Auntie Xia sniffles. Murong sobs. But Father is as silent and still as the deepest night. I rise, brush the dust off my overrobe, and lead my horse out of the courtyard.
At the last moment, I look back, only to see that Father has covered his eyes with his hand. All at once, my false calm shatters. I walk away, my own tears falling.
At the north gate, I report to the officials in charge, give Father’s name, and watch as they remove us from the list of households that have yet to contribute an able-bodied male.
“So you are Hua Muyang, nineteen years of age?”
I need only to nod. But I hear myself say, “No. There must have been a mistake. My name isn’t Hua Muyang, but Hua Mulan—the same characters as the flower.”
This does not please the official’s scribe, who needs to correct his copy of the roll, and all the other copies back at the sub-prefecture. He sighs exaggeratedly, glances at my horse, and writes my name, the correct one, on a new list.
That list of conscripts who have brought their own horses is given to two weathered soldiers with broadswords and crossbows on their backs. One, named Gao, takes a hard look at us. “So, you are the ones who are too precious to walk, eh?”
The other riders glance at one another.
Gao grins, revealing a missing front tooth. “Don’t worry. There’ll be enough misery for everybody, and I’m not going to hold it against you for being luckier at the outset of a war. But I do have to warn you—I’ll be handing over this list of names to the record keepers at the encampment. And if your names get there but you somehow don’t, the news will go right to your sub-prefect, and he’ll make poor men out of all the fathers and uncles who have generously supplied you with horses. And then he’ll drag those fathers and uncles off to take your places.
“So if you’re thinking of slipping away when I’m not looking, don’t. Even if my colleague and I don’t pierce you with arrows as you flee, you will have nowhere to return to and your families will curse you forever. Do you understand?”
Gao looks at us one more time and seems satisfied with the stricken expressions on the faces of the young men around me. “All right, then, let’s waste no more time.”
We set out in two columns. I glance back at this nondescript Northern town I’d never heard of before we arrived from the South. I feel no particular attachment to the place, but my loved ones are inside, behind the high brick walls.
I have been away from home, but never away from my family.
Will I ever see them again?
My earlier tears must have done some good: As I wrench my gaze away, my heart throbs dully, but I’m no longer overwhelmed by grief. I need to look ahead. I need to think about what I must do so that I can return home in one piece.
The day is bright and cold. We ride through a brown landscape, some stretches still covered in snow. Every village and town on our way is quiet and empty, aching with the absence of so many fathers, brothers, and sons.
We pass groups of conscripts marching in the same direction. Peasants, merchants, even a few whose attire indicates that they are scholars. And so many boys my age or younger. Some appear scared, some excited, the rest simply bewildered, as if they still haven’t grasped what is happening.
At noon Gao leads us to an abandoned temple by the side of the road. We stagger off our horses. Gao keeps watch on them; his comrade has his eye on us. Most of the conscripts relieve themselves by the front wall of the temple, but I walk toward the rear.
“Hey,” one conscript calls to me, “where are you going? You want an arrow in your back?”
I give him a stare Father would be proud of. “I don’t like other people around when I go. You have a problem with that?”
He blinks. His gaze flickers between my face and the sword at my back. Then he says to the other conscripts, as if to cover his own embarrassment, “I was just being nice. Guess that was wasted.”
At the back of the temple, even though I hear no one approaching—and none of the men present can take a step without alerting me from thirty paces away—I hurry to empty my bladder, my heart pounding. I don’t know what the punishment would be if I’m discovered to be a woman, but I’m not eager to find out.
When I’m done, I pant for a moment, relief coursing through my veins, and issue a silent apology to the god of wealth, to whom the temple is dedicated. Ironically, the god of wealth has fallen on hard times, the roof of his abode caved in, the gilt that covered his statue all gone. I am reminded of the dilapidated shrine before which I last fought Yuan Kai.
I haven’t thought of him in almost a whole day, which hasn’t happened since our first meeting more than two years ago. He must have been conscripted—that much is obvious. Is he also traveling in a group, under the watchful eyes of seasoned soldiers? Or is he already at an encampment, trying to figure out how to increase his odds of survival?
On the way back, I pass a well that still has a bucket on a rope and pull up some water to wash my hands. When I reach the others, they are eating their lunch. I turn my back to the wind so that I don’t ingest a mouthful of dust along with the stuffed buns Auntie Xia packed for me. In the often treeless North, dust is everywhere, whirling along the ground, leaping high with every stir of the air.
By midafternoon, as we near the encampment, the road becomes congested. Long lines of conscripts, on foot and on horseback, are waiting to be let in.
The journey so far has been leisurely: Our soldier escorts, in consideration of our draft horses, haven’t pressed us for speed. The sky has continued to be clear and cloudless and by now there is almost a hint of warmth under the sun. And we have just come through some low hills and descended into a wide valley—stony hills and a mostly barren valley, but still, more scenery than I’ve seen in a while—so the whole expedition has begun to feel like an unexpected spring outing.
But the sight of the encampment sobers me. Twenty thousand men can fit into the rows upon rows of tents, and more are being set up before our eyes. And this is only a regional muster. There must be encampments like this all over the North—hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of men herded toward the front.
Another conscript might feel a sense of relief at the scale of the muster, to be one among so many. But I have read plenty of histories. At Red Cliffs, two hundred and fifty years ago, Cao Cao had four times as many soldiers as his opponents did, yet they defeated him, killing a hundred thousand of his men in a single decisive battle.
What if I were one of the hundred thousand caught in that turning tide? To have no room to maneuver, all escape routes cut off, and only a sword against a forest of spears? I have promised everyone at home that I will return safe and sound. How do I do that? How do I take charge of my fate when all around me, men have submitted to theirs?
A good while passes before it is our turn at the entrance. The admitting officials examine the list of names, count us three times, and finally allow us through the gates.