When the Sea Turned to Silver

  The sculpture, dark in the shadows, would hide them well, and it would place them close enough to hear everything, but it meant that they would have to run across the open pathway to get there. Yishan shrugged and gave her a doubtful motion with his hand. I don’t know, he said to her with his eyes. You decide.

  They could both see the emperor and the king clearly now, both of them in the ­well-­lit pavilion as if they were standing on a stage. The king was motioning toward a carved chest, and both turned as he began to open it.

  “Now!” she hissed into his ear, and gave him a push.

  They dashed to the stone sculpture and crouched in its shadow. Had they been noticed?

  They heard a growl of laughter. Pinmei quaked and fought to stifle a shriek.

  “Good try, King KaiJae!” the emperor’s voice said.

  “The dragon’s pearl is not the Luminous Stone you seek?” the king replied, and despite his formal tone, ­Pinmei could hear the devastation in his voice.

  “A Luminous Stone could be a dragon’s pearl,” the emperor laughed again. “But this dragon’s pearl is not a Luminous Stone.”

  Pinmei and Yishan looked at each other in dismay. The dragon’s pearl wasn’t the Luminous Stone? Then what was?

  “I do not understand,” the king said.

  “Ha! Maybe if you took a swim at the Crystal Palace at Sea Bottom you could figure it out,” the emperor chortled. “But I doubt it. You are not as smart as you think!”

  “I am a fool when compared with Your Exalted Majesty,” the king said in a dull, almost practiced tone.

  “Liar!” the emperor said. “Admit it, you think yourself very clever because only you can read the Paper of Answers.”

  Paper of Answers! Pinmei sat up and almost gasped aloud. Did the king have the Paper of Answers? How could he? And what had the emperor meant about the Crystal Palace?

  “I am not the only one who can read it,” the king said.

  “Yes, yes,” the emperor said, and Pinmei could hear him waving his hand as if trying to swat a wasp, “I know! Immortals, or those with great fortune or peace or whatnot, can read it too, so you tell me. But because I cannot read it, you no doubt think you are much wiser than me.”

  “I would never…” the king began.

  “But you are not!” the emperor continued, ignoring the king’s protests. “Answer me, have not all my questions to the Paper confused you?”

  “Tortoises, mountains holding moons, and needles under the sea? I would not even pretend to understand what you are asking,” the king replied. “Except, of course, for your last question.”

  “Bah! Last time was a wasted question,” the emperor said with a snort of irritation. “The Paper obviously didn’t know the answer!”

  “The Paper always knows,” the king said immediately.

  “Stories!” the emperor said, dismissing the king’s words. “Only that word, repeated over and over again! How could that be the secret to immortality? I even took the Storyteller too! But for nothing! Just a waste!”

  Stories? Pinmei felt her thoughts swoop as if caught on the tail of a kite. The Paper had told the emperor that the secret to immortality was stories and that was why he had taken Amah! But Amah didn’t know the secret of immortality! Did she?

  “However, that was last time,” the emperor said. “The Paper can attempt to redeem itself tonight.”

  “Yes, Your Exalted Majesty,” the king said. They heard a rustling and the king stumble.

  “Careful, you fool!” the emperor barked. “Keep that accursed Paper away from me.”

  “Yes, Your Exalted Majesty,” said the king. “What is your question this time?”

  “Ask the Paper,” the emperor said, “if I will achieve immortality.”

  Pinmei heard the king shift, and both she and Yishan craned their necks to see him lean out of the pavilion, holding the Paper over the frozen lake.

  “Will the emperor achieve immortality?” the king said in a loud voice. The full moon made a halo around his head, and only the soft reflected glow from the ice kept his face from being lost in shadow.

  “What does it say?” the emperor demanded. “What does that line say?”

  Pinmei watched the king gasp. The steam from his breath formed a ­silver-­gray cloud that froze in the air. His eyes widened and his white hands tightened around the Paper.

  “It says…” the king said in a strained tone. “It says yes.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  Pinmei and Yishan stared at each other, their horrified faces mirroring. The emperor would be immortal? ­Pinmei felt as if a snake had laid an egg in her stomach.

  “How?” the emperor said, the excitement palpable in his voice. “When? Ask it when!”

  “Your Exalted Majesty, you know the Paper answers only once,” the king said.

  “Yes, yes,” the emperor said impatiently. “Only one question and only in the light of the full moon. Infernal thing!”

  The wind, which had been silent, gave a weak whimper, as if too tired to even protest.

  “Very well. I will wait,” the emperor said, and in a more satisfied tone: “What is another moon when I will have eternity anyway?”

  The king did not reply. Pinmei twisted again to see him gazing bleakly at the shadows on the icy lake, looking, she thought, as if he were seeing his own life of endlessly serving the emperor. The snow fell softly—tiny stars yielding their grasp on the sky.

  “Meanwhile, I must make plans…” the emperor muttered to himself. He straightened with a proud air. “I will leave now,” he said. “You may stay here and do your thinking or whatever you always do.”

