written by Hitomi
They say I was a heroine, a daughter who had gone to fight on the stead of her aging father. They say that I had put on a man’s armor and kept that secret for twelve years. They said I fought many battles bravely against the nomadic tribe Rouran and won many victories, returning to the imperial capital in triumph and high praise, the emperor offering a high post only to be declined on the plead of my wishing to go back to my father’s home, replacing my military attire with that of a plain farm girl and lived the rest of my days in peace and happiness…
They were all wrong.
For the first thing, Mulan was not my name.
It was the name of my clan, one of the eight Xianbei clans with long history that dated back into obscurity. We Xianbei had once been like the Rouran; we lived in the plain where one could not see the edge of the great green grass. We had been nomads until driven by greed and promise of a more luxurious life; we migrated south into the land of the Hans. Petty kingdoms rose and fell until finally one Xianbei leader united us all and founded a great dynasty, ruling all the land north of the Yangtze: the Wei. Our rulers intermarried with the original Han inhabitants, adopted their dress codes and habits, called themselves Sons of Heaven and lay back in newly discovered pleasures of life: silk, fine wines, submissive women from the south until the predators became the prey, the invaders in turn invaded, by the Rourans. They said that Rourans were wolves and the Wei was sheep. Our emperors had sent expeditions after expeditions against the evasive enemies, who could attack like the dragon winds and disappeared as if they were mirages found in the Gobi desert. If we marched out in strength, they dispersed in front of our eyes; if they caught us in inferior number, they slaughter us, like sheep.
My name is Mulan Ling, the name “ling”, a referral to my voice for being melodious and charming like a bell, a silver bell. I did not join the expedition force because I wanted to go and fight on my father’s stead. I was pressed into service, they fully knowing I was a woman. I was not alone; there were hundreds of us, young girls who could ride and draw bows, as most of our Xianbei womenfolk could, were rounded up and told to march north. The long years of war between the Wei and the Rouran Khanate had bled the empire white and it was no longer feasible to supply new recruits to replace those bones bleached white in the White Mountains.
My father’s bones were among them. And so were the bones of many fathers and brothers of my comrade-in-arms. No, we did not go to seek revenge. For who were the murders of our kin? The fierce Rouran warriors on sturdy ponies, or the nobles who got fat on feasting in Loyang on the people’s toil and sweat? I do not know, we do not know. After a while, we no longer cared. We fought to survive, to live another day, our only dream was that one day, some of us, even one of us, would be able to return to the village alive and continue to live, to live for all of us who would scatter our bones under the cold moonlight of the White Mountains.
There were eight hundred of us when we started, riding side by side as we forded the Yellow River, slept in each other’s arms for warmth and comfort, given rudimentary training when we reached the Great Wall. They did not think much of us, expecting us to fall like flies or melt like snow in the early spring. There were eight hundred of us, sisters by fate. Within a month, the number was reduced to half. Those who fell were the luckier ones. They were stricken down by the cold, the hunger and frostbites. At least they were given a common burial. Sisters lay in heaps, hand in hand, in eternal slumber in a mass grave. Later casualties were left for the howling wolves to feast on. We fought our first battle near an icy river. We lost another half of our number, many made into feathered-birds by the multitude of arrows sticking out from their young bodies. But we had fought hard and repelled attacks after attacks, the will to survive finally overcoming fear, the sense of comradeship lifted by a sense of pride. We are the daughters of Xianbei! The male counterparts of our army gave us a grudging respect, the enemies swallowed their vanity and unless in vastly superior number, tried to avoid going into battle against the troop with a banner decorated with flower motifs. If the Rourans were wolves and the Wei were sheep, the Xianbei women were tigresses.
The survivors hanged on. Replacements later swelled our numbers again after each battle to replace those fallen, until finally, there were few and far in between. Even the womenfolk had been bled white. We were left on our own, to fight or to perish.
If there was anyone who did most to increase our odds of survival, it would definitely be our commander, Mulan Xing. True to her namesake, she had the face of an apricot in full bloom. But the appearance was deceiving. Instead of being sweet like the spring fruit, she was harsh to the point of cruelty, ensuring each one of us do exactly as she demanded. There was no tolerance of laxity. No excuses were accepted in force marches and maneuvers. Those who showed cowardice in battle were immediately executed, often by her own hands. We hated her so much that there no not one of us who would not wish her dead, that her head made into a drinking cup by the Rourans. We understood her better now, and knew if it was not for her demanding way, we would all be bones by now. I was the first one who saw another side of her. I saw her weep, silently, on her own behind a pile of boulders after ordering the execution of two deserters. One of them was her own cousin.
