Erlong returned home before supper with his present, a storyteller, her voluptuous body enveloped in crimson brocade, her wrinkles arranged with pride in neat folds.
The storyteller was anxious to proceed, not touching the feast laid out on the table, soup noodles, sweet rice patties, spiced meat roasted on an open fire. She handed Erlong a book, her portfolio, with an index providing ready access to synopses, pages after pages of them, by the story type, by its length, by the number of turns, by how the story concluded. For the price of two gourds of rice, Erlong had the choice of one long story or three short ones.
‘Find one with a happy ending,’ Mama said.
‘Let’s get some twists,’ Papa said.
‘What about you?’ The storyteller asked Erlong. Her lips barely moved, her voice deep with an echo, originating from a place much deeper than her throat, her abdomen perhaps, or deeper yet, like the darkest cave in the mountain.
It had been a long-standing tradition to present children, and adults, should they wish, with stories on their birthdays. Over time, such convention had grown to be less about celebrating life than crafting memories, with events leading to such memories trimmed and groomed like miniature ornamental trees. Tomorrow, perhaps next year, maybe far in the future, someone, his Papa, his Mama, Erlong himself, the storyteller, would reach for these moments of the past, airing them under the sun, on the kitchen counter, polishing them, examining them and showing them off like gemstones.
‘How about a happily-ever-after story with lots of surprises along the way?’ Erlong said. It would satisfy both Papa and Mama.
The storyteller narrowed her eyes at Erlong. ‘Is that what you want?’
Erlong turned fifteen today. He preferred a carriage ride up the mountain, copper coins paid for the trips, and other objects a fifteen-year-old boy desired for his birthday. Cakes. A pair of straw sandals that were all the rage this summer. Dreams of adventure, better yet, expeditions of adventure. He would like to grow tall so no one would call him a midget behind his back as they did to his Papa. The last thing on his mind was listening to fiction intended for little children and gullible adults like his parents. He was almost a man, his future shining and prosperous in his mind’s eyes, and so near and tangible that he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. And yet, he was not strong enough to stand up to tradition; a powerful and unyielding beast evolved from a mere speck of an idea as volatile as a snowflake at its origin. He shrugged.
‘As you wish.’ The storyteller rummaged in her skin’s creases, where she kept her stories. ‘I have one just for you.’
She closed her eyes and began.
‘Find one with a happy ending,’ Mama said.
‘Let’s get some twists,’ Papa said.
‘What about you?’ The storyteller asked Erlong. Her lips barely moved, her voice deep with an echo, originating from a place much deeper than her throat, her abdomen perhaps, or deeper yet, like the darkest cave in the mountain.
It had been a long-standing tradition to present children, and adults, should they wish, with stories on their birthdays. Over time, such convention had grown to be less about celebrating life than crafting memories, with events leading to such memories trimmed and groomed like miniature ornamental trees. Tomorrow, perhaps next year, maybe far in the future, someone, his Papa, his Mama, Erlong himself, the storyteller, would reach for these moments of the past, airing them under the sun, on the kitchen counter, polishing them, examining them and showing them off like gemstones.
‘How about a happily-ever-after story with lots of surprises along the way?’ Erlong said. It would satisfy both Papa and Mama.
The storyteller narrowed her eyes at Erlong. ‘Is that what you want?’
Erlong turned fifteen today. He preferred a carriage ride up the mountain, copper coins paid for the trips, and other objects a fifteen-year-old boy desired for his birthday. Cakes. A pair of straw sandals that were all the rage this summer. Dreams of adventure, better yet, expeditions of adventure. He would like to grow tall so no one would call him a midget behind his back as they did to his Papa. The last thing on his mind was listening to fiction intended for little children and gullible adults like his parents. He was almost a man, his future shining and prosperous in his mind’s eyes, and so near and tangible that he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. And yet, he was not strong enough to stand up to tradition; a powerful and unyielding beast evolved from a mere speck of an idea as volatile as a snowflake at its origin. He shrugged.
‘As you wish.’ The storyteller rummaged in her skin’s creases, where she kept her stories. ‘I have one just for you.’
She closed her eyes and began.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Once upon a time, there was a dragon named Huayan. She lived with her Papa and Mama in Eachigoth, a land with soil so fertile that crops planted themselves and with prey so abundant that children hunted with their bare hands.
Huayan had everything her heart desired, necklaces strung with morning dew, hair ribbons sewn from pressed rainbows, shooting stars in a jar. And of course, every year on her birthday, a new story.
The tale she received on her ninth birthday changed her life, whether for better or for worse. It was the first time Huayan had heard about seas and oceans. And she was positively bewitched.
Why? You wonder. Why a large body of saltwater arrested Huayan’s attention was not the moral of the story. Why did anything happen? It was for the heavens to know and philosophers to ponder.
Papa and Mama took Huayan to the largest lake in Eachigoth, hoping that a large body of water would chase away the yearning for another, more expansive collection of water. The lake, being very vast, was no substitute for the sea. The desire for the ocean had become an addiction Huayan could not shake. Nothing else interested her anymore, nothing other than the white-tipped turquoise waves crashing into the shore, the briny mist, the enchanting creatures calling the open sea their home, mammoth, minuscule, and the fish with scales as colorful as a parrot’s feather.
It was one thing for Eachigothians to dream about faraway lands; it was another to visit them. Eachigoth was land-locked, surrounded by mountain ranges so high that they touched the moon. There was no way in or out, other than through a portal, opening once every ten years.
Papa and Mama braced for the inevitable, their daughter’s journey, a reality they recognized would come sooner than they could ever prepare. The portal never opened for longer than three days, nowhere near the time required to reach the ocean and back. Hence, they would not see their daughter for at least a decade should Huayan make the trip to the sea. What bits and pieces of knowledge Eachigothians possessed about nations and their citizens beyond the portal gave Papa and Mama nightmares. They woke at night from vivid imagery that could be their daughter’s fate, killed by a ruthless thief for copper coins, for dragon body parts, died of thirst, hunger, and loneliness, swallowed by a sea monster, captured as a prisoner, kept as a pet. Papa and Mama wished they could accompany Huayan on her odyssey. But they could not. They must stay and look after their parents, who depended on them more and more, who would not survive the journey, who would rather die than leave their land. Papa and Mama had their other children, Huayan’s baby brothers, to raise. If Papa and Mama had wished Huayan to change her mind, it was but for a fleeting moment, because they understood their daughter too well to harbor such a fantasy for long.
