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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 pound 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 asional 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
<i>
click, click, clack, clack
</i>
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 asion, 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 munal courtyard. She was lighting incense at the base of the large phoenix statue that dominated the shrine. Like the rest of the pound, 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 e 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 plete. 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
<i>
Bwack!
</i>
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
<i>
CRACK!
</i>
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.