Legends of the Martial Arts Masters (6 page)

That afternoon she met her commanders. That evening she slept on the ground, lulled to sleep by the sound of the river and the dull drone of hundreds of soldiers snoring in the cool air. She awoke several times during the night, each time straining her ears to hear the sound of her parents’ voices. She was sure they would try to find her, to bring her back home. But when the dawn broke and the army saddled up to ride, Mu-lan scanned the crowd and saw only her fellow soldiers, their families clinging to them, begging them to do their duty and then come home.

For ten years Mu-lan rode with the army. For ten years and ten thousand miles. She saw terrors she knew she would never be able to tell her family, even if wanted to remember such fearful things, which she didn’t. She saw friends die of disease, of wounds, of the cold and meager mountain air. Summer and winter, she slept on the hard ground, lulled to sleep by the whinnies of Mount Yen’s wild horses. Some mornings, far too many mornings, she awoke to the bloodfreezing war cries of a barbarian army. She outlived three generals. And while marching through mountain passes, laden with the armor of a man, she became a woman.

After ten years, the war was over. Those who survived were brought to the Splendid Hall. The Khan himself handed out promotions and awards. One of Mu-lan’s friends was made a commander. Another was given a medal and made a secretary to a high official. When Mu-lan’s turn came, she stepped before the Khan and bowed. The Khan hung a medal around her neck and handed her a scroll listing her acts of heroism and expressing the nation’s gratitude.

“I wish to make you one of my ministers,” he said. “Would that please you?”

“Thank you, sir,” Mu-lan said. “But what would please me most is to return to my family. I have been gone far too long.”

“I understand,” the Khan said. “Go to them with my blessing.”

Mu-lan met her friends outside the hall. “Come to my home this evening,” she said. “We will feast and celebrate your new positions and my return to my family.”

It was a short walk to Mu-lan’s home. The way was familiar but like something out of a dream. As she approached her family’s front gate, her knees began to shake. Her stomach tried to flap its way out of her body. Her breath floated in and out of her chest in fits and starts. Would her family recognize her after all those years? Certainly they would. Would they honor her for what she did, or would they turn their back on her and her deception, forcing her into the street to fend for herself? Mu-lan straightened the Khan’s medal on her chest, clutched the emperor’s scroll in her right hand, and pushed open the gate.

In the open door of the front room, Mu-lan’s mother sat weaving. She looked up. Mu-lan’s heart sank when she saw the lines that years of worry had left on her face. Her mother’s hair was beginning to gray. She looked older, ten years older, maybe even twenty. As she looked up from her weaving, she saw Mu-lan’s uniform and went pale. She cast a quick glance at a young man who had come around from the side of the house to see who had arrived. Mu-lan recognized his eyes. The young man was her brother. Of course. Mu-lan’s mother would be worried that the soldier standing in the courtyard was here to draft him. Mu-lan tucked the scroll inside her sleeve.

“Mother,” she said. It was all she could say before a lump rose in her throat.

“Mu-lan?”

Mu-lan nodded and went to her. She put her arms around her and felt her cheek against her own.

“Mu-lan,” her mother said again.

Mu-lan’s brother left and returned with their sister and father. Mu-lan handed the scroll to her father, then removed the medal from around her neck and hung it around his. Tears welled up in his eyes.

She went to her old room and took off her armor and her soldier’s clothing. She washed the trail dust from her body and hair. Then she dabbed on some of her sister’s perfume and powdered her face with flower powder. She took her old clothes from where they had been hanging in the corner, put them on, and fixed her hair. It had been a long time—ten long years of sleeping in armor and attending to her clothing only when battles and marches allowed. Mu-lan looked in the mirror. The woman who looked back pleased her.

Mu-lan’s companions came that evening. She met them by torchlight at the gate. At first they looked right past her, scanning the courtyard for a young soldier in armor. But when Mu-lan spoke, their eyes widened. This woman in silks and perfume was the soldier they had fought beside for ten years. They stood rooted to the path, staring despite themselves.

“Come in my friends,” Mu-lan said. “Let’s eat, and drink, and toast our new lives.”

M
uay Thai is sometimes called
Thai boxing. Using hands, feet, knees,
elbows, and shins, a Thai boxer
batters an opponent until
he is unable to
continue. Because the sport is so demanding, Thai b
oxers spend a good deal of time and ener
gy strengthening their body to be able to withstand punishment. They are some of the toughest fighters
in the martial arts.

To this
day, Muay Thai fighters dedicate one of
their fights each year to a man named Nai Khanom
Tom, a fighter who lived centuries ag
o, back when Thailand was still called Siam.

 
Twelve Warriors of Burma

“Who is that man?” the king of Burma demanded as he looked out over the battlefield. “The man in front of the Siamese charge. Who is he?” The king’s aide looked where the king was pointing. It was not difficult to see which man the king meant. In the front of the battle, where the fighting was heaviest, a single man was dropping Burmese soldiers one after another. “Your highness,” the aide said, “that is Nai Khanom Tom.”

“Nai . . . what was that again?” The king could not take his eyes off the magnificent fighter.

“Nai Khanom Tom.”

“And why is it that none of my troops seem to be able to defeat him?” the king asked.

“Well, sir,” his aide stumbled for words, not wanting to insult the king’s troops. “Some say that Nai Khanom Tom is not even mortal. He is Siam’s greatest boxer, and has never lost a fight. Some say he cannot die, that he was sent by the gods.”