  And with that, his heavy steps boomed as he exited the pavilion. Pinmei and Yishan pressed tightly against the stone statue, squeezing together. As he passed, a gust of icy air flew out and clawed at them, but he walked by, muttering, without pause. With her one dared peek, ­Pinmei could see only an opulence of the golden silk dragon robes and black furs.

  They waited in silence, the emperor’s figure getting smaller and smaller as he walked away, the snow slowly veiling him from view. When he finally disappeared, they waited for the king to depart as well. But the king did not move. He just stood at the pavilion, perhaps watching the emperor as well.

  Finally, just when it looked as if Yishan was about to fall asleep from being so still, the king stirred. His footsteps were not stomping, powerful ones like the ­emperor’s, but they too were weighted. They heard his steps come toward the sculpture, but instead of passing by, they stopped and there was a long silence. Yishan and Pinmei looked at each other, puzzled.

  “I know you are there,” the king said. “You might as well come out.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  “How did you know we were here?” Yishan said as they crawled out from behind the statue.

  The king gave a small, sad smile, the lantern in his hand casting a dark shadow on his face.

  “This used to be my painting studio,” he said, waving his hand at the pavilion. “I know every branch and stone here. When I saw the shape of this shadow, I knew it was not right, even though I have not painted in a long while.”

  “I imagine your ink would just freeze now,” Yishan said with a slight undertone of annoyance.

  “I stopped long before winter arrived,” the king said. “After I sent my son away, painting lost all its joy.”

  “We know about your son,” Yishan said. “Yanna told us.”

  The king frowned. “Yanna is a good girl,” he said, “but she has not yet learned restraint.”

  “Well, I think you could forgive her for that,” Yishan said, “considering she was running around the army camp for you pointlessly.”

  “Pointlessly?” the king said, only the slightest question in his voice.

  “No prisoners here,” Yishan answered. “Yanna said they’ve been sent to the Vast Wall already.”

  The king bowed his head, and his hand covered his brow.

 
“Then all is lost,” he said, his eyes closing. “What more can he take from me?”

  “Who?” Yishan said.

  “The emperor, of course,” the king said. He shook his head in disgust and sighed, a sound low but filled with fury. “He’s a beast, not a man! He could create a sea with all the blood he has spilled. And is still spilling! That Vast Wall is just a vast grave marker.”

  “What do you mean?” Yishan asked.

  “I am told,” the king said, sagging like the winter branches weighted by snow, “that the workers are treated worse than slaves and the emperor has the fallen buried under the wall.”

  Pinmei looked at him in horror.

  “But Lady Meng’s husband…” Pinmei whispered.

  The king nodded, his head hanging with great grief. “And now,” he said in a voice that cracked, “my own son.”

  The wind blew a low, plaintive moan, the beginning note of a lamenting song.

  “I knew it was a vain hope to look for him,” the king said finally, lifting his head. “But I could not refuse ­Yanna’s offer. I hope she is safe.”

  “I do too,” Pinmei said, and the king’s eyes looked directly at her for the first time.

  “I think I will soon be having that same wish for both of you as well,” the king said, his shoulders straightening as if he were awakening. “Why are you two children here?”

  CHAPTER

  36

  “Do you not realize how dangerous this is?” the king continued. “If the emperor were ever to know you were… What did you hear?”

  “We heard you read the Paper of Answers,” Yishan told him.

  The king drew a sharp breath. “Then you must leave as soon as possible,” he said. “The emperor would have you killed just for knowing I have the Paper.”

  “How do you even have the Paper?” Pinmei asked, her curiosity stronger than her timidity. “I thought it was given away.”

  “That is a complicated story,” the king said. “I am not sure if I even understand it, much less believe it.”

  “What do you mean?” Yishan asked.

  The king hesitated. “Do either of you know the story of how the first king of the City of Bright Moonlight’s father turned into a tiger?”

  “The Story of the Green Tiger?” Pinmei said instantly. “Of course.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Yishan said. “So tell me.”

  The king waved his hand at Pinmei. “I would be interested in hearing your version of the story,” he said.

  So Pinmei began.

  A long time ago, even before the time of my grandmother, the emperor called all the kings of his land to his Spring Festival celebration. At the palace, he presented to each of the kings a small seed.

  “Each one of you is to plant and care for your seed as if it were your kingdom,” said the emperor. “At the Moon Festival, you are to bring your plant to me. Those with the best flowers will be rewarded, but if any of you fail to bring me a plant…”

  The emperor did not need to finish his sentence. The kings had all thrown themselves into kowtows, each swearing he would return at the Moon Festival with splendid flowers. One by one, they left, each taking his precious seed with him.

  The young king of the City of Bright Moonlight returned home to find his father waiting for him. The father had once been a powerful magistrate but had fallen out of favor and was bitterly living at the palace. When the son told him of the emperor’s task, the father was excited.

  “You must grow the most magnificent flower,” the father commanded. “This is your opportunity to return me to power!”

  The young king did not disagree and planted the seed with great care in a pot. Faithfully, he watered and waited for the seed to sprout. Nothing grew.

  The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, and still the pot was bare. The king replanted the seed and called the best gardeners of his land to consult. But still nothing grew.

