The Dreamweavers Page 3

  “Yes, happiness,” repeated Yun wryly. “Because everyone in the village is so happy right now.” Suddenly, an idea came to him—one that he was sure would appeal to his sister’s competitive nature. “I just thought of something to replace our bet from the other day.”

  Mei put the pin back in her braid and looked at him with interest. “What is it?”

  “Only this time, we won’t be wagering on dessert,” said Yun. “I’m thinking of a bet with much higher stakes.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Since everyone’s in such a bad mood, I bet you the emperor’s son won’t smile at all tonight. If I’m right, we talk to him about the City of Ashes.”

  “That’s a terrible wager,” scoffed Mei. “He will too smile. It’s the Mid-Autumn Festival!”

  “Fine, if you think his joy is so certain, then how about this? If the emperor’s son smiles at least seven times tonight, I’ll drop the subject. We won’t tell him about Mama and Baba or ask about the city. But if he doesn’t...” Yun let the prospect of approaching the powerful prince hang in the air.

  Mei thought again about the past day and the gloom that hung over everyone in the village. “Seven times?”

  “Or more.”

  Mei sucked in her breath. She’d rather make bets about things she could control, like tree-climbing or dueling. A whole other person’s mood was something else. As fearless as Mei tried to be, the idea of approaching a royal prince for help in the event that she lost the wager did not appeal to her. Then again, it was the Mid-Autumn Festival. How could she lose? And, as most people with a twin or sibling would agree, proving her brother wrong was something she couldn’t resist.

  “Fine. Deal.”

  Evening arrived quickly. The villagers gathered outside under the cloudy night sky, murmuring and waiting for the arrival of the emperor’s son. The golden moon, which managed to peek in every now and then from behind the rolling clouds, was a perfect circle. Red-and-gold streamers, lanterns, and banners glimmered at the village entrance where the people stood. The scene looked perfect, if not for the fact there wasn’t a single smile in the crowd.

  Grandpa accompanied Mei and Yun to the gathering. He whistled cheerfully along the dirt road as he carried his special dish of mooncakes under one arm.

  “They’ll be great, Grandpa,” Yun reassured him. He bit into his barely visible thumbnail, which he’d nervously gnawed over the past few nights. “You’re the greatest chef in the village. There’s no reason why the emperor’s son will hate your mooncakes. Right?”

  “I am not worried,” Grandpa replied with a smile. “His will be but one opinion in the end. You should remember, Mei and Yun, that not even the most powerful person in the world can diminish your true value. To some animals, a silkworm is nothing but a tasty morsel, yet its silk creations adorn the palace of China.”

  The twins nodded, though they did not understand Grandpa’s words completely. “Listen,” gasped Mei. “I hear horses!”

  They hurried to join the curious crowd. The sound of galloping hoofs clip-clopped in the distance. The ground rumbled faintly. A dust cloud appeared on the horizon and slowly grew larger, until four chestnut-colored horses emerged from the haze. Behind the horses was a bronze-plated chariot adorned with silk tassels. Yun wondered how many days they’d been riding and began calculating the distance and time in quiet whispers to Mei. Mei wondered what dangers the prince and his entourage had encountered along the way, and was reminded of childhood stories of the Monkey King, a mischievous monkey warrior who had gone on a legendary journey to the west with three other individuals. Throughout the journey, the group faced many challenging trials, including demon tricksters and stormy weather.

  A humorous idea occurred to Mei. Maybe we’re the first trial, she thought as two officials stepped down from the chariot. Each wore formal robes and a somber expression.

  “Villagers of Pearl River,” one of the officials announced, “we present His Imperial Majesty’s Son, the Second Son, Prince of China.”

  After the applause faded, the emperor’s son stepped out in a flourish of golden robes. He surprised Mei and Yun by how delicate he looked. The men in the village had brown, hardened bodies from years of working under the hot sun, but the skin of the emperor’s son was pale and soft, like jasmine petals.

