When the Sea Turned to Silver
Page 8
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“Here!” the man said, stopping his frenzied digging. He held his lantern and stared. In the hole was a large root shaped like a child. The thread led to a piece of cloth wrapped around one of the arms of the root—the remaining part of the boy’s unraveled shirt.
“It is the Ginseng Boy!” the woman hissed.
They dropped their spades in a clatter, grabbed the root, and hurried home. They rushed into the house with such glee it woke up the small girl. Having never heard such delighted noises from her relatives before, the girl got out of bed and was astonished to see her old aunt and uncle dancing with firewood around a large pot.
“What are you going to cook?” the girl asked.
“Come look!” the uncle said, laughing.
He took the lid off the pot as the girl looked in.
“It’s just a root,” the girl said, confused.
“Ha-ha!” the uncle gloated. “You don’t recognize your little friend, do you? That is because we caught him when he was completely helpless! On the night when he must turn into a root!”
“It’s the Ginseng Boy, and we’re going to cook and eat it!” the aunt said. “And then your uncle and I will be young again!”
The girl began to cry, but the old people did not notice.
“I will be young again!” the uncle repeated, then stopped. Eating part of the root will only make me younger, he thought. If I eat the whole thing, I would not only be young, but live forever too.
The aunt didn’t notice her husband’s silence, for she was thinking the same thing. Why share the root? she thought. I might only get a hundred more years. But if I eat all of it, I would never die.
“Husband,” the old woman said slyly, “the root must boil all day before we can eat it, and the water has not even warmed yet. Your parents live only an hour’s walk west of here. Why don’t you go and get them to share in our fortune? There’ll be plenty for all.”
“Dear wife,” the man said. “I was just thinking the same about your parents! They are only an hour east of here. Why don’t you go and get them?”
Slowly, both old people edged toward the door, each encouraging the other to leave. As the sun began to rise, they reluctantly parted ways, both constantly looking over their shoulders to check on each other.
Neither one, of course, gave a second thought to their little niece. However, as soon as they left the house, the girl wiped her eyes and stuck out her chin. She put out the fire and took the lid off the heavy pot. As the light of the sun streamed into the pot, the boy sat up and quickly jumped to the floor, dripping.
Just then, loud voices and the thumping of running footsteps were heard outside the door.
“Why are you rushing back?” the old man’s voice said. “Where are your parents?”
“I wanted to make sure there was enough wood!” the woman said. “Where are your parents?”
“I wanted to make sure the door was locked!” the man said. “Let me help you with the wood!”
The door was flung open, and the old people and the children stared at one another.
“Quick!” the little girl said, and grabbing the boy’s hand, they rushed past the aunt and uncle and out the door. With a scream, the woman swung a wooden log at them but instead hit her husband in the head. He, in turn, dropped his wood on her feet. Both fell to the ground, cradling their injured parts and cursing each other.
And what of their niece and the Ginseng Boy? They ran far, far away and were never heard from again.
“Thank you,” Auntie Meiya said. She smiled again, but this time her smile was tired and her eyes dimmed.
“The little girl did her aunt and uncle a favor,” Auntie Meiya said slowly, her eyes closing. “They would have been miserable immortals.”
“Ah, but it’s a difficult thing to refuse immortality,” Amah said, beckoning to Yishan. He sat next to Meiya’s bed and placed his hand in hers.
“It shouldn’t be,” Auntie Meiya said, her words even slower, as if she were speaking through water. With one last effort, she opened her eyes and looked at Yishan. “That kind of immortality is not for us humans. It would just drive us mad.”
Auntie Meiya closed her eyes for the final time. Amah put her hand on Yishan’s shoulder, and he bowed his head.
“Old woman!” the man said with impatience. “Did you hear me? Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy!”
Amah opened her eyes and looked into his face, startled again by the brutality in his black eyes.
“No,” she said. Her heart beat as quickly as a battle drum, but she knew she had no other answer.
“No?” the man roared, his face so distorted with anger he looked more like an animal than a man, his teeth glittering in the flickering torchlight.
“No,” Amah repeated. “You obviously already know it.”
She watched him clench and unclench his fists, fighting the anger that wanted to explode inside him—an anger so intense that she knew he was rarely denied.
“You! You stupid old woman!” he finally sputtered. “I will deal with you later!”
He glared, shoved his helmet on his head, and stormed out of the tent. Amah stared at the forceful figure, powerful even as it disappeared into shadow.
“Until then,” she whispered, “Your Exalted Majesty.”
CHAPTER
12
Darkness was settling by the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, so Yishan suggested that they find shelter for the night in the village. Pinmei had not seen the village in a long time, but she knew it was not supposed to be as she was seeing it now. The silence of the street was cold, colder than the muffled quiet of winter. The few people there hardly glanced at them, and, slowly, Pinmei realized none of them smiled.
“No men,” Yishan said, more to himself than to Pinmei. “Only women, children… and there’s an old grandmother over there. Did Amah really know something? Why her?”
Of course, Pinmei thought, feeling foolish. The emperor had been through here. The wooden door of the house in front of her was smashed to pieces and the stones lying at her feet were from a destroyed wall. The silver-gray dust being thrown in the air by the wind was not snow, but ash.
