growing up with Grandmother any more than he could imagine her on the battlefield – though the two situations probably weren’t that different.
He waited for Grandmother to explode. Maybe he’d be grounded and wouldn’t have to go to the funeral. He wanted to hurt her for being so mean all the time, for letting his mother go off to war, for scolding him to get over it. All she cared about was her stupid collection.
‘Stop this ridiculous behaviour,’ Grandmother said. She didn’t sound very irritated. ‘It is beneath you.’
To Frank’s astonishment, she kicked aside one of her favourite teacups.
‘The car will be here soon,’ she said. ‘We must talk.’
Frank was dumbfounded. He looked more closely at the mahogany box. For a horrible moment, he wondered if it contained his mother’s ashes, but that was impossible. Grandmother had told him there would be a military burial. Then why did Grandmother hold the box so gingerly, as if its contents grieved her?
‘Come inside,’ she said. Without waiting to see if he would follow, she turned and marched towards the house.
In the parlour, Frank sat on a velvet sofa, surrounded by vintage family photos, porcelain vases that had been too large for his wagon and red Chinese calligraphy banners. Frank didn’t know what the calligraphy said. He’d never had much interest in learning. He didn’t know most of the people in the photographs, either.
Whenever Grandmother started lecturing him about his ancestors – how they’d come over from China and prospered in the import/export business, eventually becoming one of the wealthiest Chinese families in Vancouver – well, it was boring. Frank was fourth-generation Canadian. He didn’t care about China and all these musty antiques. The only Chinese characters he could recognize were his family name: Zhang.
Grandmother sat next to him, her posture stiff, her hands folded over the box.
‘Your mother wanted you to have this,’ she said with reluctance. ‘She kept it since you were a baby. When she went away to the war, she entrusted it to me. But now she is gone. And soon you will be going, too.’
Frank’s stomach fluttered. ‘Going? Where?’
‘I am old,’ Grandmother said, as if that were a surprising announcement. ‘I have my own appointment with Death soon enough. I cannot teach you the skills you will need, and I cannot keep this burden. If something were to happen to it, I would never forgive myself. You would die.’
Frank wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. It sounded like she had said his life depended on that box. He wondered why he’d never seen it before. She must have kept it locked in the attic – the one room Frank was forbidden to explore. She’d always said she kept her most valuable treasures up there.
She handed the box to him. He opened the lid with trembling fingers. Inside, cushioned in velvet lining, was a terrifying, life-altering, incredibly important … piece of wood.
It looked like driftwood – hard and smooth, sculpted into a wavy shape. It was about the size of a TV remote control. The tip was charred. Frank touched the burnt end. It still felt warm. The ashes left a black smudge on his finger.
‘It’s a stick,’ he said. He couldn’t figure out why Grandmother was acting so tense and serious about it.
Her eyes glittered. ‘Fai, do you know of prophecies? Do you know of the gods?’
The questions made him uncomfortable. He thought about Grandmother’s silly gold statues of Chinese immortals, her superstitions about putting furniture in certain places and avoiding unlucky numbers. Prophecies made him think of fortune cookies, which weren’t even Chinese – not really – but the bullies at school teased him about stupid stuff like that:
‘A little, Grandmother,’ he said. ‘Not much.’
‘Most would have scoffed at your mother’s tale,’ she said, ‘But I did not. I know of prophecies and gods. Greek, Roman, Chinese – they intertwine in our family. I did not question what she told me about your father.’
‘Wait … what?’
‘Your father was a god,’ she said plainly.
If Grandmother had had a sense of humour, Frank would have thought she was kidding. But Grandmother never teased. Was she going senile?
‘Stop gaping at me!’ she snapped. ‘My mind is not addled. Haven’t you ever wondered why your father never came back?’
‘He was …’ Frank faltered. Losing his mother was painful enough. He didn’t want to think about his father, too. ‘He was in the army, like Mom. He went missing in action. In Iraq.’
‘Bah. He was a god. He fell in love with your mother because she was a natural warrior. She was like me – strong, brave, good, beautiful.’
Strong and brave, Frank could believe. Picturing Grandmother as good or beautiful was more difficult.
He still suspected she might be losing her marbles, but he asked, ‘What kind of god?’
‘Roman,’ she said. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know. Your mother wouldn’t say, or perhaps she didn’t know herself. It is no surprise a god would fall in love with her, given our family. He must have known she was of ancient blood.’
‘Wait … we’re Chinese. Why would Roman gods want to date Chinese Canadians?’
Grandmother’s nostrils flared. ‘If you bothered to learn the family history, Fai, you might know this. China and Rome are not so different, nor as separate as you might believe. Our family is from Gansu Province, a town once called Li-Jien. And before that … as I said, ancient blood. The blood of princes and heroes.’
Frank just stared at her.
She sighed in exasperation. ‘My words are wasted on this young ox! You will learn the truth when you go to camp. Perhaps your father will claim you. But, for now, I must explain the firewood.’
She pointed at the big stone fireplace. ‘Shortly after you were born, a visitor appeared at our hearth. Your mother and I sat here on the couch, just where you and I are sitting. You were a tiny thing, swaddled in a blue blanket, and she cradled you in her arms.’
It sounded like a sweet memory, but Grandmother told it in a bitter tone, as if she knew, even then, that Frank would turn into a big lumbering oaf.
‘A woman appeared at the fire,’ she continued. ‘She was a white woman – a
‘A goat,’ Frank said numbly.
Grandmother scowled. ‘Yes, clean your ears, Fai Zhang! I’m too old to tell every story twice! The woman with the goat-skin was a goddess. I can always tell these things. She smiled at the baby – at you – and she told your mother, in perfect Mandarin, no less: “He will close the circle. He will return your family to its roots and bring you great honour.”’
Grandmother snorted. ‘I do not argue with goddesses, but perhaps this one did not see the future clearly. Whatever the case, she said, “He will go to camp and restore your reputation there. He will free Thanatos from his icy chains -”’
‘Wait, who?’
‘Thanatos,’ Grandmother said impatiently. ‘The Greek name for Death. Now may I continue without interruptions? The goddess said, “The blood of Pylos is strong in this child from his mother’s side. He will have the Zhang family gift, but he will also have the powers of his father.”’
Suddenly Frank’s family history didn’t seem so boring. He desperately wanted to ask what it all meant – powers, gifts, blood of Pylos. What was this camp, and who was his father? But he didn’t want to interrupt Grandmother again. He wanted her to keep talking.
‘No power comes without a price, Fai,’ she said. ‘Before the goddess disappeared, she pointed at the fire and said, “He will be the strongest of your clan, and the greatest. But the Fates have decreed he will also be the most vulnerable. His life will burn bright and short. As soon as that piece of tinder is consumed – that stick at the edge of the fire – your son is destined to die.”’
Frank could hardly breathe. He looked at the box in his lap, and the smudge of ash on his finger. The story sounded ridiculous, but suddenly the piece of driftwood seemed more sinister, colder and heavier. ‘This … this -’
‘Yes, my thick-headed ox,’ Grandmother said. ‘That is the very stick. The goddess disappeared, and I snatched the wood from the fire immediately. We have kept it ever since.’
