Chien-Po shrugged. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, as cheerfully as he could muster. A pot bubbled over the fire, and Mulan inhaled, savoring the delicious aroma of hot, freshly prepared soup.
As the soldiers crowded around the pot, eagerly slurping, Chien-Po helped Mulan and the others settle Shang into Ling’s tent.
Most of the tents in the camp were patched together out of saddle blankets, capes, and animal skins, but Ling had managed to procure one of the Huns’ tents. Several wooden poles propped up its triangular roof, and the material was thick muslin, like the tents in their training barracks at the Wu Zong camp. Chien-Po could barely fit inside.
“We made him a bed out of some wood,” Chien-Po said, gesturing at the makeshift bed in the center of the tent, outfitted with a thin pallet of extra blankets. “He’ll be more comfortable traveling that way. We will help you carry him tomorrow.”
Mulan’s heart warmed and her spirits lifted. Her friends had thought of everything. There was even a little stool and a bucket of clean water with a neat stack of cloths next to it.
She dipped one of the cloths into the bucket, wrung out the excess water, and started peeling away Shang’s bandages to clean his wound.
Yao and Ling returned with two steaming bowls of soup.
“I’ll eat later,” Mulan said. Too much to do now. She filled another cloth with snow and placed it on Shang’s forehead.
Ling crouched beside the captain and tried to feed him some soup. “He’s still unconscious.”
She nodded. “He woke up a couple hours ago, but he’s been out since then.” She swallowed, trying to stay positive. “He’s stopped bleeding, so we won’t have to cauterize the wound.” She let out a small sigh of relief. “And I don’t think it’s infected, which is good news.”
Her voice fell soft. “But I can’t get his fever down.”
The wind whistled outside, shuffling the tent’s flaps. Mulan leaned against one of the wooden poles and started removing her armor. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, how her muscles ached and her body demanded rest. She could hardly keep her shoulders up.
“You need to eat something,” Yao said, observing her.
“You need to sleep,” Chien-Po said, noting the dark circles under her eyes.
Mulan shook her head. “The only reason Shang is injured is because he saved me from Shan-Yu. It’s my duty to take care of him.”
“We could all take shifts.”
“You three have been a great help already. We fought hard today, and we all need our rest.”
Her voice was firm. No one dared argue.
Yao patted her shoulder. “All right, Ping,” he said reluctantly. “You got it. But let us know if you need anything. We’ll be right outside.”
“I will,” Mulan promised.
Her friends left the tent, and Mushu crawled out of his hiding place in Mulan’s pack and went to her side.
Mulan knelt and covered her face with her hands. “What if he doesn’t wake up, Mushu?” she whispered. “What if he dies?”
Shang’s request to have her take his ashes home to his mother haunted her. Even he thought he was going to die.
“This is all because of me.”
“You’ve got to stop blaming yourself,” said Mushu, climbing on top of the stack of cloths. “What happened to Shang is not your fault.”
“If I had been a better warrior, if I’d been more prepared for Shan-Yu’s attack, none of this—”
“Hey.” Mushu reached out a claw to pat Mulan on the shoulder. “If not for you, everyone would be dead. You can’t forget that. You protected your people. You saved your country. You can’t save everybody.”
Mulan didn’t reply. Deep down, she feared Mushu was right.
Staying awake was hard. She rubbed her temples. They throbbed, the pain shooting up behind her eyes. She’d promised herself she’d watch Shang all night, but she was so, so tired.
The fire outside was dying, and Mulan left Shang’s side briefly to feed its embers. The sky was black and starless; all was quiet in the camp. Yao and Ling, who were supposed to be on guard duty, had nodded off, and when she went back into her tent, she heard Mushu snoring. Even Cri-Kee was asleep, comfortably resting on top of Mushu’s scaly stomach.
A pang of loneliness tugged at Mulan. She leaned against the tent pole and looked at Shang. He hadn’t moved since they’d arrived at the camp; hadn’t made a sound, either. The only reason she knew he was still alive was the slight rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flinch of his brow, and the faint tinge of color in his cheeks.
She’d had no success at all getting him to drink Chien-Po’s soup. Every time she’d tipped the bowl to his parted lips, the soup just dribbled out of his mouth. Once or twice his teeth clenched, as if he were in terrible pain.
So she watched him, waiting for any sign that he might awaken. But he didn’t.
The broth was cold now, almost frozen. She picked at it with a chopstick, then sipped the liquid dribbling from underneath the layer of ice on top. Once the ice cracked, she tilted the bowl toward her lips, forcing the broth down with one gulp.
As she drank, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was drinking her grandmother’s porridge. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bowl of fish congee, sprinkled with green scallions and topped with a dollop of sesame oil! She’d even have willingly downed one of her mother’s herbal soups; Fa Li used to make red sage soup almost every day when Mulan was growing up. How she’d hated the smell and pungent taste. She used to pick out the chopped pieces of the root and chew on the sweet wolfberries instead.
She missed home so much.
“If you wake up, Shang,” she said aloud, “I’ll take you home for dinner. No, not for my cooking. I still have a lot to learn. But my grandmother…my nai nai, she’s the best chef on this side of China. Her pork dumplings would wake a dead man just to eat them.” She cringed at the saying, but forced a laugh. “What do you say?”
She waited.
No answer, of course.
Feeling foolish as well as dejected, Mulan set the bowl aside. Her stomach still growled, but not as urgently as before.
She lay down by Shang’s side, propping herself on an elbow, and gently swept his hair off his face. His jaw was still tight, but his forehead was smooth, and his breathing was quiet. He looked more peaceful than earlier.
Then she curled up and rested her head on her hands. She wondered if Shang was dreaming—of his home, his family, his friends back in his town. She hoped so. She hoped he was fighting to live.
She realized how little she knew about him. She knew nothing about his family other than that his father had been the Emperor’s most trusted general. She didn’t know anything about his life growing up, either; what he liked to eat or read, even where he was from.
As their leader, Shang had avoided socializing with the troops. He’d never joined in drinking games or jokes. After meals, he had always retreated to his tent to study battle plans and maps.
Then again, no one had ever sought him out. Now Mulan wished she’d gotten to know him better. She hadn’t realized until now how dedicated Shang had been to ensuring the regiment became a team. Most other captains probably wouldn’t even have known her name. But Shang would run alongside her and the other recruits to make sure no man was left behind, he sculpted each soldier’s individual weaknesses into strengths, and he had even risked his life—for her.