“I have a surprise for you,” Wai-Mae announced.
“I hate surprises,” Ling said.
“You will like this one.”
“That’s what people always say.”
“Come, sister,” Wai-Mae said, and Ling stiffened as Wai-Mae linked arms with her, just like the schoolgirls who often passed by the Tea House’s front windows, talking and laughing. But Ling had never been terribly girlish or giggly or affectionate. “You’re not much for a cuddle, are you, my girl?” her mother would say with a wan smile, and Ling couldn’t help feeling that she was letting her mother down by being the sort of daughter who enjoyed atoms and molecules and ideas instead of hugs and hair ribbons. Her mother would probably love Wai-Mae.
Wai-Mae’s mouth didn’t stop the entire walk. “… and you can be Mu Guiying, who broke the Heavenly Gate Formation. I will be the beautiful, beloved Liang Hongyu, the perfect wife of Han Shizhong, a general. She helped to lead an army against the Jurchens and was buried with the highest honor, a proper funeral befitting the Noble Lady of Yang.…”
All of Wai-Mae’s stories were romances. Oh, so you’re one of those, Ling thought, the girls who see the world as hearts and flowers and noble sacrifice. Wai-Mae led Ling deeper into the forest, and while Wai-Mae chattered away about opera, Ling noticed that the dreamscape was even more vibrant than it had been the night before. The crude sketches of trees had been filled in with rich detail. Ling ran her palm over scalloped bark. It was rough against her hand, and she couldn’t help but touch it again and again, grinning. A sprig of pine needles hung invitingly from a branch. Ling pulled and a handful of needles came away. She brought them to her nose, inhaling, then examined her fingers. No resin, no smell, she noted.
“We’re almost there!” Wai-Mae chirped. “Close your eyes, Little Warrior,” Wai-Mae insisted, and Ling did as she was told. “Now. Open.”
Ling gasped. Golden light bled through the breaks in the line of gray trees. Here and there, mutated pink blooms sprang up. Red-capped mushrooms poked their fat heads above the patchy tufts of grass that tumbled down into a verdant meadow rippling with colorful flowers. In the distance, a rolling line of purple mountains brushstroked with hints of pink rose tall behind an old-fashioned village of Chinese houses whose pitched tile roofs tilted into smiles. So much color! It was the most beautiful thing Ling had ever seen inside a dream—even more beautiful than the train station.
“Where are we? Whose dream is this?” Ling asked.
“It doesn’t belong to anyone but us,” Wai-Mae said. “It’s our private dream world. Our kingdom.”
“But it had to come from somewhere.”
“Yes.” Wai-Mae smiled as she tapped her forehead. “From here. I made it. Just as I did the slippers.”
“All of this?” Ling asked. Wai-Mae nodded.
Ling couldn’t imagine how much time and energy it must’ve taken. This was more than transmutation. This was creation.
“There’s something magical about this place. We can make new dreams. We can make everything beautiful.” Wai-Mae bit her lip. “Would you like to learn how?”
“Show me,” Ling said. “Show me everything.”
Wai-Mae marched to a puny, half-formed tree at the top of a hill. “Here. Like this. Watch.”
Wai-Mae threaded her fingers through the wispy leaves, holding tight. She closed her eyes, concentrating. The bark moved like melting candle wax, and then, with a great groaning, the trunk shot up several feet. Massive branches reached out in every direction, bursting with pinkish-white flowers.
Wai-Mae fell back with a gasp. “There you are,” she said, wiping a hand across her brow.
Dogwood blossoms drifted down toward the girls. One landed in Ling’s hair. She pulled it free, rubbing the velvety petal between her thumb and forefinger, feeling something primal in its core, some great electrical connection to all living things. If she’d been a true scientist, she would have shouted “Aha!” or “Eureka!” or even “Holy smokes!” But there were no words that she could summon to communicate the magic of the moment.
“Now it is your turn.” Wai-Mae twisted her mouth to one side, thinking. “We will need places to sit for our opera. Try changing this rock into a chair.”
It was as if Wai-Mae had asked Ling to grab the moon and put it under glass. “But how?”
“Start by putting your hands on the rock.”
Ling did as she was told. The rock was cold and dull, like clay awaiting the artist’s hands.