  Throughout this, the king’s father wore a frown that seemed to become permanent on his face. He had sent spies to neighboring kingdoms and heard rumors of orchids, peonies, and lilies. Yet his son had only a ­dirt-­filled pot. If nothing grew by the Moon Festival, the king’s father thought, this chance would be lost and, considering the emperor’s ire, perhaps worse.

  So when there was still no plant growing in the pot a month before the Moon Festival, the father confronted his son on his nightly stroll through the garden.

  “You will have to leave for the Imperial Palace soon,” the father said. “And your pot is bare.”

  The king nodded. In his hands was a piece of paper; the father recognized it as the paper he himself had given him as a wedding gift.

  “I’ve prepared another pot for you,” the father said. “In secret, I had the gardener grow a rare moonflower. It is the finest ever seen. You can bring that instead.”

  The king was silent, and for a long moment, he stared out at the lake before him.

  “Thank you, Father, for your consideration,” the king said finally. “But I will bring my bare pot.”

  “You do not understand,” the father said impatiently. “The king of the City of Winding River has grown a red peony so bright it looks as if it is on fire. The king of the City of Far Clouds has an orchid with the fragrance of a sweet apple. All the kings will have flowers in their pots. What will you say to the emperor when you have none?”

  “I will tell the emperor I tried my best to grow his seed,” the king said, “yet nothing grew. I must tell the truth.”

  “Are you crazy?” the father said. “Do you know what the emperor will do? He will take away your kingdom! He might even execute you for the insult!”

  “That may be,” the king said. “But I cannot lie. It would be found out eventually, so I must go with my own pot.”

  “I can make sure no one finds out,” the father said. “I will have the gardener and his family killed and throw all who may know into the dungeon.”

  The young king blanched at his father’s words and looked at the paper in his hands.

  “Father,” the king said, without looking up, “I will bring my bare pot.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” his father snapped. “You must bring a flower or I will never return to power!”

  The king gave a wry smile at those last words, a smile the father did not understand. As the paper in the king’s hand flapped like a nervous butterfly, the father grew angrier.

  “Why are you looking at that paper?” the father growled. “What are you reading?”

  The king looked up with reluctance. He glanced at the moon and its reflection wavering in the lake, the murky green water rippling in uneasy waves.

  “It says, ‘Three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon,’ ” the king said slowly, holding the paper for his father to see, “ ‘and the truth.’ ”

  At this, the father gasped. “It is that accursed paper that is giving you this idiotic advice!” he cried. “You are listening more to that infernal piece of paper than your own father!”

  The father gave an infuriated roar and grabbed the paper from his son, seizing it with such force that he fell backward into the lake, shattering the reflection of the moon. The paper slipped from his fingers and, almost as if it were a fish, floated over his face. The father thrashed and flailed, clawing to peel the paper from his face. But as he struggled to lift the paper, he realized he no longer had hands!

  His hands had turned to paws and his skin was wet fur of the same color as the murky water. His clothes writhed around him until they finally twisted off. And when at last the paper fell away, he knew his face had changed as well. The young king gaped in shock, and the father was only able to see why when the reflection of the moon returned to the lake. He had turned into a tiger!

  “Wait!” Yishan interrupted. “I thought the first king of the City of Bright Moonlight exiled his father.”

  “He did,” Pinmei said. “He had to. When his father turned into a tiger, the first king couldn’t l
et him stay in the city. He was too dangerous. So his father was exiled.”

  “So it was as a tiger that he was exiled?” Yishan said, scratching his head and looking up as if trying to read a lost memory in the night sky. “I guess that would make sense…”

  “If you believe the story, that is,” the king interjected. “There are many parts I find doubtful.”

  “But what does this have to do with the Paper?” ­Pinmei asked. “The Paper turned the first king’s father into a tiger, but that was long before the Paper was given away. How can you have it now?”

  “It was my father, the former king of the City of Bright Moonlight, who gave the Paper away over sixty years ago,” the king said. “After he abdicated and became quite old, he returned to the palace with the Paper and a strange story.”

  Pinmei looked at Yishan, but he did not meet her eyes. Instead, he was gazing upward. Another star was flying across the sky, making a silver scratch on the ­black-­lacquered night. Pinmei frowned and turned back to the king.

  “Does it have something to do with the Green Tiger?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the king said. “I suppose it could be considered a new part of the Green Tiger story.”

  “A new part of the Story of the Green Tiger?” Pinmei repeated, giving Yishan a sharp nudge. He glanced at her apologetically. “I didn’t know there was a new part. Please, Your Majesty. I would like to hear the story.”

  My father, in his old age, had taken to traveling in disguise to enjoy the pleasures of common life. One night, on one of his trips, he decided to go for a night walk and found himself by a lake so large and black he could not tell where the water ended and the sky began. In fact, he would not have even known it was a lake at all if it wasn’t for the giant moon reflected in the water.

  It was a beautiful sight, and he sat down to admire it. As he rested, he began to hear a strange sound.

  A loud splashing echoed in the air, and a giant beast burst from the lake as if ripping through a paper moon. The beast crawled out of the lake, and when it reached the shore, it panted and gasped, exhausted. My father said he had never seen a more wretched creature.