“Say a word and I will have your head roll!” she warned.
She did not have to warn me. I could feel her loneliness that very moment when her tears stream down her pretty face, like ice melting into spring brooks. Suddenly, I was aware of the heaviness on her pair of shoulders. She was not so much older than me.
From them on, I changed from wishing her head becoming a drinking cup to watching out for her back. I have forgotten how many times I had directed an arrow just in time to save her from an expected nomad lance or axe. I had buried my dagger into the backs of men who had thrown themselves upon her, brought her down and was about to slit her throat. I had held my shield to ward off incoming missiles, even catching one on my arm one time to save her skin. She never openly acknowledged her debt to me, but in private, she had treated me like a little sister, taught me skills on how to keep low when too many arrows fly and how to maximize the agility of our female bodies to the best advantage to compensate for the superior brutal strength of men. I became her bodyguard, her inseparable.
The years went by and the war dragged on. We lost count of the number of new moons we saw, hung like a giant hook in the northern sky. We camped in winter, fought in summer, died in any season, at any spot, for any reason. We talked of homes around small campfires when such would run little risk of attracting enemies; we talked about parents, sweethearts who had been drafted to serve in other units, never knowing if they were still alive; we talked of the joys of harvest, the warmth of a hearth, the hope of spring. We remembered fallen sisters, their last cries and then we fell into silence so deep that we could hear the aching tremble of our hearts. We have not lost our dream: some of us, even one of us, to go home and tell them the stories, the pains and the sacrifice, and to live the life for those whose fate was with the White Mountains, the wolves, the forgotten.
Spring returned. Wildflowers bloomed on the hill-side where the snow of the previous winter swept away any sign of our fallen comrades. We never imagined that there could be flowers in the White Mountains before we set out for war. Now we knew. Of course there were flowers. The flesh and blood of the sleeping warriors beneath the hard soil made wonderful nutrients.
“Sing us a song, Ling!” They said.
I shook my head, partly shy and partly because I thought it disrespectful to sing before a mass grave of sort.
“Sing, Ling. I wish to hear a song too.” Xing joined their request.
I could not refuse.
The west wind rises outside my window,
The wild geese made their flight south,
Every day I went up and looked
And saw only traders return
Where is my beloved daughter?
I can only send her winter clothes every fall,
Dusk closes in
How few the returning birds…?
It was an adaptation from a Han song that my father once taught me.
They wept.
We received our orders and rode out. It was another wild chase. The Rouran main army refused to engage ours and only made sneak attacks on detached forces. Men and women on both sides died, without any good reason to die for.
It was nearly early autumn that Xing came back with the news. One of the generals had devised a grand strategy. We would feed the Rourans decoy troops. When their main army rushed to eliminate the isolated camp, our main army would close in and finish them once and for all. The problem was: who would like to become the decoy? They would be like lambs thrown to the wolves with little hope of survival for the troop must make their stand long enough for the two arms of the imperial army to converge from far away positions, unsuspecting to the Rourans who would be lusting for their blood. To encourage volunteers for the job, it was decided that any survivor of the decoy unit after the battle would be disbanded and allowed to return to their home village.
None of the generals offered their own troops. What good was it to be given freedom if the chance of surviving was so marginal?
When Xing put this before us, there was absolute silence among the girls.
We had been fighting for years now, for some, nearly twelve years. How long would we have to go on before we have chance to see our home village? The war could drag on for years more, decades even. Maidens would grow old; parents back in the villages would die in despair one by one. We would never see our lovers again, even if they were still alive.
“Commander, we can go.”
Xing looked at each one of us, her lieutenants and sisters who had gone through so much all these years. There were tears in her eyes, as in all ours.
“What about those under you? Will they be willing?” Xing asked.
We nodded. We knew their hearts. We were all sisters.
The whole battalion was lined up.
Xing addressed them and explained what was in store. She wanted only volunteers as any unwilling participant would only put the unit in peril. It was a hopeless fight against overwhelming odds. But if we succeeded, the ones that could still stand would be free to go home.
She asked anyone who was reluctant to go step forward. No punishment would be melted out. None made any move.
Xing nodded. “I am proud of you all. You are all my sisters. Let us make one pledge. For those who do survive and return to our village, they should take care of our elders as if they too, are of her same flesh and blood. Let no father or mother weep for the loss of their daughter, for all are their daughters. We are One!”
