*NIP* A Single Grain of Rice

Part 5

Hi, Mimi here! I'd just like to say, 1) Thanks so much for reading! 2) Sorry updates are few and far v=between, school is rough! 3) Please please please please please please comment and/or review! It means so much to me to just know you read it! 4) Share :) Let's get those reads up!

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The ride home was slow and dreary. Even with the sun shiuning brightly on us, it felt cold. Mama couldn't look at me, determinedly staring out a window. Grandmother for once was at a loss for words, and, opposite of Mother, couldn't take her eyes off me. We lurched to a stop, and I led Khan back into his stable, when Father flies at me. 

"Mulan!" he exclaimed happily. "You look like the perfect bride. Who's the lucky..." his voice trailed into silence, and I knew his face had melted into a worried frown.

"What happened?" he asked, at first concerned, then stern. "Daughter, what occurred?" 

"I don't want to talk about it," I choked out as respectfully as I could, and hurried into the stable, dragging the poor horse with me, leaving my father standing outside. I took care of Khan, much more slowly than usual. He nudged me with his big velvety nose, his black coat clean and brushed, big eyes warm and comforting. he sniffled my hair, and that's when a single teardrop rolled down my face. I ran away from the comfort, the unconditional love. I didn't deserve Khan's affections. I flew over our grounds, hardly aware of where I was going, avoiding any living, breathing thing that I saw on the way, drops of shame sliding down my cheeks. I only stopped my blind flight when water was before me. A small pond, below the hill of the ancestors, filled with blossoming lily pads and cheerful choruses of frogs in the summer, but in today's spring, there were only green leaves on the water and tadpoles. I looked into the pond, my reflection only slightly marred by ripples. I did look like a bride. My clothes, my makeup, my hair, it was all radiently beautiful. The problem wasn't that, the things on the outside. 

The only problem was me. 

I unclasped the jewelry from my grandmother, placing it deep within the sash I still wore cinched around my waist, running to the hill with the small temple. As I collapsed on the stone floor, my eyes puffy, my voice hoarse, I realized that this morning I skipped my prayers to the ancestors. No wonder I didn't bring favor to the family. Somehow, the knowledge of even another thing I did wrong comforted me, and the tears slowly halt. After a few minutes of begging the ancestors to forgive me, I raised my head to read the tombstones, noticing something I hadn't considered since I was a young child. 

In the polished stone, a clear, glinting reflection shined up at me. My own. And I compared that image to myself at the age of six, looking around this room for the first time, even before I could read. The girl with the wild hair and rebellious eyes, the girl who rode horses, who climbed trees, who skipped lessons to splash in a river: what had happened to that girl? The person who stared back at me wasn't Fa Mulan. It was just a stranger with a painted face. I used those stupid sleeves to begin wiping the makeup off my face, and caught a second glance of my reflection. Half wild and happy girl, half controlled and miserable woman. I had a perfect choice between those two this morning, and in the smooth stone, I finally realized that I had made the wrong decision. I was born to be like Grandmother, outspoken and bold, and not like the other girls, meek and obedient, perfectly identical porcelain dolls. I wasn't meant to wear makeup or bridal clothes. I was meant to live in a saddle, to sleep in trees, to have a life beyond the walls of my world, of my prison. I was meant to be living a life, not living a story. I just didn't know how. And I would never know how.

Family disgraces are kept hidden.

I stood and finished clearing my face of the white paste, and left the ancestor's temple. There was one place I knew I could always go to, even when I felt so lost as I did then. The oldest tree on he grounds. It stood little taller than a man, and grew almost horizontally, rather than vertically. Large pink blossoms perfumed the air this time of year, and covered the ground in a soft carpet of petals. A small stone bench was under the tree, and Mother would fondly tell anyone the story of how she met father under that very tree years ago. I eased down on the seat, my eyes closed. The breeze caressed my face, and to my surprise, a small choked sob came out. How was the world so beautiful when my future was so bleak? How could I continue to pretend to live? I wasn't right in the head, and how could I be? No woman I had ever known was turned away by the matchmaker.

I let down my hair to hide the tear stains on my face, when a small clink came from beside me. The hair comb was beside me on the bench. I lifted it up and studied it more carefully, as I was in a bit of a hurry when i recieved it. The many teeth were delicate green jade, held by a longer piece of jade inlaid with what looked like gold. A white azalea adorned the top and side of the comb, it's petals made of perhaps pearl, and lined with jade and gold. It was beautiful, splendid, really. Mother had really expected me to do well to trust me with this treasure. I set it down gently in my lap, tears falling faster. White azaleas represent womanhood. Five petals, five 'womanly virtues'. Virties I never bothered to learn. I let Mother down. i let them all down. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing that i could do to change that. No second chances. I closed my eyes, letting the tears silently drip down my face into my lap, on the comb, on my hands, when I heard a sigh next to me. My eyes flew open. Father sat next to me, staring up at the tree's blossom's. His jet black eyes were soft this time, not stern, and his long mustasche unruly. We sat in silence a few moments. i dreaded the lecture. "We expected more of you, young lady." "How could you let us down?" "Have I taught you nothing of honor?" His disappointment was much more painful than his anger. But to my surpirse, when he began to speak, it wasn't about me.

"Aren't they beautiful this year?" he said softly, cupping a blossom in his large calloused hand. "Flowers look like such delicate things, but see how they survive the frosts every year! And each one: different. No one petal is identical to the others. He glanced back at me, a small, sad smile on his face. "Look," he said, looking back to the flowers. "That one there. It's a bit late for the spring, behind the other blossoms." Oh, so I was slow? Behind all others. Thanks a lot, Father. "But," he suddenly added, as if sensing how near I was to more tears, "I'll bet that when it blooms, it will be the most beautiul of them all." He grasped the comb in his hand and gently brushed back my hair, putting the comb in place. With a small sad smile, his hand lightly brushed my cheek, and then he was gone, walking slowly between the low braches back to the house.