“No one really knows enough to be a complete pessimist.”
.
A memory:
Po was always larger than the other kids at school; he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault that swings weren’t made to bear the inertia generated by a hundred pound occupant, nor was it in his physical capacity to will the see-saw to descend on the other side. He knew that he was heavier than anyone else, and they never let him forget it.
During one recess, a group of piglets and hares surrounded him, scrunched up pieces of his Mandarin assignment dancing dangerously in their trotters and paws. “Hey, Po! Do you know what the Chinese word for fat is?” one of the rabbits taunted, before pitching the wad of paper at him, inviting his classmates to partake in the hazing. Maybe it was simply an earnest mistake, or perhaps they had wanted to hurt him all along, but after the last paper ball fell to the ground he opened his eyes to watch the rock land squarely on his forehead.
Later in the school toilets he washed the blood down the sink along with his shock, his humiliation. He scrubbed at his forehead even as the edges of the wound pulled further apart, until it became big enough to fit him. Overweight, lardy, jelly-belly, obese, all of which were words he now knew that he was the meaning to. He won’t go back home and pour his heart out to his father, because that was what fat people did. He won’t confess his sins to the kindly goose teacher; that he allowed them to bully him by being fat. And as he lifted the wooden toilet seat and stuck a finger down his throat he felt safe for once, as if by controlling this small part of his life everything else would slowly fall in line.
When it was over he sat back from the damp wood of the commode, feeling the acid burn at his insides, filling the hollow that nothing else could permeate. Overweight, lardy, jelly-belly, obese. He realised that despite his temerity, this was the first time that he actually started to believe them.
.
When Po first discovered kung-fu, he could have never predicted that it would all start where it ended.
It was a hot Friday morning, and through the village there were the heavy footfalls of a large prey with lighter ones in pursuit. The teenage panda was a terrible runner, yet he skidded past fruit stands and cleared small walls, ignoring his strangled breath catching in his chest and the screaming protest from the muscles in his legs.
He took a wrong turn and ran into two very large pigs. They grabbed him by his arms and pinned him against the wall, allowing for their pack leader to catch up. The largest of them all (excluding Po), the leader stepped in front of him and thrust a fist into his stomach.
“Hey!” was all Po heard before something orange and white and black flashed in front of him. He blinked reflexively, and suddenly the leader was sprawled in the dirt. His friends bellowed in protest, stepping forward to accost the tigress. She executed two palm thrusts and a perfect roundhouse kick, sending them to join their leader before she stepped protectively in front of Po. Clearly outmatched by the mysterious feline, the porkers retreated.
The tigress turned around and extended a paw to the panting panda. “Are you all right?” Po nodded, still unable to verbalise any form of thanks.
“Tigress!” an elderly voice, full of authority, called out from behind the wall. “It’s time to go.”
She winked at Po. “Gotta go!” Through a series of quick acrobatics, she was over the wall and hidden from sight, leaving Po behind to contemplate what exactly had just happened.
He went home that night without the air of paranoia surrounding him for once, a burden lifted off his shoulders. Po walked home with a buoyancy in his step, imagining that it was him repelling the bullies, scaling the walls, a ghost of a smile curling his lip as he continued to fantasise.
.
Mr. Ping knows of his son’s newfound obsession, and frankly, he isn’t as worried as he thinks that he should be.
Po brings home manuscripts of kung-fu moves and memoirs written by old warriors, recording the different types of weapons and armours categorically, starting with a. He starts making odd noises every time he cuts the spring onions, swinging his cleaver in an unnecessarily wide arc before bringing it down on the chopping board with a decisive thud. While tidying up his room, Mr. Ping finds what he thinks are discarded sparring poles from the Jade Palace.
It’s just a phase all teenage boys go through, he thinks, laughing heartily as he fondly recalls the tofu. He shelves any possible problems as he wraps the soup spoon he purchased for Po, in preparation of the Noodle Dream that he is sure Po will have eventually.
.
It’s that dream again; the one he never wants to wake up from.
Demon Mountain looks the same whenever he returns, though the army rattling spears below it seems to grow bigger with every passing dream. He chalks it up to kung-fu comics before going to bed, or extra noodles with sesame oil downed hastily at dinner.
Po defeats extra warriors every time, as if every foe slain validated his worth just a little bit more, spiritual trophies stained crimson and ruby red. Brandishing his Sword of Heroes expertly, he severs arteries and draws illusory blood, feeding the silent bloodlust of his polished, jadeite blade. The Furious Five relegate the battlefield to him and fall back in awe and veneration, bowing with respect when he has cut down his last opponent.
When he wakes up he will return to his bowls of noodles and pots of soup in the confinement of the kitchen; even as he slices the vegetables he pauses for a fleeting moment and tries to convince (fool) himself that some part of him was different.
(He is anchored to the bubble of boiling water and bottled condiments by his silly hat and soiled apron, the broth in his veins, the proverbial ball and chain of destiny.)
.
Po never remembers it, but the warriors of Demon Mountain all carry the faces of those three bullies. Every single one of them.
.....