Garden of Empress Cassia Read online

  Puffin Books

  THE GARDEN OF EMPRESS CASSIA

  Mimi laid the box on the bench and opened it carefully. Inside were rows and rows of coloured pastels that shimmered in the light. She rolled them under her fingertips and her imagination began to fill with amazing pictures.

  When Mimi is given a box of magical pastels, she discovers that she can draw the Garden of Empress Cassia – a drawing so beautiful and real that people are transported inside it. But the pastels are ancient, mysterious and powerful, and in the wrong hands, can be very dangerous . . .

  Winner of the Children’s Division for Best Long Fiction in the 2002 Aurealis Awards.

  Contents

  About the Author

  The Shop of Strange Smells

  The Gift

  Four Seasons in a Day

  Mrs Lu’s Teahouse

  The Garden of Empress Cassia

  Awakening the Dragon

  The Story of Empress Cassia

  Dr Lu’s Return

  The Broken Promise

  The Curse

  Ghost Gum Park

  Sweet Dreaming

  About the Author

  Gabrielle Wang is an author and illustrator born in Melbourne of Chinese heritage. Her maternal great-grandfather came to Victoria during the Gold Rush and her father from Shanghai. Her stories are a blend of Chinese and Western culture with a touch of fantasy.

  The Garden of Empress Cassia won the 2002 Aurealis Award, was shortlisted for the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards and was a Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Book. The Pearl of Tiger Bay was shortlisted for the 2004 Aurealis Award and The Lion Drummer was a Notable Book in the 2009 CBCA Book of the Year Awards. A Ghost in My Suitcase won the 2009 Aurealis Award, was a CBCA Notable Book, was shortlisted for the 2011 Sakura Medal and received a Highly Commended in the 2010 Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. Her first young adult novel, Little Paradise, also received a Highly Commended in the 2011 Prime Minister’s Awards. Gabrielle’s picture book The Race for the Chinese Zodiac (2010) illustrated by Sally Rippin and Regine Abos was a Notable Book in the CBCA Awards for 2011 and shortlisted for the 2011 YABBA and WAYBRA awards. She has also written Meet Poppy, Poppy at Summerhill, Poppy and the Thief and Poppy Comes Home – part of the highly successful 2011 Our Australian Girl series published by Penguin. Her latest novel for children is The Wishbird.

  Gabrielle is an ambassador for the Victorian Premiers’ Reading Challenge.

  Find out more at www.gabriellewang.com

  Also by Gabrielle Wang

  The Pearl of Tiger Bay

  The Hidden Monastery

  The Lion Drummer (Aussie Bite)

  A Ghost in my Suitcase

  Little Paradise

  The Wishbird

  Our Australian Girl series

  (illustrated by Lucia Masciullo)

  Meet Poppy

  Poppy at Summerhill

  Poppy and the Thief

  Poppy Comes Home

  For my children, Lei Lei and Ren

  There were those at school who smelt of tomato sauce, others of garlic. And of course there was no avoiding the stench of BO after the cross-country run. But Mimi had a curious smell that no one could recognise.

  Mimi Lu lived in a two-storey shop that seemed to float on a cloud of strange smells. She was embarrassed enough that her home stank like a compost heap on a hot day, but the odour seeped into everything – her clothes, her pigtails, her skin – and could even be detected on her breath. Her parents forced her to drink all kinds of disgusting brews. The only way to get them down was to hold her nose until the very last swallow.

  At school she was called Smelly-Loo. Kids complained if they were asked to share a desk. She never told her mum or dad about the bullying. They wouldn’t understand. They might as well have come from Mars.

  ‘Remember, Mimi, you are Chinese. Be proud of it.’ The words rattled around inside her brain. They were empty words that didn’t belong to her.

  How can I be proud? They speak English with a funny accent that makes them sound really dumb. And other kids live in a proper house with grass and a garden. All I have is the footpath out on the street.

  Mimi sat at the old laminex table in the kitchen staring at her navy blue school hat. She was remembering what Miss O’Dell, her art teacher, had told her that day about chiaroscuro – how to paint light and dark. The more she looked at her hat, the more it looked like a mountain range with hills and valleys.

  Through the red curtains that separated the shop from the living quarters, Mimi could see her father putting on his clinic coat ready for the first patient.