  His commanding voice, however, left little doubt about his authority. “Thank you for hosting me,” he said. “It is always a pleasure to visit the lesser-known parts of China. I was advised to come to this village after hearing about its incredible mooncakes. I seek the one who makes them, an old man by the name of Wu.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Grandpa stepped forward. He bowed before the emperor’s son.

  “We are humbled His Majesty’s Son came all the way to visit our village,” Grandpa said. “We normally wait until the very end of the celebration to eat the mooncakes, as is our village’s tradition. Please, join us for our dinner and festivities first.”

  “Very well.” The prince nodded and patiently raised his hands, as if to say, Begin.

  The villagers dutifully led him to the square. They went through their customary celebrations, though with less enthusiasm than normal. People sang what were supposed to be cheerful songs in a manner suitable for funerals. Nobody danced much, either. None of the children were dazzled by the brilliant firecrackers.

  The emperor’s son seemed puzzled by the unusual atmosphere.

  “Is this what a village party is typically like?” Yun heard the prince whisper to his officials.

  The food was not much better than the celebrations. Farmer Jao had refused to bring his usual roast pig, saying he’d lost too much money over the years by offering his prized pigs for the wretched festivities instead of selling them. The other families’ shared dishes were lackluster, too—the flavors bland and tasteless, the vegetables limp, as if the families had cooked them begrudgingly and with minimal effort. Luckily, Grandpa’s fish stew was excellent. The prince gulped it down with fervor. Mei and Yun kept a close watch, and saw him smile twice so far. Afterward, he approached Grandpa, and the two of them chuckled as they discussed the remoteness of the village.

  “We had the worst weather follow us down here,” the prince said, glancing at the evening sky. “Dark swirling clouds and rainstorms. The horses refused to move at one point.”

  He hiccupped, then said,

  “When light lives and darkness dies,

  There the fallen fails to rise.”

  He paused. “Oh dear. Did I just say that aloud? I’m becoming tongue-tied as the night goes on.”

  “Not to worry,” Grandpa said with a nod toward the rice wine in the prince’s hand. “Happens with the festivities. Yes, the climate in the mountains can sometimes be unpredictable, although I must confess I haven’t seen these kinds of rolling clouds before.”

  “Well, it is the night of the full moon. Some ancient lunar magic, perhaps, if you believe the folktales.” The prince grinned.

  Four, five more smiles.

  “You’re losing the bet,” Mei whispered to Yun. She felt her skin prickle the way it did before something big happened. “But because I’m nice, I’ll allow you to eat your dessert tonight. Just not any for the rest of the week, because those will go to me.”

  “How generous,” replied Yun, his mouth stuffed full of stew. “But that’s not the wager anymore, remember?”

  Finally, it was time for the famous mooncakes.

  Grandpa’s expression had been more or less pleasant the entire night. Now, as the mooncakes were being passed out one by one, he looked as serious as the officials.

  “Friends, neighbors, before you eat these cakes, I want to say a few words,” he said. “I know that some of us have not been feeling quite right these past few days. I say to those folks especially, I hope the mooncakes bring you relief. As always, I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into making these, and I am honored to share them with you tonight.”

  Once all the
villagers had a mooncake in their hand, everyone waited for Grandpa’s signal. Mei grinned in anticipation. Yun started chewing his fingernails again.

  “I have worked my magic into them. Small magic, nothing too fancy,” Grandpa added as the emperor’s son gave him a dubious look. “Only meant to bring harmony and joy. All of you have contributed to this magic, though you may not know it. The best magic comes from within.” He held up one finger. “And now...you may eat!”

  The twins eagerly bit into their flower-shaped mooncakes.

  “Argh!” gasped Mei, her eyes suddenly streaming with tears. Next to her, Yun took a careful nibble of his mooncake, then promptly turned red.

  All around them, the other villagers had similar reactions. “Aiyah!” people cried, spitting out the pastries.

  The mooncakes, which were supposed to be sweet, tasted like rotten eggs with a side of soot. Not only that, but after taking a bite, each individual felt an unmistakable sense of dread run through them. Suddenly, every unpleasant thought in the villagers’ minds magnified tenfold. And then, the poisonous words began flying.