“We are One!” We shouted.
The White Mountain trembled with our echoes.
How could I describe the battle?
Six hundred of us, many of them no more than girls, rode into the valley of death and threw up a defense perimeter with sacks of sand and rocks. We toiled nonstop as we knew the Rourans would come for us. The flower banner was too tempting a target for them to ignore.
They came. Even at a distance, the dust kicked up by the hooves of their war ponies darkened the morning sun. The earth trembled and so did our legs. It was hard not to feel fear when death stared us in the eyes.
“Sing for us, Ling. One last song.”
I wiped the teardrops from my eyes. Was I afraid to die? May be I was, but I was more afraid to fail them. My throat was choked by dust and fear. How could I sing?
We could see the first line of enemy riders now: more than two thousand at least. And they were just the vanguards.
“Sing, Ling, sing!” they pleaded.
I picked a tune.
“Once in the land of a mighty empire.
Six hundred daughters put on their fighting dress,
Not for fame, or glory or riches,
But for love of their homeland,
They rode north, armor-clad,
Many will fall in battle,
Many may never see dawn,
But inside the hearts of each of them
Is the pledge of a sisterhood drawn
Never shall we fail my sister
Who counts on my shield or bow,
My life I willingly offer
For our love is more precious than gold
And if you happen to pass a mountain side of sunflowers
All their faces looking south,
Do not tread, I pray you horsemen,
For it is their homeland they face and cannot return somehow.
Six hundred maidens who never bask for glory
But resolved to have their duty done.
Shall make a stand in this valley
And fight as We are One!”
“We are One!” came back the shout.
And then the arrows began to fly.
Riders fell from their saddles, horses neighed in horror and confusion, horns blown, another wave of riders broke upon the front made of shields and young bodies. Bones shattered, bodies crushed, daggers and spears driven into torsos, male and female, cries, horror, revived courage, lines broken and reformed, charges and counter-charges, heads and arms flew, streams of blood trailing behind, as if rainbows of pure crimson red…
I followed Xing everywhere, each sing of my bows echoed with the drop of a foe. I saw Xing using her lance to unsaddle a Rouran warrior of high rank, pulled it out and sank it into another, this time carrying a battle flag. I let go two shafts, my last ones, and then drew my dagger and rushed forward. So did the company of young women warriors behind me. The fight became a melee, breasts were stabbed, throats slit, heads sent flying from torsos showing feminine grace.
We lost over half of our number, but we held.
The enemy was beaten back and was in a rout.
We cheered.
“Do not be happy so soon. They will come back. Form your line!” Xing shouted.
And sure they did.
This time, it was their heavy cavalry.
We took up long lances and formed lines, the front line kneeling and the rear resting their long shafts on the shoulders of the kneeling ones. The crash of the enemies was like the tides breaking on the rocks that my father had once took me to see. We thrust and jab, blood staining our armor, our faces, our arms, our shifts underneath that had turned into little more than rags over the seasons. The girl to my right shrieked, a spear planted squarely into her left breast. I would never forget those eyes of despair. She would not be one who would see her homeland again. The girl replacing her position fell almost immediately, her throat cut by a sweeping blade from a rider. I tilted my lance upward and avenged her by piercing the laughing Rouran man through his ear and brought him crashing down. His own horse tramped on him, I heard his bones cracked under the hooves.
Xing was slashing with her sword, her whole body exposed in her reckless position.
“Xing, be careful!” I shouted as I saw one enemy charging her with a horizontally placed spear. Xing managed to side step the point just in time, making an upward swing with her sword that cleaved the rider’s skull into halves. I breathed relief but it came too early. Another rider swept in amidst the dust and it was too late for
Xing to parry the thrust. Instead, she dropped her sword and caught the shaft of the spear in time. The powerful momentum of the beast threw her body backwards for several feet before she landed onto a heap of bodies. The rider made another thrust and this time Xing could not get away. I froze in horror as I saw the weapon sank into the cleft between her breast-plates!
