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The morning sun had long since risen over the Chinese tulou that Mulan called home. As she stood in the middle of the circular compound of connected buildings that was made up of her home and those of her neighbors, she was surrounded by the muffled sounds of the nearby villagers. From a second-floor balcony a mother called to her daughter to bring the laundry. In a kitchen on the ground floor, a spoon banged against the sides of a pot as another mother prepared the evening meal. From the opening between the buildings that led to the street, Mulan could make out the low moos of several large cows being herded to a new feeding ground and the occasional squawk as their heavy feet plodded precariously close to a stray chicken. Coming from her own home, nestled in the middle of all the others, Mulan heard the steady click, click, clack, clack of the shuttle as her mother and younger sister wove fabric.
But the sounds did nothing to distract Mulan. She had grown up with them. She had spent every day of her seven years next to the same handful of villagers. At present, the clangs and bangs were merely background noise to her current mission: herding the chickens to their coop.
Unfortunately, the chickens were not in the mood to be herded. For the past hour, Mulan and her father, Hua Zhou, had been trying to move the small group of feathered animals from one side of the courtyard to the other. Yet each time they got most of the birds going in the same direction, one would break off and make a run for it. Sweat dotted Mulan’s forehead from running back and forth in front of her father as she tried to stop the chickens. Her arm was beginning to ache from hitting her wooden stick on the ground to get the birds’ attention. Still, there was a bounce to her step, and while her father seemed ready for the task to be over, Mulan was eager to continue. She loved a challenge. And chicken herding was certainly that.
“Steady, Mulan . . .”
Her father’s voice was stern, but kind. Looking up, she saw Zhou’s warm brown eyes looking down at her. She met his smile. She knew that many people in her village were intimidated by her father. He always walked with his head high, his chest out. Once a fierce warrior, his body had grown more fragile with age. His shoulders stooped ever so slightly and his hair was no longer thick. Yet he still had an air of confidence despite the limp that forced him to walk with a cane. But to Mulan, he was not fierce or scary. He was her father. And she adored him.
At seven years old, Mulan knew she was supposed to spend her time helping her mother take care of their home, but she had no interest in weaving or cooking or cleaning. Just the idea of those boring chores was enough to make her yawn. Her little sister, Xiu, loved to do—and excelled at—those tasks. So it was a much better use of her time, Mulan had argued on more than one occasion, for Mulan to help her father, who had no sons to deal with things like pesky chickens, and let Xiu work with her mother.
A loud squawk brought Mulan’s thoughts back to her task. As if finally realizing that the coop meant food and rest, the chickens began to move toward it in a group. Mulan let out a happy little whoop, startling an old woman standing inside the shrine that sat in the middle of the communal courtyard. She was lighting incense at the base of the large phoenix statue that dominated the shrine. Like the rest of the compound, the shrine had seen better days. Tiles fell off the roof, and more than a few boards were loose. The statue, however, remained in good shape. To those who lived in the village, the statue was the most sacred and important part of their little world. It was a representation of their ancestors, a connection to those who had come before. Every man, woman, and child spent at least some part of every day in the shrine, enjoying the stillness and peace the place brought. Most of the time.
For one moment, it seemed Mulan’s job was complete. As Mulan stood back, her father ushered the last of the birds toward the coop’s open door. Out of the corner of her eye, Mulan caught sight of a lone chicken veering from the rest of the group. Mulan frowned. She looked back at her father. Zhou was distracted, making sure each chicken got inside. He didn’t notice there was an escapee. A look of determination crossed her face. Quietly, she slipped away, ducking and weaving around a few neighbors as she followed the chicken toward the rough wooden building.
Mulan kept her pace steady and her footsteps slow. In her head she heard her father’s voice as he told her, not for the first time, the tale of the turtle and the hare. No one had believed the slow-moving, deliberate turtle could win a race against the speedy hare. Yet while the hare ran himself ragged, the turtle slowly and steadily made his way across the finish line. A part of her knew that she should be like the turtle: wait and allow the chicken to realize it was hungry and go to the coop on its own. But the other part of her—the part that was very, very bad at taking things slow and steady and, similar to the hare, liked to sprint to the end—didn’t want to wait.
As she watched the chicken move farther out of her reach, Mulan’s heart began to pound and her fingers began to twitch. Her pace quickened. First a faster walk, then a slow jog, until she took off in a sprint after the chicken. Hearing Mulan’s footsteps, the chicken let out a loud Bwack! and ran faster, flapping its wings wildly, sending feathers flying.
The race was on!
Through the courtyard Mulan chased after the chicken. But every time her fingers were nearly close enough to reach out and grab the bird, the pesky animal would duck to the side, gaining freedom for another moment.
Having noticed what his daughter was doing, Zhou shouted, “Mulan! Forget the chicken!” But Mulan’s steps didn’t slow.
She barely registered the fact that the bird had headed back toward the coop by way of the shrine until she was inside the circular structure. Caught up in the moment, Mulan continued to follow the chicken, which awkwardly flew up and over the phoenix statue. Mulan took a running jump and followed, sailing over the ancient holy relic. Her feet managed to clear it . . . but the stick she was still carrying did not.