As they packed their daughter’s wildflower rucksack with travel essentials, in the deepest of their hearts, Papa and Mama stored their daughter’s laughter. The way her eyes closed when she sipped her favorite bone soup. A strand of loose hair outside of her braid. The way she tossed her key in the dish with a clang. Her whisper in their ears that they were the best parents any daughter could wish for, that a decade was not long in dragon years, and she would be back in no time.
The portal opened the year Huayan turned eighteen. Papa and Mama accompanied their daughter to the portal. They told her to be smart, to take good care of herself. Hugging her for the last time, they sent her off. Their gaze followed Huayan as she passed through the portal, her hair flying in the wind, her wildflower rucksack bouncing on her back, heavy with copper coins, warm blankets, rain gear, a clay pot to simmer bone stock, items she could use herself or barter for food and lodging. Stay safe, daughter, be strong, Papa and Mama prayed in their hearts, separately and together, when their daughter rounded the corner and vanished.
After a long passage through quicksand and tundra, riddled with thieves, bandits, wild beasts, murder hornets, and dragon trappers, Huayan reached Acron, an oceanic nation.
The first moon cycles elapsed in a whirl and bliss. Huayan rented a cottage with a thatched roof, a stone’s throw from a sparkling white beach. On days when the sun kissed her cheeks, and a gentle breeze murmured in her ears, which were most days in Acron, Huayan strolled along the shoreline. Her feet slipped and slide in the warm sand, her senses tuned to the sounds of the ocean: the music of the gulls, the laughter of mermaids sunbathing on the rocks, the sigh of whales from far away, the language of waves.
As days went on, her stash of copper coins diminished. The jars of tiger’s breath and sachets of orchid stamen she lugged from Eachigoth were worthless, not treasured by the Acronians anymore. Huayan had to find a way to earn her keep to stay. The remainder of the coins paid for her classes, to acquire skills marketable in Acron, advanced colloquial Acronian, mind-reading, potionology, ledger-keeping. When another moon cycle came and went, and when Serene Wave Herbals advertised for an apothecary, Huayan applied.
The perfume Huayan wore to her interview was why Mr. Gilcan, the shop owner, hired her, despite her limited formal apprenticeship in potionology, despite her lack of apothecary experience, despite her funny dragon accent. The fragrance was a product of genius, an essence containing salamander spit, ocelot tear, and black widow wind, a bouquet promising hell and delivering heaven, the most mesmerizing scent ever gracing the senses of Mr. Gilcan.
In the rear of Serene Wave Herbals was a mud hut, where Huayan mashed, soaked, distilled, filtered, working her magic, turning herbs from the garden into potions, serums, extracts, cordials, day in and day out, from sunrise to sunset. The shop assistants, healthy, ethereal-looking Acronian females, then dispensed the tinctures to their customers. Huayan sometimes wondered what it was like to wear a pretty uniform, never getting the hands dirty, never working up a sweat, a serene smile on the face, sweet-talking the aging, the sick, the hypochondriac, the vain, the greedy. Deep in her heart, she knew she could never be a shop assistant even if she wished. For starter, those dainty uniforms were barely big enough to fit over her thigh, let alone covering her robust dragon body. And then, there was her thundering dragon voice. Her pounding on the brick floor, sent dust whirling in her wake. The way she towered over the tallest Acronian ever setting foot in the store. How after sessions of mind-reading classes and diligent practice, she could not read an Acronian mind.
Huayan moved out of the thatched cottage, to be near work. She shared a stone house with an Acronian being sporting short spiky hair, painted lips, chain-link necklace, a fondness for loud noises, and an aversion to Eachigothian bone soup, conversation, or being pegged as anything. Our dragon lady still visited the sea, after the sun had dipped below the horizon, although less often because her new lodging was rather far from the water. The ocean at night presented a different mood than under the sun. It seemed angry, menacing, like an abyss, where darkness prevailed, and monsters crawled.
One day, Mr. Gilcan entered the mud hut and handed Huayan a red envelope, bulging with copper coins. It was her bonus, five times more than what everyone else was getting, he told her. An Acronian male of advancing age, Mr. Gilcan had opened the shop three years prior, so his much younger new bride had something to occupy her day while he attended his other businesses. His bride had neither the grasp for running the shop nor the finesse or interest to formulate a proper elixir. Serene Wave Herbals had been losing money until Huayan came along, Mr. Gilcan said. The business doubled due to his devil-may-care attitude toward convention, his vision, and his ingenuity for hiring a dragon lady. And of course, thanks to Huayan.
More business meant extra labor. Huayan spent most of her working days alone in the hut. When she could manage, she took her breaks in the garden, under the shade, chatting and gossiping with the shop assistants over lunch, a loaf of bread dipped in bone soup for her, an apricot or a lungful of air for the assistants. She became close to one shop assistant named Meriel. However, that closeness soon reached a limit, teetering on the threshold demarcating acquaintanceship and friendship but not crossing over.
Perhaps, Huayan and Meriel did not become quick friends due to the amount of energy from both to overcome the language impediment. Meriel grew frustrated despite her mild innate nature as Huayan wrestled for the next syllable, the next word, like one struggling with one’s next game move. And how they abandoned a thread of conversation after Meriel rephrased the same sentence in a dozen different ways, and Huayan still not grasping the meaning of it.
Perhaps, it was because their pasts had no overlap. Hence, they had little on which to forge their new relationship. How they clarified their jokes, therefore losing spontaneity and a quick understanding. And after the explanation, not only were the jokes not funny, they sounded trite.
Perhaps, it was because Meriel was feeling a bit in awe and a bit disillusioned with Huayan, a dragon and yet could not fly, more pragmatic than enigmatic. And Huayan was tired of being someone’s fantasy and disappointment.
Perhaps, Meriel had never left and had no intention of ever leaving Acron. Therefore, she failed to understand that to wander was not just to escape the clutches of an evil overlord or to dodge a famine, a flood, or any other natural disaster. Sometimes, one departed from one’s homeland because one’s urge to roam and explore was so compelling that one had no choice but to surrender to it.
Perhaps, it was any combination or none of the above.