  Ding ding-a-ling. The shop door opened.

  ‘Dr Lu, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can you see me now?’ came a voice used to giving orders.

  Uh oh. Mimi hid behind her maths book.

  ‘Of course, Miss Sternhop,’ replied Mimi’s dad.

  Miss Sternhop rapped her walking stick on the concrete floor. She was a solid lady with short, straight brown hair and two massive trunks for legs. The only thin part of her body was her lips. If Miss Sternhop ever collided with a car, it would be the car that suffered the most damage.

  She placed her wrist on a small cushion. Dr Lu felt her pulse. Was it weak or strong, stringy or full? He wrote on a pad in Chinese characters.

  ‘See your tongue please,’ said Dr Lu.

  Miss Sternhop opened her mouth wide and poked out her tongue. It was purple and thick and swollen at the edges.

  She looks like an iguana from the Galápagos Islands. Mimi stifled a giggle.

  On the back wall of the shop stood an antique wooden cabinet, with one hundred box-like drawers. The cabinet once belonged to Mimi’s grandfather in China. He was a herbalist too. Dr Lu didn’t know how old it was but he was always finding secrets from other people’s lives. Once he found a carved jade bracelet hidden in a secret panel at the back of a drawer. It was so tiny only a child could have worn it. There was a letter too, folded into the shape of a bird and pushed through the centre of the bracelet.

  ‘Aiya, family so poor, have to give away precious baby daughter. Before in China many people like this.’ Mrs Lu touched her heart.

  Mimi wondered what it would be like to live in China. If I was born there I’d look like everyone else. I’d fit right in.

  Dr Lu pulled one drawer halfway out and grabbed a handful of dried mistletoe. From other drawers he pulled out slices of fragrant angelica, licorice root and creamy white grains of Job’s tears. He weighed each herb separately, then divided them evenly into four paper packages.

  ‘This good for arthritis,’ said Dr Lu. ‘Drink two times every day’

  ‘How’s Mimi doing at school?’ asked Miss Sternhop.

  Mimi slid down in her chair.

  ‘Not good,’ Dr Lu replied, shaking his head. ‘She draw too much.’

  ‘That was her trouble when she was in my class last year.’ Miss Sternhop hardly moved her tight, thin lips. ‘Never concentrated. In my experience you’ve got to come down hard on children like that.’ She banged the counter with a clenched fist, as if she were squashing a helpless bug.

  ‘See you in a month, Dr Lu.’ Miss Sternhop strode out to join the stream of life on the street.

  When Miss Sternhop was well out of earshot, Mimi yelled from the kitchen, ‘I hate old Stir-em-up. She never liked me.’

  ‘Hate not good word, Mimi.’

  ‘But I do. She’s mean. The whole school was glad to see her go.’

  ‘Why you late today?’ Dr Lu wiped the counter with a feather duster then walked through the red curtains.

  ‘I told you already, Dad, Miss O’Dell is giving me special art classes after school. She says I have
real talent.’ Mimi hadn’t made a big deal of it. She knew her dad would be angry.

  ‘You need to concentrate on school work . . . not painting,’ he said, suddenly breaking into Chinese. He did this whenever he was serious or angry. ‘Painting is not a respected profession.’

  ‘But I love drawing and painting, Dad,’ she replied in English. Two years ago, Mimi had decided never to speak Chinese again. ‘I’m Australian not Chinese,’ she had said defiantly. She knew it made her parents angry, but it was the one thing in her life she had control over.

  Her dad waved his hand towards the yellowing photograph hanging above the altar table in the hallway and frowned at her. ‘Your nai nai and gong gong are watching, waiting for you to honour the family name. You have no brother, so it is up to you to please the ancestors.’

  ‘Oh phooey,’ Mimi said softly, then looked up, hoping the ancestors were hard of hearing. She felt the disapproving stare of her grandmother and grandfather on their ancestral cloud. Isn’t burning incense every day enough for you? Don’t you know that other kids’ parents say, ‘well done, you did your best’. They’re always being told how great they are. I get 98 for a maths test and Dad says it’s not good enough. All he ever does is criticise . . .

  ‘Tell your teacher you are busy after school. No more wasting time.’ Mimi’s dad broke into her thoughts.

  ‘But Dad, that’s not fair,’ she replied angrily.