  “Wu should’ve let one of us make the mooncakes instead!” yelled Madam Hu. “Why does that old fool always have to hog the spotlight?”

  “He always claims to know what’s best,” chimed in Doctor Po. “Sometimes he even gives me unsolicited advice in my dreams while I sleep!”

  “Does anyone have water?” rasped Elder Liu. “I’m choking!”

  “The old man is trying to poison us!” others chimed in.

  For a few moments, chaos reigned. Adults argued. Small children chucked their mooncakes at one another, and were soon covered in sticky crumbs. Mothers scolded them. Several rowdy teenagers set off unplanned firecrackers, adding more chaos. Someone slipped on a mooncake and fell face-first into a pile of dirt. Someone else knocked over a paper lantern, which was engulfed in flames before being stamped out by a furious Madam Hu.

  Grandpa appeared stunned. Mei and Yun tried to get everyone to calm down, to no avail.

  Then the noise in the crowd slowly faded. All faces turned to the center of the square. Everyone fell completely silent as the realization hit them.

  Someone had thrown a mooncake at the emperor’s son.

  Crumbly pastry dripped down his hair. When he spoke, he did so softly, but his voice could barely conceal his anger. “You.” He pointed at Grandpa. “Step forward.”

  Grandpa obeyed.

  “What exactly is the meaning of this?” demanded the prince. “This mooncake tastes like earwax. Are you trying to poison us?”

  “Absolutely not,” Grandpa hurried to say, his voice trembling slightly. “I-I have no idea what happened. The mooncakes tasted fine when I tested them two days ago—”

  “You served me mooncakes that are two days old?”

  The crowd muttered angrily.

  “His Majesty’s Son misunderstands,” Grandpa pleaded. “Two days is what the recipe calls for. It takes two days for these mooncakes to fully take form.”

  The prince shook his head, then blurted,

  “Illusions you use, by the by,

  Which rest within the cakes to dry.”

  He clapped his hands over his mouth in surprise. The crowd glanced at each other, puzzled.

  One of the officials whispered, “Are you all right, Your Highness?”

  The emperor’s son nodded fervently. He paused for a long moment, and when he spoke to Grandpa again, his mouth seemed to struggle with the words.

  “You—you told us you use magic in these mooncakes. Do you deny this?”

  “Yes, they do contain traces of magic, but it’s supposed to be good magic.”

  “Then why I am suddenly speaking in—in riddles?”

  “With all due respect, you did that even before you tried the mooncake.”

  The prince scrunched his eyebrows, as if unsure what to make of the old man quivering before him.

  “Villagers of Pearl River,” he said at last, addressing the public. “You know each other better than I do. Does anyone have anything to say in this old man’s defense?”

  Mei and Yun expected the others to chime in about how this was all a big misunderstanding. About how Grandpa was a good man, who cooked spectacular meals. But nobody spoke.

  “Anyone?...That settles it,” said the prince, turning to his officials. “Arrest him and take him to the palace. Let’s see what my father says.”

  “No, he’s innocent!” blurted Yun. His voice came out much shakier and quieter than he’d intended. He turned to his sister for help. Mei, usually the brash one, tried to say something, but her mouth went dry.

  Either way, two children’s voices could not have overcome the crowd’s deafening silence. The two officials grabbed Grandpa’s arms and led him to a rear compartment of the chariot. At that, Mei let out a cry. Yun jumped forward and tried to pull Grandpa back, but in the dim light and amidst the jostling, he mistook one of the officials’ sleeves for his grandfather’s. The man tossed Yun back as if he were one of the toddlers’ rag dolls.