Perhaps, it was because Huayan and Meriel understood next to nothing of the other’s tradition and tried hard not to offend, that without them realizing, they locked their souls behind closed shutters, hidden from each other.
Further inland, there was a small village formerly known as Blown-up Lizards. The town was later renamed Dragon Land, a more befitting description of its demographic, and less offensive to lizards or dragons. On her days off, when Huayan was tired of her cooking, or to get away from the roof-shattering blast that her roommate called music, she visited Dragon Land to while away an afternoon in a quiet cafe.
True to its name, Dragon Land was where the dragons inhabited. Dragons who had emigrated long ago and made their home here. Dragons who spoke Acronian better than Acronians, in well-modulated, soft voices, free of accent. Dragons who learned not to pound the ground when they walked, but instead glided. Dragons who resembled Huayan on the outside, but were as alien to her as the Acronians. The bone soup the Acronian dragon chefs hatched was a poor imitation of its authentic form, a far cry from what Mama simmered over a low fire for an entire day.
Huayan pushed her soup aside, tipped the waiter, and left. The soup reminded her of Mama, of Papa, of her folks. Her entire yesteryear, the entire Eachigoth, slammed into her chest, causing her eyes to sting and her lungs to squeeze. How wrong she was. A decade, even in dragon years, was a long time without loved ones. Why did she abandon her family and exile to this land, however splendid, with a vast ocean on its side, was no home? Acronians, though tolerant and often kind, did not understand her, and did not treasure her the way she desired, the way her family cherished her.
Another year came and went.
Then another.
And another.
Huayan left the stone house and rented a unit in a brick building for herself. Life, even dragon life, was too short to be putting up with head-splitting cacophony. Many days during those years were much the same, unexceptional, with her in the hut creating fanciful tonics for shop patrons, cooking at home for one, attending an occasional gathering here and there, taking trips to the ocean. And then some days stood out. Like when Meriel invited Huayan for a Solstice Day supper and how it occurred to Huayan that somewhere along the way, without her noticing, their relationship took a leap, and they became friends. And when Jinglong, an Acronian dragon owning a linen mill, entered the shop for the first time to thank the master responsible for the divine body lotion his mother so loved, when Huayan went on her first date with Jinglong, when he kissed her.
Mr. Gilcan sought Huayan out one morning. He waited outside the hut, having trouble maneuvering his wheelchair over the steps. Huayan turned down the heat on the row of burners and met him at the door. He expressed his appreciation for her skills and dedication to the shop and how patrons coveted her products. Serene Wave Herbals was planning to hire one more apothecary to assist Huayan. She thanked him for the opportunity he provided and that she could manage the production on her own quite sufficiently. However, hiring a new apothecary was not a bad idea because she was here but temporarily. Mr. Gilcan seemed shocked and sad and said that he did not know she was leaving. Huayan was surprised too, not by the fact that she would return to Eachigoth, but that after she had said it aloud, leaving was no longer an abstract term taking cover behind the day to day activities. It was prominent. And real.
Huayan became a frequent guest at the marble dwelling Jinglong shared with his mother, overlooking a cliff, adorned with ornamental seagrass and kelp. Sometimes the three of them cooked a meal together and ate it by the outdoor fire pit, watching the sunset. Sometimes, the uncles, the aunts, and the cousins joined them. On evenings when Jinglong worked late at the mill, his mother and Huayan took their tea outside and waited for his return. The mother inquired about Huayan’s family, about Papa and Mama, about Huayan’s plan for the future. Huayan responded with honesty at first that she would quit Acron as soon as the portal opened. Later, however, after noticing anguish and a hint of disapproval in the mother’s eyes, Huayan grew evasive.
When Huayan was with Jinglong, she was not a clumsy dragon lady, not a novelty, not a let-down. And often, not even an Eachigothian. She was both herself and a better version of herself. Whatever she had with Jinglong would come to an end should she return to her homeland. Huayan would rather not face that reality until she could not get around it anymore.
Jinglong was also aware that he would lose Huayan when the time came. He prayed that, as they spent more time together, she would reconsider her decision to leave. Perhaps she would grow to love him, the way he loved her. As much as he wished to be with her, he could not follow her to Eachigoth. Acron was his home. Not Eachigoth. Besides, he had his mother to take care of and his business to operate.
Years went by in this fashion. Neither of them broached the topic of the future. They continued to be with each other, swimming in the sea, hanging out at bazaars, star gazing, making love under the moonlight. They acted like immortals who had eternity at their disposal and that the portal was a mere trifling inconvenience.
Then, as they huddled under a blanket admiring a star-studded inky sky, Huayan said, ‘I wonder what I should bring home.’
Moments elapsed before Jinglong grasped that home was not Huayan’s unit in a brick building, nor the marble dwelling overlooking the cliff with ornamental seagrass and kelp. Home was Eachigoth, where she came. Home was his ancestors’ habitat, less accessible than the moon, a mystic land he had never been. Home was not his home.
‘I hear cans of sea angel laughter are popular. Or sand dollars. You can’t go wrong with sand dollars.’ He heard him saying.
The night before Huayan’s departure for the portal, Jinglong came to her unit. He handed her a willow backpack. ‘Luggage for the sand dollars,’ he said. Then he wrapped her in his arms for a long time before releasing her. He watched her as she transferred her stuff from the wildflower rucksack into the backpack he just gave her, folding the rucksack into a small pouch and pressing it into his palm, her gift to him.
‘I’d love to show you the mountain where the wildflowers bloom.’ Her eyes welled up.
‘I would go with you if I could. You know that, don’t you?’ Jinglong said.
‘Of course.’ She never expected him to just up and leave his mother or his linen mill behind.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘And your bone soup.’
‘Meriel has my clay pot and my mother’s recipe. If you are nice to her, perhaps she’ll let you have some soup. She’s going to visit me in Eachigoth. Someday. Can you imagine? Our Meriel?’ Her tone was light, too light.
He smiled, not from joy, but out of politeness, his grin forced, miserable.
She felt helpless.
‘Will I see you again?’ Jinglong said. He looked at the floor, as if afraid of seeing the truth in her eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ she said finally.
The next morning, Jinglong returned, shouldering a large backpack. ‘I’ll see you to the portal,’ he said.
‘You don’t have to. The portal’s days away. Not to mention the danger-’
‘Let me do this, please,’ he said.
So Huayan let him.