“Hmmph,” the king said. “All men die. Even kings die. Send in the right warrior to oppose him, and you’ll see that this Nai person can die, too.”

“Yes, your highness,” the aide replied meekly. The two watched as Nai Khanom Tom continued to cut through Burmese soldiers like rice stalks in the field.

“Mmm, that is something I’d like to see,” the king said. “I’d like to see Nai face my great boxers. I’d like to see him beg for mercy.”

A few weeks later, the king of Burma stood before two hundred of his most powerful soldiers. Some carried elephant spears, long spears with tips sharp enough to pierce elephant hide. Others carried ropes and nets.

“You are not to kill him,” the king commanded. “If I hear that this Nai person died in battle, you will all pay dearly. Is that clear?” The troops bowed their heads in obedience.

“I want him alive. Bring him to me.” The king spun on his heel and strode back into the palace. The two hundred soldiers left to join the battle with Siam.

The soldiers brought Nai Khanom Tom in on a pole. His wrists were tied together. So were his ankles. A large pole was threaded between them. Four soldiers had loaded the pole onto their shoulders. They carried Nai Khanom Tom into the king’s presence like a slain animal.

“He’s not dead, is he?” the King demanded.

“No, sir,” the captain replied. “He’s a bit banged up. We had some trouble capturing him. Even after we tied his arms, he managed to take down two of my men with his knees.”

“With his knees?” the king shouted. “Hmmph. Is that why you have him trussed up like a pig?”

“Yes, sir,” the captain answered.

“Set him down,” the king said, motioning to the troops carrying the pole. “Set him down right here.”

“So, Nai ... whatever your name is,” the king said looking down at Nai Khanom Tom lying bound on the floor, “is it true what they say about you being a god?”

Nai Khanom Tom didn’t answer. His eyes locked on the king’s in a stare of complete calm and complete confidence. The king felt a shiver up his spine. He clasped his hands behind his back and made his way around to Nai Khanom Tom’s other side.

“They say you don’t fight like a mere man. You certainly have gone through enough of my troops.”

Still Nai Khanom Tom was silent.

“How would you like the opportunity to earn your freedom?” The king continued to pace.

“How?” Nai Khanom Tom asked quietly.

“I think we have his interest,” the king said brightly to his troops. The troops laughed appreciatively. “By fighting,” the king said to Nai Khanom Tom.

“I will not fight in your army,” Nai Khanom Tom said simply.

“Not in my army,” the king said loudly. “He thought I wanted him to fight in my army.” The troops again laughed obediently. “No, not in my army. At my festival. I want you to fight my best Bando fighters at my next festival. If you win, I’ll set you free.‘In my army.’ Mmmph. Are you sure you’re some kind of god? You don’t seem very bright to me.”

Nai Khanom Tom lay silently on the floor. If the jeers of the king and his troops had any effect on him, it didn’t show. The king made his way back to his dais.

“Do you agree?” he asked. “Will you fight?”

“Yes,” said Nai Khanom Tom. “I’ll fight your Bando fighters.”

“Good. Very good,” the king said. “Now, how many fighters should we have him fight? Four? Five?”

“I have nine that I have been training,” the captain volunteered. “Nine, you say,” the king exclaimed. “Could you fight nine men, one after another, Siamese?”

Nai Khanom Tom was silent.

“What? Not enough?” The king motioned for his aide. “I want you to find the ten best Bando fighters in the kingdom. No, wait. Make that the fourteen best fighters. Ten might not be enough for this ‘god’ here.”

The ring where Nai Khanom Tom would fight was roped off. The king entered the arena with his aide and the captain of his troops. He took his place in time to see Nai Khanom Tom making his way around the ring, touching each rope, whispering to himself.

“What is he doing?” the king said to his aide.

“He is sealing the ring,” the aide said. “It keeps out evil spirits.” “Evil spirits will be the least of his worries,” the king muttered.

Nai Khanom Tom returned to his corner of the ring. He knelt, touching his hands first to his forehead, then to the ring, then to his forehead, then to the ring, then to his forehead, then to the ring. A look of peace covered his face. He stood and began his ritual dance. The king watched as Nai Khanom Tom lifted first one knee, then the other. His movements were catlike, like a tiger, or maybe a leopard. He stretched and clawed, then turned to catch the eye of his opponent on the other side of the ring. The two locked eyes.

“Who is our first fighter?” the king asked the captain.

“The first fighter is one of my students, your majesty. He is young, but he is tough. He has an ability to wear down an opponent more thoroughly than any other man I’ve trained. He may not defeat Nai Khanom Tom, but I can guarantee you that after fighting my boy, Nai Khanom Tom will be lucky to still be standing halfway through his next fight.”

“Good,” said the king. “I’d enjoy seeing him so tired he could barely move. The man has far too much energy for my taste.”

Nai Khanom Tom and the young fighter faced each other. Then like lightning, the knees began to fly. Nai Khanom Tom landed an elbow, then a knee. As he pulled out, the young fighter followed him with a flurry of knee strikes to Nai Khanom Tom’s thighs and hips.

The fight wore on. It made the king tired just watching the punishment the two men were giving each other. He reached down to pick up his glass and ask for a refill. A gasp went up from the crowd. The king looked up. The young fighter was down.

“What was that?” he said.