“No!” I struggled forward to where she was. The rider had dismounted now, a dagger in hand, his hideous face beaming with anticipation. He was going for her head. I got there just when he was raising the dagger for a stab into her neck. His eyes went wide when he felt the cold of my blade against his throat, and then the warm blood oozing out. I threw his heavy body sideways and looked for Xing. She was lying helpless there, still breathing as her chest rose and fell. Another enemy was stripping her of her armor and had just succeeded in tearing away the breast armor and bodice. It was the first time I saw her naked torso and the beauty stunned me. She should have made such a lovely bride, bringing happiness to any man lucky enough to have her as a wife. The full breasts were crowned with pinkish nipples, like rosebuds. Her shoulders, strengthened by years of fighting, were still slender in shape. Her helmet had gone, the cascade of black hair tumbled down as a roll of black silk. The warrior had caught it in his rough hand and straightening it, was about to place the board sword to decapitate the beautiful head with its large round eyes. I yelled and charged. The man heard me, turned, only to catch the tip of my lance in his stomach.
“Xing, Xing, do not give up. You will be fine!” I held her close, assuring her. I had lost all sense of danger, people were fighting and dying around me, like flies and I did not care. I would die by her side, holding her and she understood it through my eyes.
She raised a hand and wiped away the tear.
“Do not cry, or die! Lead them. Take them home, for me.”
“I am not leaving you here!”
She nodded. “Give me your dagger.” She said. “I want to fight still.”
I gave her the dagger and she smiled.
“Behind you!” She shouted.
I jumped and turned but found no immediate danger. Then I turned around again and saw Xing had slit her own throat.
She knew she had no chance to make it. And only by dying would she free me from the duty of guarding over her.
I hugged her and cried my heart out. Finally, sorrow gave way to anger. I rose, took up the Flower banner which had half-fallen on the side.
“Sisters! Follow me!” And I led the charge.
There were so few of us, so many of them. We should have been slaughtered like lambs. But if the Rourans were wolves, we were tigresses! The enemy reeled in terror as one after another their chiefs, now coming to the fore, eager for spoil were struck down. To them, we were a pack of angry ghosts from hell, unstoppable!
Of course, over time, we would all be killed. There were just too many of them. Our arms had become weary of slaughtering; our numbers reduced to a little more than a handful. We formed a miserable line that awaited the final onslaught. I looked around. There was determination, anger, even sorrow. I did not see fear.
The game suddenly turned. The mass of horsemen facing us, getting ready to finish us off, were thrown into confusion. A blanket of arrows found their marks and men and beasts tumbled headlong into the sand. Our main force had finally arrived for the kill.
There were only ten of us. All the others were dead.
We buried Xing and the others in a huge grave in the valley. When we left the place, I looked back and saw the few sunflowers here and there. By next summer, there would be a blanket of them.
The war ended. The Rourans submitted and paid their homage to the emperor.
He was hugely pleased by his victory over the barbarians, forgetting we Xianbe also belonged to the category of barbarians not that long ago. He was not so pleased to learn of the effort of the six hundred maidens who sacrificed their lives to bring about the victory.
“What? My victory brought by women? Nonsense! Besides, why were they allowed in the army? Is it not true that any woman pretending to be man in the army should be summarily executed?” He roared.
He would have beheaded us, to wipe out any trace of our existence so as to make his victory complete. But his chief ministers advised him that it would hurt his popularity of the people. “Might it far better if history will sing to the wisdom and leniency of Your Majesty if there is such a legend, err…say one daughter in your realm who disguised herself as a young man to fight for her aging father?”
The emperor liked the idea. A battalion of women bringing about victory was an insult to his prowess, a threat; a single girl was just a legend and would be an acceptable pearl to his annals of rule.
He had us marched back to our hometown, threatening us on pains of death, not only for us but all our family if a single word leaked out. Instead, the story of a single heroine would be woven into a song, a patriotic one that would stir the hearts of young men to defend their fatherland. For if a girl could serve her country, why should any young man hesitate to defend the realm?
We could not care less.
The pens of history were always in the hands of the emperor and his men. They could say what they wanted.
We reached our village. Out of a thousand daughters, ten returned, and honored their pledge to take care of all surviving parents. After twelve years of war and heart-breaking waiting, there were not really that many.
Many men courted for my hand but I turned them all down. My destiny was not in the arms of any husband but in my voice. I sang at winter gatherings of villages, around warm fires around which the young and the old sat to listen to the feats of their daughters. Fearful of the wrath of the emperor, I weaved the story around one single girl, Mulan, a symbol of our collective sacrifice. The emperor’s spies would report that all was in order. The folks understood and winked at the ruse.
My story would not end here. There was one dream that I would realize.
One day, I would return to the site of the last battle. I knew I would find it little changed. The wind would be caressing the sunflowers that grew out of courage and love of my sisters. They would nod with the breeze as if my sisters were waving at me. I would wave back and sing. And they would be able to listen and have peace.
(End)