After a long, perilous passage, they reached the portal and camped among a handful of adventure-seekers and one other home-bound dragon.
The morning when the portal was to open, they woke before dawn, unable to return to sleep.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ Jinglong said. ‘What’s a decade or two in dragon years?’
‘You mustn’t,’ she said. Unless Jinglong relocated to Eachigoth, there was no future for them. She deserted her family once and would not do it again.
The sun rose. They carried their sacks and joined the queue outside the portal, holding hands. And waited.
The portal did not open. Another day came and went. And then another. Then another. The portal remained shut.
Huayan had everything her heart desired, necklaces strung with morning dew, hair ribbons sewn from pressed rainbows, shooting stars in a jar. And of course, every year on her birthday, a new story.
The tale she received on her ninth birthday changed her life, whether for better or for worse. It was the first time Huayan had heard about seas and oceans. And she was positively bewitched.
Why? You wonder. Why a large body of saltwater arrested Huayan’s attention was not the moral of the story. Why did anything happen? It was for the heavens to know and philosophers to ponder.
Papa and Mama took Huayan to the largest lake in Eachigoth, hoping that a large body of water would chase away the yearning for another, more expansive collection of water. The lake, being very vast, was no substitute for the sea. The desire for the ocean had become an addiction Huayan could not shake. Nothing else interested her anymore, nothing other than the white-tipped turquoise waves crashing into the shore, the briny mist, the enchanting creatures calling the open sea their home, mammoth, minuscule, and the fish with scales as colorful as a parrot’s feather.
It was one thing for Eachigothians to dream about faraway lands; it was another to visit them. Eachigoth was land-locked, surrounded by mountain ranges so high that they touched the moon. There was no way in or out, other than through a portal, opening once every ten years.
Papa and Mama braced for the inevitable, their daughter’s journey, a reality they recognized would come sooner than they could ever prepare. The portal never opened for longer than three days, nowhere near the time required to reach the ocean and back. Hence, they would not see their daughter for at least a decade should Huayan make the trip to the sea. What bits and pieces of knowledge Eachigothians possessed about nations and their citizens beyond the portal gave Papa and Mama nightmares. They woke at night from vivid imagery that could be their daughter’s fate, killed by a ruthless thief for copper coins, for dragon body parts, died of thirst, hunger, and loneliness, swallowed by a sea monster, captured as a prisoner, kept as a pet. Papa and Mama wished they could accompany Huayan on her odyssey. But they could not. They must stay and look after their parents, who depended on them more and more, who would not survive the journey, who would rather die than leave their land. Papa and Mama had their other children, Huayan’s baby brothers, to raise. If Papa and Mama had wished Huayan to change her mind, it was but for a fleeting moment, because they understood their daughter too well to harbor such a fantasy for long.
As they packed their daughter’s wildflower rucksack with travel essentials, in the deepest of their hearts, Papa and Mama stored their daughter’s laughter. The way her eyes closed when she sipped her favorite bone soup. A strand of loose hair outside of her braid. The way she tossed her key in the dish with a clang. Her whisper in their ears that they were the best parents any daughter could wish for, that a decade was not long in dragon years, and she would be back in no time.
The portal opened the year Huayan turned eighteen. Papa and Mama accompanied their daughter to the portal. They told her to be smart, to take good care of herself. Hugging her for the last time, they sent her off. Their gaze followed Huayan as she passed through the portal, her hair flying in the wind, her wildflower rucksack bouncing on her back, heavy with copper coins, warm blankets, rain gear, a clay pot to simmer bone stock, items she could use herself or barter for food and lodging. Stay safe, daughter, be strong, Papa and Mama prayed in their hearts, separately and together, when their daughter rounded the corner and vanished.
After a long passage through quicksand and tundra, riddled with thieves, bandits, wild beasts, murder hornets, and dragon trappers, Huayan reached Acron, an oceanic nation.
The first moon cycles elapsed in a whirl and bliss. Huayan rented a cottage with a thatched roof, a stone’s throw from a sparkling white beach. On days when the sun kissed her cheeks, and a gentle breeze murmured in her ears, which were most days in Acron, Huayan strolled along the shoreline. Her feet slipped and slide in the warm sand, her senses tuned to the sounds of the ocean: the music of the gulls, the laughter of mermaids sunbathing on the rocks, the sigh of whales from far away, the language of waves.
As days went on, her stash of copper coins diminished. The jars of tiger’s breath and sachets of orchid stamen she lugged from Eachigoth were worthless, not treasured by the Acronians anymore. Huayan had to find a way to earn her keep to stay. The remainder of the coins paid for her classes, to acquire skills marketable in Acron, advanced colloquial Acronian, mind-reading, potionology, ledger-keeping. When another moon cycle came and went, and when Serene Wave Herbals advertised for an apothecary, Huayan applied.
The perfume Huayan wore to her interview was why Mr. Gilcan, the shop owner, hired her, despite her limited formal apprenticeship in potionology, despite her lack of apothecary experience, despite her funny dragon accent. The fragrance was a product of genius, an essence containing salamander spit, ocelot tear, and black widow wind, a bouquet promising hell and delivering heaven, the most mesmerizing scent ever gracing the senses of Mr. Gilcan.
In the rear of Serene Wave Herbals was a mud hut, where Huayan mashed, soaked, distilled, filtered, working her magic, turning herbs from the garden into potions, serums, extracts, cordials, day in and day out, from sunrise to sunset. The shop assistants, healthy, ethereal-looking Acronian females, then dispensed the tinctures to their customers. Huayan sometimes wondered what it was like to wear a pretty uniform, never getting the hands dirty, never working up a sweat, a serene smile on the face, sweet-talking the aging, the sick, the hypochondriac, the vain, the greedy. Deep in her heart, she knew she could never be a shop assistant even if she wished. For starter, those dainty uniforms were barely big enough to fit over her thigh, let alone covering her robust dragon body. And then, there was her thundering dragon voice. Her pounding on the brick floor, sent dust whirling in her wake. The way she towered over the tallest Acronian ever setting foot in the store. How after sessions of mind-reading classes and diligent practice, she could not read an Acronian mind.