  The rest of the night passed in a blur. Mei and Yun didn’t remember much—only that there was a scuffle after Yun fell, and a lot of adults yelling, and a lot of blame thrown around for how the celebration turned out. As he stepped into the front compartment of the chariot, the emperor’s son commented that it was the oddest festival he’d attended. (“But can you really expect much from peasants?” one of the officials answered.) Grandpa called out something about the moon to the twins, but they couldn’t hear him over the commotion. The chariot pulled away in a cloud of dust. Farmer Jao suggested they deal with all this in the morning. The villagers left for their homes, grumbling as they went, leaving the decorations behind like discarded trash. The moon disappeared behind the thick clouds. A howling gust of wind extinguished the remaining lanterns. The twins found themselves left in the dark, alone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  五

  The Revenge

  When Lotus’s son was learning to walk, her husband was suddenly called in by the city magistrate and arrested.

  “We have evidence that you intend to assassinate the Emperor of China,” the magistrate reported.

  Gardener Wong was shocked. “That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “I bear no ill will toward His Majesty.”

  “That’s not what the evidence shows, unfortunately.”

  With that, the magistrate produced several letters supposedly drafted by the gardener. Each one went into elaborate detail on ways to kill the emperor. The magistrate also presented the gardener several small satchels of crushed herbs.

  “These toxic herbs are from a rare flower only a gardener would recognize,” the magistrate said suspiciously. “If ingested, they can kill a grown man. The Noble General found these in your household, along with the letters, while you and your family were out in the public gardens.”

  “I’ve never seen these before in my life,” said the baffled gardener.

  “Very well. We’ll conduct an investigation. Meanwhile, you are under arrest for suspected treason.”

  And the penalty for treason was death.

  The gardener insisted he was innocent. Most of the city was shocked when they heard the charges brought against him. “He’s a kind man,” they argued at first. “He wouldn’t hurt a housefly.”

  “Nonsense,” retorted the Noble General. “He mutilates perfectly good trees all the time, and stinks up the air with animal waste!”

  “Isn’t that just pruning and using fertilizer?” a boy piped up. But his sensible questions were drowned out by the Noble General’s loud rants in the city courtyard.

  “We cannot live peacefully in this city knowing a traitor is in our midst! Today he plots against the emperor; tomorrow, it could be your own children. He could poison the trees and flowers he grows so that anyone who breathes them will get sick. Do you want your lives ruled by that kind of fear?” The Noble General summoned his fiercest look and pointed at the people. “Those of you who dis
agree must have something to hide. I should tell the magistrate to look into you, too!”

  By the end of the day, most people agreed that the gardener was guilty.

  The magistrate, easily persuaded by the fearful mood of the people and by the pressure of the nobleman, decided that was all the confirmation he needed. He sentenced the gardener to death the next morning. When Lotus heard the news, her face went ashen. She presented herself to the magistrate and pleaded on her husband’s behalf. But her words, however sharp and impressive, were no match against the mounting evidence and the other residents’ misguided suspicions. Nor were they a match against the Noble General’s powerful authority and influence.

  Her husband was executed before dawn.

  “Normally, a traitor’s entire family would be killed as well,” the Noble General told her with a sneer. “Lucky for you, I have asked the emperor to pardon you and your son. However, you must be punished for defending a guilty man.”

  Lotus’s punishment, ordered by the Noble General, was to have her precious hair cut short. Back then, nobody cut their hair; it was seen as severing a part of one’s own body. None of the animals of the earth trimmed their hair, after all. For someone like Lotus to have her long, gleaming hair cut short was both humiliating and a tragedy.

  Grief-stricken by her husband’s murder and desperate for guidance, Lotus turned to the only being who might help. She bundled up her baby and fled to the mountains outside the city. The air was cold against her bare neck. The path was arduous, and mud and rocks clung to her heels, gripping her every step of the way as she ascended the uneven terrain. Hours later, her teeth clenching and her mind focused on uplifting words like “accomplish,” “determination,” “perseverance,” she finally made it to the summit of the first mountain outside the city.

  There, she raised her head to the moon and called upon a mystical creature that had been whispered about in folklore for hundreds of generations.

  There was no reply. Her baby shifted in her arms and began to wail from the cold. Lotus comforted him as she awaited an answer from above.