carefully and calculated calendar days with more fervor than when they added up their gambling tabs. Finally, one day, they cautiously followed the little girl as she left. From a distance, they watched as she rounded the house. Then a little boy appeared. He was dressed in bright red from head to foot.
“It is the Ginseng Boy!” the man said.
“Shhh!” the woman said angrily. “Keep quiet!”
The two children played for quite a while, climbing trees and drawing in the dirt. Finally, at noon, they sat against a tree and fell asleep together.
“Now!” the woman hissed.
The two old people crept forward silently. With a small knife, the old woman cut a sleeve of the boy’s shirt and pulled a delicate red thread. The old man tied it tightly to a low branch of a bush. They nodded to each other and, just as silently as before, departed.
That night, the moon shone blood red and the old man and his wife left the house, each with a lantern and a spade. With much stumbling, they found the string tied to the branch and began to follow it—around trees, over rocks, through bushes, until, at last, at the foot of the mountain, the thread went right into the ground. With great haste, the old people began to dig.
Soon she found herself alone in a tent. A luxury, she realized, when compared with the soldiers crowded in their shared tents or the prisoners left to huddle together without shelter. She shivered for them, listening to their moans and cries. Quietly, another soldier entered with a small torch, unbound her hands, and offered her a cake.
“Eat,” the soldier said.
Amah looked and saw it was a half-eaten portion of a soldier’s ration. It was his own food he was sharing. “You are kind to remember me,” she said as she took it.
“You are the Storyteller,” he replied as if answering a question. After she had finished eating, he tied her hands again almost with reluctance.
Another soldier burst into the tent. He was in green, and was older and larger than any of the other soldiers.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the first soldier, a menacing, low roar beginning to sound in his throat.
“He was the only one who answered me,” Amah said, trying her best to sound like a petulant child. “Do you plan to starve an old woman?”
The soldier in green looked at Amah, and a shock ran through her. Eyes full of anger and power, almost to madness… Where had she seen eyes like that before?
“I will take care of her,” he said to the other soldier. “Leave.”
When the soldier left, the man in green took off his helmet. He looked at Amah closely, his eyes boring into her face as if searching. She looked back at him, the rigid tilt of his head telling her it rarely bowed.
“You are not just a soldier,” Amah said to him. The roar of his voice echoed in her ears, calling up a strange fear she had not felt since she was a child.
“And you are not just an old woman,” he spat back. “Everyone knows you! Every corner of this land has heard a tale you have whispered. Even now, the men outside wish they could sit like small children at your feet!”
The tent flapped open, and the low melancholy moan of the wind blew tiny snowflakes, like silver seeds, over Amah.
“What do you wish from me?” Amah said. She spoke slowly and carefully, swallowing to hide her dread.
“What does one always want from the Storyteller?” The man laughed with harshness. “A story, of course. Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy.”
The Story of the Ginseng Boy? Amah swallowed her gasp of surprise. She would never forget when she had told it last. Auntie Meiya had requested that story; now it seemed so long ago. Amah closed her eyes, remembering.
“Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy,” Auntie Meiya said.
She was lying in bed, smiling, and her many wrinkles could not hide the light in her eyes. But the hand she laid in Amah’s was weak and almost transparent.
“It’s the last story I wish to hear before I die,” Auntie Meiya said. She looked at Pinmei and Yishan, also standing by her bed. “When you are as old as me, you are just happy you have friends to say goodbye to.”
“But…” Yishan protested. “But…”
“Yishan,” Auntie Meiya said, her smile melting away as she looked at him. “It is time. You are young and you will grow older every day. I will see my parents and old friends who have been gone from my life for so long. I will miss you, but it is time to end our string.”
Yishan bowed his head.
“Please,” Meiya said to Amah. “Tell me the story.”
A long time ago, a little girl was sent away to live with an old aunt and uncle at the foot of a mountain. She had loved her small village. There had been green fields, a lake with a happy, joyful fish, and friends and parents. Here, there was only gray rock, a shadowy forest, and two old people. While the old people were not unkind, they were not interested in the girl—they spent most of their time telling her to hush or to leave them alone.
However, even the most lax of guardians could not help but notice when the girl began to eagerly leave the house. Every once in a while, when the old people looked up from their checkers game, they thought they could hear faint peals of laughter. So one morning, as the girl was rushing out the door, the aunt stopped her.
“Where are you going?” the old woman asked.
“I’m going to play!” the girl said, eager to leave.
“There’s no one around here for miles,” the aunt said. “A little girl like you can’t play by herself all day.”
“I don’t,” the girl said. “I have a friend!”
“A friend?” the uncle asked. “What friend?”
“A boy,” the girl said. “He wears a red hat.”
“A red hat?” the aunt said, and in her wonder she loosened her hold on the girl, who quickly slipped away. As the girl’s figure disappeared, the two old people looked at each other.
“Did you hear that, old man?” the woman said, drops of spit sputtering from her mouth with her words. “A boy, a red hat? Here?”
“Could it be the Ginseng Boy?” the man replied, licking his lips as if hungry.
“Be patient,” the woman scolded. “We have to wait for the night of the red moon.”
The old people said nothing, allowing the little girl to do as she pleased. They watched the moon carefully and calculated calendar days with more fervor than when they added up their gambling tabs. Finally, one day, they cautiously followed the little girl as she left. From a distance, they watched as she rounded the house. Then a little boy appeared. He was dressed in bright red from head to foot.
“It is the Ginseng Boy!” the man said.
“Shhh!” the woman said angrily. “Keep quiet!”
The two children played for quite a while, climbing trees and drawing in the dirt. Finally, at noon, they sat against a tree and fell asleep together.
“Now!” the woman hissed.
The two old people crept forward silently. With a small knife, the old woman cut a sleeve of the boy’s shirt and pulled a delicate red thread. The old man tied it tightly to a low branch of a bush. They nodded to each other and, just as silently as before, departed.
That night, the moon shone blood red and the old man and his wife left the house, each with a lantern and a spade. With much stumbling, they found the string tied to the branch and began to follow it—around trees, over rocks, through bushes, until, at last, at the foot of the mountain, the thread went right into the ground. With great haste, the old people began to dig.