Huayan moved out of the thatched cottage, to be near work. She shared a stone house with an Acronian being sporting short spiky hair, painted lips, chain-link necklace, a fondness for loud noises, and an aversion to Eachigothian bone soup, conversation, or being pegged as anything. Our dragon lady still visited the sea, after the sun had dipped below the horizon, although less often because her new lodging was rather far from the water. The ocean at night presented a different mood than under the sun. It seemed angry, menacing, like an abyss, where darkness prevailed, and monsters crawled.
One day, Mr. Gilcan entered the mud hut and handed Huayan a red envelope, bulging with copper coins. It was her bonus, five times more than what everyone else was getting, he told her. An Acronian male of advancing age, Mr. Gilcan had opened the shop three years prior, so his much younger new bride had something to occupy her day while he attended his other businesses. His bride had neither the grasp for running the shop nor the finesse or interest to formulate a proper elixir. Serene Wave Herbals had been losing money until Huayan came along, Mr. Gilcan said. The business doubled due to his devil-may-care attitude toward convention, his vision, and his ingenuity for hiring a dragon lady. And of course, thanks to Huayan.
More business meant extra labor. Huayan spent most of her working days alone in the hut. When she could manage, she took her breaks in the garden, under the shade, chatting and gossiping with the shop assistants over lunch, a loaf of bread dipped in bone soup for her, an apricot or a lungful of air for the assistants. She became close to one shop assistant named Meriel. However, that closeness soon reached a limit, teetering on the threshold demarcating acquaintanceship and friendship but not crossing over.
Perhaps, Huayan and Meriel did not become quick friends due to the amount of energy from both to overcome the language impediment. Meriel grew frustrated despite her mild innate nature as Huayan wrestled for the next syllable, the next word, like one struggling with one’s next game move. And how they abandoned a thread of conversation after Meriel rephrased the same sentence in a dozen different ways, and Huayan still not grasping the meaning of it.
Perhaps, it was because their pasts had no overlap. Hence, they had little on which to forge their new relationship. How they clarified their jokes, therefore losing spontaneity and a quick understanding. And after the explanation, not only were the jokes not funny, they sounded trite.
Perhaps, it was because Meriel was feeling a bit in awe and a bit disillusioned with Huayan, a dragon and yet could not fly, more pragmatic than enigmatic. And Huayan was tired of being someone’s fantasy and disappointment.
Perhaps, Meriel had never left and had no intention of ever leaving Acron. Therefore, she failed to understand that to wander was not just to escape the clutches of an evil overlord or to dodge a famine, a flood, or any other natural disaster. Sometimes, one departed from one’s homeland because one’s urge to roam and explore was so compelling that one had no choice but to surrender to it.
Perhaps, it was any combination or none of the above.
Perhaps, it was because Huayan and Meriel understood next to nothing of the other’s tradition and tried hard not to offend, that without them realizing, they locked their souls behind closed shutters, hidden from each other.
Further inland, there was a small village formerly known as Blown-up Lizards. The town was later renamed Dragon Land, a more befitting description of its demographic, and less offensive to lizards or dragons. On her days off, when Huayan was tired of her cooking, or to get away from the roof-shattering blast that her roommate called music, she visited Dragon Land to while away an afternoon in a quiet cafe.
True to its name, Dragon Land was where the dragons inhabited. Dragons who had emigrated long ago and made their home here. Dragons who spoke Acronian better than Acronians, in well-modulated, soft voices, free of accent. Dragons who learned not to pound the ground when they walked, but instead glided. Dragons who resembled Huayan on the outside, but were as alien to her as the Acronians. The bone soup the Acronian dragon chefs hatched was a poor imitation of its authentic form, a far cry from what Mama simmered over a low fire for an entire day.
Huayan pushed her soup aside, tipped the waiter, and left. The soup reminded her of Mama, of Papa, of her folks. Her entire yesteryear, the entire Eachigoth, slammed into her chest, causing her eyes to sting and her lungs to squeeze. How wrong she was. A decade, even in dragon years, was a long time without loved ones. Why did she abandon her family and exile to this land, however splendid, with a vast ocean on its side, was no home? Acronians, though tolerant and often kind, did not understand her, and did not treasure her the way she desired, the way her family cherished her.
Another year came and went.
Then another.
And another.
Huayan left the stone house and rented a unit in a brick building for herself. Life, even dragon life, was too short to be putting up with head-splitting cacophony. Many days during those years were much the same, unexceptional, with her in the hut creating fanciful tonics for shop patrons, cooking at home for one, attending an occasional gathering here and there, taking trips to the ocean. And then some days stood out. Like when Meriel invited Huayan for a Solstice Day supper and how it occurred to Huayan that somewhere along the way, without her noticing, their relationship took a leap, and they became friends. And when Jinglong, an Acronian dragon owning a linen mill, entered the shop for the first time to thank the master responsible for the divine body lotion his mother so loved, when Huayan went on her first date with Jinglong, when he kissed her.
Mr. Gilcan sought Huayan out one morning. He waited outside the hut, having trouble maneuvering his wheelchair over the steps. Huayan turned down the heat on the row of burners and met him at the door. He expressed his appreciation for her skills and dedication to the shop and how patrons coveted her products. Serene Wave Herbals was planning to hire one more apothecary to assist Huayan. She thanked him for the opportunity he provided and that she could manage the production on her own quite sufficiently. However, hiring a new apothecary was not a bad idea because she was here but temporarily. Mr. Gilcan seemed shocked and sad and said that he did not know she was leaving. Huayan was surprised too, not by the fact that she would return to Eachigoth, but that after she had said it aloud, leaving was no longer an abstract term taking cover behind the day to day activities. It was prominent. And real.
Huayan became a frequent guest at the marble dwelling Jinglong shared with his mother, overlooking a cliff, adorned with ornamental seagrass and kelp. Sometimes the three of them cooked a meal together and ate it by the outdoor fire pit, watching the sunset. Sometimes, the uncles, the aunts, and the cousins joined them. On evenings when Jinglong worked late at the mill, his mother and Huayan took their tea outside and waited for his return. The mother inquired about Huayan’s family, about Papa and Mama, about Huayan’s plan for the future. Huayan responded with honesty at first that she would quit Acron as soon as the portal opened. Later, however, after noticing anguish and a hint of disapproval in the mother’s eyes, Huayan grew evasive.
When Huayan was with Jinglong, she was not a clumsy dragon lady, not a novelty, not a let-down. And often, not even an Eachigothian. She was both herself and a better version of herself. Whatever she had with Jinglong would come to an end should she return to her homeland. Huayan would rather not face that reality until she could not get around it anymore.