With a loud CRACK! the stick slammed into the large stone bird, knocking off its left wing. Outside the shrine, other villagers looked up from their chores at the loud sound, letting out a collective gasp as the wing fell to the ground with a thud. They had paid little mind to Mulan’s antics—until now.
Mulan didn’t notice. She was already out of the shrine and sprinting behind the chicken up a stairwell to a balcony on the second floor of the building. Catching sight of the charging girl, a young mother, clutching her baby in her arms, jumped out of the way just in time to avoid Mulan’s flailing limbs. Racing along, Mulan ducked under a bin of rice held by two men—and right into a woman hanging her laundry. The woman screamed as laundry—and more feathers—went flying.
“Mulan! Take control of yourself!”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Mulan’s footsteps slowed. Ahead, she saw her mother, Li, standing by the door to their home, arms crossed and a frown on her otherwise beautiful face. Beside her was Xiu. Unlike their mother, the expression on Xiu’s face was one of delight as she watched Mulan—and the chicken—running toward them along the thin balcony outside their apartment.
Up ahead, the chicken had reached the end of the balcony and once again flew into the air. The creature’s short wings and heavy body kept it from going far, but it was able to make it to the rooftop, where it once again took off. Mulan regained her original fast pace and didn’t slow, even as the end of the balcony grew closer and closer. At the very last moment, Mulan reached out and grabbed a hanging clothesline. Quickly, she shinnied up it until she, too, made it to the top of the slanted roof.
Mulan came to a sudden stop, her feet balanced on the peak of the roof. In front of her, the lush green countryside spread out to the horizon. Grass on the rolling hills waved in the gentle wind, like waves on the water. Mulan’s breath, coming in gasps, hitched. The world was so big, so vibrant. She wished, not for the first time, to go and explore what was beyond the horizon. But there was no way she could ever leave. Her life, her fate, were tied to the very building upon which she stood. And as her mother liked to say, there was no escaping fate.
BWACK!
The chicken’s taunting cluck dragged Mulan’s thoughts from the impossible back to the present. Narrowing her eyes, she began to move along the roof. Below her, the group of villagers that had been attracted to the courtyard by the sound of the phoenix statue’s wing crashing down stared up at Mulan. Horror and disapproval lined their faces. A few of the older women whispered among themselves, not bothering to keep their disappointed tones quiet.
As if it had decided the game was over, the chicken stopped, walked over to the edge of the roof, and with a quick flap of its wings, glided to the ground below. Letting out one last BWACK for good measure, it sauntered into the coop.
Watching the chicken, Mulan gave a nod of satisfaction. On the ground below, her father rushed over and slammed the gate shut behind the troublesome bird. She felt a small surge of pride. At least one crisis had been averted.
But as her father’s gaze lifted and met hers, Mulan saw there was still one more problem to be solved. She had made it up to the roof, but how was she going to get down? She eyed the distance between where she stood and the spot far below where the chicken had landed. Determination flooded through her, and she clenched her fists at her sides.
“Mulan,” her father said, recognizing the look in her eyes, “listen very carefully. You will take a calming breath, and then slowly—slowly—you will climb down.” Mulan’s eyes didn’t move from the coop and the offending chicken now safely inside. “Climb,” he repeated. “Do you understand?”
Mulan did not reply at once. She felt as though time had stopped. The wind had ceased to blow across her cheeks, and all she could hear was the air coming in and out of her lungs and her heart pounding against her chest. Her toes tingled, itching to move. One step and she could jump. One step and she, like the chicken, could fly. But then time resumed. Breeze once again fluttered against her face. Shaking her head, she let her gaze drift from the coop, over the gathered crowd and once more to her father.
“Yes,” she said.
Zhou started to smile but the smile turned to a gasp as Mulan took a not-so-slow step forward. In her haste, she tripped on the slippery slate roof. Her arms swung out, windmilling wildly at her sides as she struggled to get her balance. But it was too late. She was too off-kilter. As the gathered group below let out a collective gasp, Mulan fell.
For a dreadful moment, Mulan was sure she was plummeting to her death.
But then her mind cleared. The same sensation of time slowing returned and, as if it were highlighted by a ray of sun, a lone beam jutting out from one of the balconies caught Mulan’s eye. Contorting her body in a way that seemed to defy gravity, Mulan stopped flailing her arms and reached out a steady hand to grab it. Using the beam, Mulan slowed her descent. Her body stopped falling and instead began to swing like a pendulum around the beam. When she gained enough control, she let go and flipped in the air, landing safely on the ground—and on her feet.
Unhurt, Mulan looked around at the crowd. Her eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks were flushed from the exhilaration and pride she felt for sticking her landing.
And then she looked over at her father. Zhou didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His feelings were written all over his face. What Mulan had just done, the damage she had created and the danger she had put herself in, were too much. Mulan had disappointed him.
The smile on her face disappeared.