“Well done,” he said, nodding.
Mulan stood up, but then began to gawk. For the cloth she had just tied was now melting into the rabbit’s leg. As it disappeared into the fur, the ugly marks of blood also disappeared. In the space of a breath, the rabbit’s hair returned to silver, shimmering in the light of the moon. The only remains of the violent attack were four long dark marks on his leg that looked as if someone had drawn them with a burned branch.
Mulan continued to stare, her eyes as round as rice bowls. Just when she had begun to think that she couldn’t be more surprised.…“Who…” she choked, “who are you?”
The rabbit gave a wry smile, and Mulan found herself even more bewildered to see such a human expression on an animal’s face.
“Who do you think I am?” the rabbit said, gazing up at her with the same tranquility as before. His eyes are like a cat’s, Mulan thought, or maybe more like a tiger’s? They were round and amber with pupils as black as a starless night, leaf-shaped eyebrows jutting above. They seem familiar somehow. But she couldn’t remember how. Her thoughts felt as stuffed as her nose. Perhaps she just needed to clear her head? Mulan sniffed and began to hunt among her clothes for a handkerchief.
“Ah, that’s it,” the rabbit said, in the tone of a mystery solved. Mulan gave up her search, for, as usual, she had no handkerchief. She looked at the rabbit quizzically.
“You didn’t breathe in the herbs,” the rabbit said, answering her look. “That’s why you didn’t fall asleep.”
The rabbit stood, and Mulan saw that he was larger than she had thought, his ears reaching the height of her knees. She watched as the rabbit hopped slowly to the bag, favoring his injured leg. Then he pulled out a small embroidered pouch, the color and shape of a persimmon. The rabbit handed it to Mulan. “Smell this.”
Mulan hesitated, looking at the pouch. A purple flower surrounded by the five poisons—viper, spider, toad, centipede, and scorpion—had been stitched into it with silk threads. That, too, seemed slightly familiar.
“It’s not going to put you to sleep,” the rabbit said, the amusement returning to his voice. “It’ll clear your nose.”
Mulan grimaced and then took a deep sniff. To her wonder, her nose did clear. She breathed the cool wind into her chest and marveled as air rushed out of her nose. She smiled. “So,” she said hopefully, “you really are a healer, then?”
“Yes,” the rabbit replied, taking back the pouch and returning it to the bag, “among other things.”
“And those foxes weren’t normal foxes, were they?” Mulan said. “I mean, they didn’t even try to eat you!”
“No,” the rabbit said with a laugh. “She wouldn’t eat me now. That would be much too barbaric for one as cultured as her.”
“As her?” Mulan said. “You know one of the foxes?”
“I know them both,” the rabbit said, and a shadow passed over his face. “But it was the white one I was referring to.”
“How do you know her?” Mulan said. She couldn’t help asking, even though she knew it might be rude. She could hear Ba’s quiet but firm voice reproving her. A young girl like you should not be asking questions like that. Try to remember your place.
But the rabbit did not seem offended. Instead, he was looking at Mulan thoughtfully, as if unsure where to begin. “I have known her for a long time,” the rabbit said, finally. “But I only truly knew who she was when I died.”
“YOU…YOU died?” Mulan stammered. Everything from the silver light to the talking rabbit was giving her a dizzy, dazzled feeling, as if she had suddenly stepped into an imaginary land. She sat down on the ground, glad to feel the solid earth beneath her, and shook her head in wonder. Then she looked again at the rabbit standing before her.
He had been gazing off into the distance, lost in a dream. But at Mulan’s words, his head turned and his eyes refocused upon her.
“Yes,” the rabbit said, “I died. It was a long time ago. It was like this.…”
When the land was young, the Supreme August Jade Emperor, the Ruler of the Heavens, decreed that the night of the full moon of the seventh month was to be sacred. On that night, those of the spirit world and of the Heavens could roam freely on Earth, and all mortal creatures were to prepare generous feasts in their honor. No person or animal, no spirit or Immortal was to feel hunger that night; anyone in need was to be given food if they asked. To refuse would not only be shameful, but bring dishonor to one’s family and ancestors.
The beasts, too, were given this decree, and all planned accordingly. The monkey gathered chestnuts from the trees. The otter caught a supply of fish. The dog dug up a pile of taro roots and radishes.
But the rabbit worried about his feast. The rabbit ate only grass and realized that would be a poor offering to the hungry. So the rabbit decided to prepare differently. He went from animal to person and, with much bartering and wheedling, collected a grand assortment of food—from the monkey’s chestnuts to a pot of milk from the cow.
But no matter what the rabbit promised or said, there was one being who refused to contribute to his feast. It was the white fox.
“Look at you,” the fox mocked, “scurrying around like a peasant slave! Some dirty beggar is just going to gorge himself with your hard work, you know.”
“I would rather work hard than risk the shame of dishonor,” the rabbit said, stiffly and with a bit of haughtiness. “What about your own feast? Or does disgrace mean nothing to you?”
“Oh, I’ll provide a feast,” the fox said, in her sly way, “and mine will be the best of the lot. I’m not going to have to work like some poor drudge, either. Don’t you worry about me.”
The rabbit shook his head in disdain, his low opinion of the fox not improved by this interaction. The rabbit and the fox had never been friends—the fox often mocked the rabbit for being so serious and fastidious, and the rabbit found the fox shallow and unscrupulous. But the rabbit had never realized just how unscrupulous the fox was until the night of the full moon.
While it was still light, all the people and beasts arranged their displays of food. And what displays they were! Such an abundance had rarely been seen before. Tables seem to sag from the weight of the plates of noodles and dumplings and steamed buns. Heaps of lotus seeds and golden longan fruits sat next to bowls of wrinkled red dates. But the most lavish, the most bountiful—the jewel of all the displays—was the one the rabbit had prepared. His feast was an overflowing banquet. Mountains of blushing wax apples, pale round pears, and vibrant oranges rose over a landscape of soups and steamed rice.
Many mouths watered, and all wandered from neighbor to neighbor to take note of what would be on the night’s menu.
One animal seemed especially curious about everyone’s feasts. That animal was the fox. She went to each array of food and stared at it as if trying to balance each load with her mind. When she reached the rabbit’s display, she stared so intently that the rabbit began to feel irritated.
“Why are you looking at my feast that way?” the rabbit demanded.
“Oh,” the white fox said, that familiar, scheming smile beginning to curve on her face, “I’m just admiring it. I think yours is the best, actually.”