Jinglong was also aware that he would lose Huayan when the time came. He prayed that, as they spent more time together, she would reconsider her decision to leave. Perhaps she would grow to love him, the way he loved her. As much as he wished to be with her, he could not follow her to Eachigoth. Acron was his home. Not Eachigoth. Besides, he had his mother to take care of and his business to operate.
Years went by in this fashion. Neither of them broached the topic of the future. They continued to be with each other, swimming in the sea, hanging out at bazaars, star gazing, making love under the moonlight. They acted like immortals who had eternity at their disposal and that the portal was a mere trifling inconvenience.
Then, as they huddled under a blanket admiring a star-studded inky sky, Huayan said, ‘I wonder what I should bring home.’
Moments elapsed before Jinglong grasped that home was not Huayan’s unit in a brick building, nor the marble dwelling overlooking the cliff with ornamental seagrass and kelp. Home was Eachigoth, where she came. Home was his ancestors’ habitat, less accessible than the moon, a mystic land he had never been. Home was not his home.
‘I hear cans of sea angel laughter are popular. Or sand dollars. You can’t go wrong with sand dollars.’ He heard him saying.
The night before Huayan’s departure for the portal, Jinglong came to her unit. He handed her a willow backpack. ‘Luggage for the sand dollars,’ he said. Then he wrapped her in his arms for a long time before releasing her. He watched her as she transferred her stuff from the wildflower rucksack into the backpack he just gave her, folding the rucksack into a small pouch and pressing it into his palm, her gift to him.
‘I’d love to show you the mountain where the wildflowers bloom.’ Her eyes welled up.
‘I would go with you if I could. You know that, don’t you?’ Jinglong said.
‘Of course.’ She never expected him to just up and leave his mother or his linen mill behind.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘And your bone soup.’
‘Meriel has my clay pot and my mother’s recipe. If you are nice to her, perhaps she’ll let you have some soup. She’s going to visit me in Eachigoth. Someday. Can you imagine? Our Meriel?’ Her tone was light, too light.
He smiled, not from joy, but out of politeness, his grin forced, miserable.
She felt helpless.
‘Will I see you again?’ Jinglong said. He looked at the floor, as if afraid of seeing the truth in her eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ she said finally.
The next morning, Jinglong returned, shouldering a large backpack. ‘I’ll see you to the portal,’ he said.
‘You don’t have to. The portal’s days away. Not to mention the danger-’
‘Let me do this, please,’ he said.
So Huayan let him.
After a long, perilous passage, they reached the portal and camped among a handful of adventure-seekers and one other home-bound dragon.
The morning when the portal was to open, they woke before dawn, unable to return to sleep.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ Jinglong said. ‘What’s a decade or two in dragon years?’
‘You mustn’t,’ she said. Unless Jinglong relocated to Eachigoth, there was no future for them. She deserted her family once and would not do it again.
The sun rose. They carried their sacks and joined the queue outside the portal, holding hands. And waited.
The portal did not open. Another day came and went. And then another. Then another. The portal remained shut.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
The storyteller opened her eyes. She turned to Erlong. ‘Your actual lesson will come at the end. How about I give you a bonus one?’
Every story must parse a lesson or two – another cursed tradition Erlong did not fancy. Why must a story teach? Why couldn’t a story just delight, amuse, sadden, disappoint?
‘Because an event happened once in the past, a hundred times, a million times, does not mean it will happen again. Never take anything for granted,’ said the storyteller. She closed her eyes once more and continued with her story.
Every story must parse a lesson or two – another cursed tradition Erlong did not fancy. Why must a story teach? Why couldn’t a story just delight, amuse, sadden, disappoint?
‘Because an event happened once in the past, a hundred times, a million times, does not mean it will happen again. Never take anything for granted,’ said the storyteller. She closed her eyes once more and continued with her story.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Huayan and Jinglong returned to Acron. She declined to stay with him and his mother and found an empty unit in the same building where she used to live.
For an entire moon cycle, Huayan remained in her lodging, doing nothing but eat and sleep. Sleep and eat. And often, sleep, to escape the nasty possibility that she might never see her Papa and Mama again. She was a bad daughter, a bad granddaughter, a bad sister, for being selfish, for abandoning her family. Sleep, however, did not provide her with the peace she sought. In her dreams, she saw the sorrowful eyes of Papa and Mama. She saw her brothers, clutching her legs, telling her that they missed her. She saw her grandparents, eyes closed, resting in their graves. And she woke. She wept.
Here and there, as she drifted between sleep and consciousness, Huayan heard Jinglong’s voice outside, calling her, asking her to open the door. She did not answer. She did not open the door. She did not wish to see him. She could not be with him because being with him made her happy. A bad daughter, a bad sister, a bad granddaughter, did not deserve happiness.
Some days Huayan did not sleep. When she felt up to it, she took a carriage ride to the ocean. She sat in the sand, for hours on end, her eyes on the horizon, on the heavens above, her mind everywhere and nowhere, until sunset and the sea grew stormy and dark. Occasionally, a commonplace sight, like a starfish in the sand, delighted her and made her forget her suffering. And then, a moment later, the pain returned with a vengeance. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her body trembling. She chided herself for enjoying, even for a moment, when she should be grieving.
Moon cycles came and went.
Sometime along the way, Huayan noticed that the heaviness in her chest began to lift, little by little – until it was gone.
The next morning, Huayan walked to Serene Wave Herbals. Standing in the yard, she gazed through the glass windows, catching Meriel behind the counter, the shop assistant’s head tilted to the side, rearranging the contents in the display cabinet. Huayan opened the door.
Meriel lifted her gaze. ‘Welcome to Serene Wave –’ Her mechanical smile reserved for shop patrons froze, her mouth forming an O, she rushed forward and hugged Huayan so fiercely it brought tears to the dragon lady’s eyes. Joyful tears.
Huayan had dinner with Meriel and her family on some nights. Other evenings, when Meriel and her husband stayed in to catch up on chores or whatever else they needed to catch up, Huayan took Meriel’s boys to the ocean, carrying them on her back and running at the top of her speed. The children shrieked, giggled, begged. Let’s fly, Auntie Huayan. She would hoist them on her back and fly again. And again. She wished she could fly. Then she could be with her family as often as she desired. Then the cruel unpredictability of the portal would not shackle her. Then, and only then, she would be free.