“Excuse me,” Yishan said to a woman sweeping up broken tiles. “We’re from up the mountain, and we’re on our way to the City of Bright Moonlight. Do you know where we could stay the night?”
“It is the Ginseng Boy!” the woman hissed.
They dropped their spades in a clatter, grabbed the root, and hurried home. They rushed into the house with such glee it woke up the small girl. Having never heard such delighted noises from her relatives before, the girl got out of bed and was astonished to see her old aunt and uncle dancing with firewood around a large pot.
“What are you going to cook?” the girl asked.
“Come look!” the uncle said, laughing.
He took the lid off the pot as the girl looked in.
“It’s just a root,” the girl said, confused.
“Ha-ha!” the uncle gloated. “You don’t recognize your little friend, do you? That is because we caught him when he was completely helpless! On the night when he must turn into a root!”
“It’s the Ginseng Boy, and we’re going to cook and eat it!” the aunt said. “And then your uncle and I will be young again!”
The girl began to cry, but the old people did not notice.
“I will be young again!” the uncle repeated, then stopped. Eating part of the root will only make me younger, he thought. If I eat the whole thing, I would not only be young, but live forever too.
The aunt didn’t notice her husband’s silence, for she was thinking the same thing. Why share the root? she thought. I might only get a hundred more years. But if I eat all of it, I would never die.
“Husband,” the old woman said slyly, “the root must boil all day before we can eat it, and the water has not even warmed yet. Your parents live only an hour’s walk west of here. Why don’t you go and get them to share in our fortune? There’ll be plenty for all.”
“Dear wife,” the man said. “I was just thinking the same about your parents! They are only an hour east of here. Why don’t you go and get them?”
Slowly, both old people edged toward the door, each encouraging the other to leave. As the sun began to rise, they reluctantly parted ways, both constantly looking over their shoulders to check on each other.
Neither one, of course, gave a second thought to their little niece. However, as soon as they left the house, the girl wiped her eyes and stuck out her chin. She put out the fire and took the lid off the heavy pot. As the light of the sun streamed into the pot, the boy sat up and quickly jumped to the floor, dripping.
Just then, loud voices and the thumping of running footsteps were heard outside the door.
“Why are you rushing back?” the old man’s voice said. “Where are your parents?”
“I wanted to make sure there was enough wood!” the woman said. “Where are your parents?”
“I wanted to make sure the door was locked!” the man said. “Let me help you with the wood!”
The door was flung open, and the old people and the children stared at one another.
“Quick!” the little girl said, and grabbing the boy’s hand, they rushed past the aunt and uncle and out the door. With a scream, the woman swung a wooden log at them but instead hit her husband in the head. He, in turn, dropped his wood on her feet. Both fell to the ground, cradling their injured parts and cursing each other.
And what of their niece and the Ginseng Boy? They ran far, far away and were never heard from again.
“Thank you,” Auntie Meiya said. She smiled again, but this time her smile was tired and her eyes dimmed.
“The little girl did her aunt and uncle a favor,” Auntie Meiya said slowly, her eyes closing. “They would have been miserable immortals.”
“Ah, but it’s a difficult thing to refuse immortality,” Amah said, beckoning to Yishan. He sat next to Meiya’s bed and placed his hand in hers.
“It shouldn’t be,” Auntie Meiya said, her words even slower, as if she were speaking through water. With one last effort, she opened her eyes and looked at Yishan. “That kind of immortality is not for us humans. It would just drive us mad.”
Auntie Meiya closed her eyes for the final time. Amah put her hand on Yishan’s shoulder, and he bowed his head.
“Old woman!” the man said with impatience. “Did you hear me? Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy!”
Amah opened her eyes and looked into his face, startled again by the brutality in his black eyes.
“No,” she said. Her heart beat as quickly as a battle drum, but she knew she had no other answer.
“No?” the man roared, his face so distorted with anger he looked more like an animal than a man, his teeth glittering in the flickering torchlight.
“No,” Amah repeated. “You obviously already know it.”
She watched him clench and unclench his fists, fighting the anger that wanted to explode inside him—an anger so intense that she knew he was rarely denied.
“You! You stupid old woman!” he finally sputtered. “I will deal with you later!”
He glared, shoved his helmet on his head, and stormed out of the tent. Amah stared at the forceful figure, powerful even as it disappeared into shadow.
“Until then,” she whispered, “Your Exalted Majesty.”
CHAPTER
12
Darkness was settling by the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, so Yishan suggested that they find shelter for the night in the village. Pinmei had not seen the village in a long time, but she knew it was not supposed to be as she was seeing it now. The silence of the street was cold, colder than the muffled quiet of winter. The few people there hardly glanced at them, and, slowly, Pinmei realized none of them smiled.
“No men,” Yishan said, more to himself than to Pinmei. “Only women, children… and there’s an old grandmother over there. Did Amah really know something? Why her?”
Of course, Pinmei thought, feeling foolish. The emperor had been through here. The wooden door of the house in front of her was smashed to pieces and the stones lying at her feet were from a destroyed wall. The silver-gray dust being thrown in the air by the wind was not snow, but ash.
“Excuse me,” Yishan said to a woman sweeping up broken tiles. “We’re from up the mountain, and we’re on our way to the City of Bright Moonlight. Do you know where we could stay the night?”