Huayan wondered what Jinglong was doing. The idea of him with another did not sit well with her. However, there was nothing she could do, nothing she should do. She could not promise Jinglong anything long-lasting, not when her life here was transient. She had nothing left to offer, with the portal consuming her, claiming her waking moments and her dreams.
Another decade went by. Huayan trekked to the portal and waited for it to open. The portal remained shut. She returned, piecing her shattered self together, and was back at Serene Wave Herbals. Then, another decade. Another. Every time Huayan packed up and journeyed to the portal. And every time, the portal did not open.
Huayan became a permanent fixture at Serene Wave Herbals, operated now by Mr. Gilcan’s grandson. She took her lunch breaks in the garden, gossiping with the latest crop of shop assistants, wishing that she was conversing with Meriel instead, who had retired, splitting her days at home between napping and chasing after her grandchildren.
Meriel invited Huayan to tea.
‘I saw Jinglong the other day. Things didn’t work out between him and his last dragon lady. I got the inkling that he wanted me to tell you that,’ Meriel said.
‘Ah.’ Much time had passed. And yet, his name still managed to create a flutter in Huayan’s heart.
‘Is that all?’ Meriel said.
‘What do you expect me to say?’
‘You going to see him?’
‘Nothing’s changed.’
Meriel looked at Huayan above the rim of her thick spectacles, favored by aging Acronians. ‘Stop being a martyr.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘You don’t understand, Meriel.’
‘But I do. You chose to come here. It sounded like a good idea at the time but turned out to be a terrible one. That’s what you believe, isn’t it? You can’t see your family. You feel stranded. You view the closed portal as an omen, a punishment dealt by a dragon god. But in reality, it is you who have been depriving yourself.’
‘Me?’
‘Have you ever considered that perhaps you are destined to be here in Acron, to create the alluring concoction our patrons couldn’t live without, to surrender to your heart, to be my best friend? Have you ever considered that?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ said Huayan. Could Meriel be right?
‘You use the portal as an excuse to sit on the sideline. You put your life on hold to ease your guilt, hoping to be forgiven by your family, by a dragon god who may or may not exist. By doing so, you’re squandering the gift of life. You’re hurting yourself and others who care about you. Do you believe that’s what your Papa and Mama want?’
Later, Meriel disclosed that she was ill and had not long to live.
That night, Huayan lay awake in her unit, mulling over fate, the irony of it. How could she manage the long, bleak years ahead, on her own, in Acron, without her best friend, without her family, without anyone?
Huayan penned a note to Serene Wave Herbals and begged for a day off. She went to the bazaar in the morning and selected a bunch of wildflowers. Then she walked and walked and walked until she reached a marble dwelling overlooking the cliff, adorned with ornamental seagrass and kelp. She smoothed her tendrils. Releasing a breath she did not realize she was holding, she pressed the doorbell.
Then, she waited.
For an entire moon cycle, Huayan remained in her lodging, doing nothing but eat and sleep. Sleep and eat. And often, sleep, to escape the nasty possibility that she might never see her Papa and Mama again. She was a bad daughter, a bad granddaughter, a bad sister, for being selfish, for abandoning her family. Sleep, however, did not provide her with the peace she sought. In her dreams, she saw the sorrowful eyes of Papa and Mama. She saw her brothers, clutching her legs, telling her that they missed her. She saw her grandparents, eyes closed, resting in their graves. And she woke. She wept.
Here and there, as she drifted between sleep and consciousness, Huayan heard Jinglong’s voice outside, calling her, asking her to open the door. She did not answer. She did not open the door. She did not wish to see him. She could not be with him because being with him made her happy. A bad daughter, a bad sister, a bad granddaughter, did not deserve happiness.
Some days Huayan did not sleep. When she felt up to it, she took a carriage ride to the ocean. She sat in the sand, for hours on end, her eyes on the horizon, on the heavens above, her mind everywhere and nowhere, until sunset and the sea grew stormy and dark. Occasionally, a commonplace sight, like a starfish in the sand, delighted her and made her forget her suffering. And then, a moment later, the pain returned with a vengeance. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her body trembling. She chided herself for enjoying, even for a moment, when she should be grieving.
Moon cycles came and went.
Sometime along the way, Huayan noticed that the heaviness in her chest began to lift, little by little – until it was gone.
The next morning, Huayan walked to Serene Wave Herbals. Standing in the yard, she gazed through the glass windows, catching Meriel behind the counter, the shop assistant’s head tilted to the side, rearranging the contents in the display cabinet. Huayan opened the door.
Meriel lifted her gaze. ‘Welcome to Serene Wave –’ Her mechanical smile reserved for shop patrons froze, her mouth forming an O, she rushed forward and hugged Huayan so fiercely it brought tears to the dragon lady’s eyes. Joyful tears.
Huayan had dinner with Meriel and her family on some nights. Other evenings, when Meriel and her husband stayed in to catch up on chores or whatever else they needed to catch up, Huayan took Meriel’s boys to the ocean, carrying them on her back and running at the top of her speed. The children shrieked, giggled, begged. Let’s fly, Auntie Huayan. She would hoist them on her back and fly again. And again. She wished she could fly. Then she could be with her family as often as she desired. Then the cruel unpredictability of the portal would not shackle her. Then, and only then, she would be free.
Huayan wondered what Jinglong was doing. The idea of him with another did not sit well with her. However, there was nothing she could do, nothing she should do. She could not promise Jinglong anything long-lasting, not when her life here was transient. She had nothing left to offer, with the portal consuming her, claiming her waking moments and her dreams.
Another decade went by. Huayan trekked to the portal and waited for it to open. The portal remained shut. She returned, piecing her shattered self together, and was back at Serene Wave Herbals. Then, another decade. Another. Every time Huayan packed up and journeyed to the portal. And every time, the portal did not open.
Huayan became a permanent fixture at Serene Wave Herbals, operated now by Mr. Gilcan’s grandson. She took her lunch breaks in the garden, gossiping with the latest crop of shop assistants, wishing that she was conversing with Meriel instead, who had retired, splitting her days at home between napping and chasing after her grandchildren.
Meriel invited Huayan to tea.
‘I saw Jinglong the other day. Things didn’t work out between him and his last dragon lady. I got the inkling that he wanted me to tell you that,’ Meriel said.
‘Ah.’ Much time had passed. And yet, his name still managed to create a flutter in Huayan’s heart.
‘Is that all?’ Meriel said.
‘What do you expect me to say?’
‘You going to see him?’
‘Nothing’s changed.’
Meriel looked at Huayan above the rim of her thick spectacles, favored by aging Acronians. ‘Stop being a martyr.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘You don’t understand, Meriel.’
‘But I do. You chose to come here. It sounded like a good idea at the time but turned out to be a terrible one. That’s what you believe, isn’t it? You can’t see your family. You feel stranded. You view the closed portal as an omen, a punishment dealt by a dragon god. But in reality, it is you who have been depriving yourself.’
‘Me?’
‘Have you ever considered that perhaps you are destined to be here in Acron, to create the alluring concoction our patrons couldn’t live without, to surrender to your heart, to be my best friend? Have you ever considered that?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ said Huayan. Could Meriel be right?
‘You use the portal as an excuse to sit on the sideline. You put your life on hold to ease your guilt, hoping to be forgiven by your family, by a dragon god who may or may not exist. By doing so, you’re squandering the gift of life. You’re hurting yourself and others who care about you. Do you believe that’s what your Papa and Mama want?’
Later, Meriel disclosed that she was ill and had not long to live.
That night, Huayan lay awake in her unit, mulling over fate, the irony of it. How could she manage the long, bleak years ahead, on her own, in Acron, without her best friend, without her family, without anyone?
Huayan penned a note to Serene Wave Herbals and begged for a day off. She went to the bazaar in the morning and selected a bunch of wildflowers. Then she walked and walked and walked until she reached a marble dwelling overlooking the cliff, adorned with ornamental seagrass and kelp. She smoothed her tendrils. Releasing a breath she did not realize she was holding, she pressed the doorbell.
Then, she waited.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘The end,’ said the storyteller, opening her eyes once more.
‘Did Jinglong and Huayan get back together? Did the portal ever open up?’ Mama asked.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ said the storyteller.
‘Two gourds of rice for this?’ Papa huffed.
The storyteller turned to Erlong. ‘Ready for your lesson?’
‘Did Jinglong and Huayan get back together? Did the portal ever open up?’ Mama asked.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ said the storyteller.
‘Two gourds of rice for this?’ Papa huffed.
The storyteller turned to Erlong. ‘Ready for your lesson?’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Erlong turned fifty.
His daughters, the bright lights illuminating his otherwise unremarkable existence, prepared a feast for him, spreading out on the counter, soup noodles, rice patties, meat roasted on an open fire.
His life did not turn out as he had envisioned. He did not go on adventures nor accumulate a large stash of copper coins – one reason for the lack of adventures. He did not grow to be tall. He mistook the mother of his daughters for the love of his life. A decade had passed since the woman left him for another. He felt no pain anymore, no longer blaming himself for her absence in his daughters’ lives, no longer searching for his failings to account for her betrayal.
There was no storyteller today. Erlong was too old for that even when he was a child. He remembered the storyteller from his fifteenth birthday, and how her gaze bore into him, through him, piercing into years to come. In the end, she never presented him with the lesson. Whatever the storyteller glimpsed in the future must have convinced her that Erlong had understood her teaching. Perhaps he did, eventually, decades later, now, not by her moralizing, but by struggling through on his own.
At present, Erlong valued less what his younger self once considered the essentials of a good life. Not that he would turn up his nose on copper coins. Not that he would pass over a trip of a lifetime. Not that he would stop seeking love. What he treasured these days were moments, a string of them stretching out in the road head. He had grown fond of them over the years, cherishing them, savoring them, embracing them, feeling their caress, not wasting their gift agonizing over the past, nor ignoring them, pining for a future that may never come. He had realized that life was not about executing a blueprint, not about racking up points, not about collecting along the way to have something in the end, not even about making the right choices, but instead accepting the consequences.
He did not become an enlightened man. He may never comprehend the decree of heaven. However, at fifty, Erlong had come to terms with, if not always appreciated, the entirety of life encompassed, the beginning, the end, and everything in-between. The joy. The yearning. The heartache. The messiness. The sorrow. The success. The tragedy. The drama. The unpredictability. The excitement. The anticipation. The wonder.
His daughters, the bright lights illuminating his otherwise unremarkable existence, prepared a feast for him, spreading out on the counter, soup noodles, rice patties, meat roasted on an open fire.
His life did not turn out as he had envisioned. He did not go on adventures nor accumulate a large stash of copper coins – one reason for the lack of adventures. He did not grow to be tall. He mistook the mother of his daughters for the love of his life. A decade had passed since the woman left him for another. He felt no pain anymore, no longer blaming himself for her absence in his daughters’ lives, no longer searching for his failings to account for her betrayal.
There was no storyteller today. Erlong was too old for that even when he was a child. He remembered the storyteller from his fifteenth birthday, and how her gaze bore into him, through him, piercing into years to come. In the end, she never presented him with the lesson. Whatever the storyteller glimpsed in the future must have convinced her that Erlong had understood her teaching. Perhaps he did, eventually, decades later, now, not by her moralizing, but by struggling through on his own.
At present, Erlong valued less what his younger self once considered the essentials of a good life. Not that he would turn up his nose on copper coins. Not that he would pass over a trip of a lifetime. Not that he would stop seeking love. What he treasured these days were moments, a string of them stretching out in the road head. He had grown fond of them over the years, cherishing them, savoring them, embracing them, feeling their caress, not wasting their gift agonizing over the past, nor ignoring them, pining for a future that may never come. He had realized that life was not about executing a blueprint, not about racking up points, not about collecting along the way to have something in the end, not even about making the right choices, but instead accepting the consequences.
He did not become an enlightened man. He may never comprehend the decree of heaven. However, at fifty, Erlong had come to terms with, if not always appreciated, the entirety of life encompassed, the beginning, the end, and everything in-between. The joy. The yearning. The heartache. The messiness. The sorrow. The success. The tragedy. The drama. The unpredictability. The excitement. The anticipation. The wonder.
Originally from China, H. T. Brickner resides in America’s upper midwest with her husband, calling Minnesota her home. When she is not working on her engineering day job, she does a few things to stay active and live vicariously through the stories she reads and writes.
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