  Dr Lu sat down at his desk, his back blocking the conversation. It was no use. He had shut her out as usual. Mimi had learnt long ago that Chinese children never argue with their parents.

  She stared at her maths book as tears melted the black digits into blurry grey blobs. Why did I have to be born into a Chinese family?

  Traffic was busy this morning on Rumba Street. Trams were banked up along the track like large green caterpillars playing follow-the-leader. Two men stood on the roof of a yellow tramway’s truck, fixing the power lines overhead, black wires playing noughts and crosses against the sky.

  ‘Hey ching chong,’ a voice yelled from a passing car.

  ‘Unfortunate beings!’ Mimi muttered, to keep out the hurt.

  ‘People like that, very unfortunate,’ her mum would say. ‘Their parents no teach them right or wrong.’

  As Mimi arrived at the school gate, the bell started ringing. This week’s number one hit, ‘ME-YOW’ by The Furballs, was blaring from the loudspeakers into the assembly area.

  ‘I thought we could do some pottery today, Mimi,’ said Miss O’Dell, walking beside her down the asphalt path. ‘I fired up the kiln yesterday’

  Miss O’Dell’s rosy cheeks stood out like little pink balloons as she smiled at Mimi. Her skin was smooth and soft, and when she spoke it was as though she was singing a gentle Irish lullaby.

  ‘Dad won’t let me come any more,’ Mimi replied sadly.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘He says I draw too much. I have to concentrate on school work.’

  ‘My, that’s a shame. But maybe if you work really hard, he might change his mind and let you come back. Give it a go, all right? Why don’t you drop by the art room on your way home anyway. I’ve got something to give you.’

  After morning assembly, Mimi slipped into her wooden desk beside Josh Rudd. She liked Josh. Everyone did. He had a broad smiling face and spiky fair hair and his voice would crack in mid-sentence. But best of all, he never called her Smelly-Loo. Instead he called her M.

  Josh was extremely untidy. His books would start in a nice neat pile at nine fifteen. By nine sixteen, they would slowly spread, like molten lava, across both desks, onto the seat, then finally spill over onto the floor. By three thirty, Mimi’s feet would be surrounded by books, pencils, pens, rubbers and rulers all belonging to Josh. But Mimi didn’t mind a bit.

  At lunchtime, Mimi sat by herself in her usual spot under the peppercorn tree, swinging her legs to keep away the flies.

  ‘Hey there, Smelly-Loo . . . what ya got for lunch today?’ chanted Gemma Johnson, the leader of the ‘cool’ group. She winked at her two offsiders Phoebe and Eliza. Gemma always wore her hair high in a ponytail which she would deliberately swing from side to side to attract attention. Especially the attention of Josh Rudd. She was jealous that Mimi got to sit next to him in class. ‘What a waste,’ she told everyone.

  Mimi grimaced, desperately trying to hide her thermos before Gemma could make fun of it. But it was too late.

  ‘She’s eating flied lice!’ Phoebe pointed and laughed.

  ‘Oh, puke,’ said Gemma sticking her fingers down her throat. ‘And look at these primitive eating sticks.’ She snatched Mimi’s chopsticks and rolled them under her shoe. ‘There, all nicely sterilised. Why don’t you use a knife and fork like civilised people?’

  Eliza and Phoebe giggled. ‘Seeya, Smells,’ they chorused and ran off towards the oval.

  Why won’t Mum give me a plain old sandwich like everyone else?

  Mimi had pleaded with her mum to pack normal lunches but her mum didn’t understand what the problem was. ‘Hot fried rice is surely better than a cold sandwich for lunch,’ she had told Mimi. ‘Cold food is not good for the stomach.’

  Suddenly, Mimi had lost her appetite.

  As soon as the bell rang for dismissal, Mimi grabbed her bag and raced to the art room. She loved the thick and slightly sickly smell of paint, and the brushes standing up in their containers like bunches of hairy flowers. The shelves were stacked with a new delivery of coloured paper, but it was the pure white paper that Mimi loved the best, lying there waiting to be given new life.

  Miss O’Dell stood on a bench pinning up giant papier-mache faces, with bulbous eyes and hairy noses.

  ‘Hello, Mimi,’ she said, her lips studded with drawing pins. ‘Come in, I’ll just be a sec’ She spat the pins into her hand and climbed down, then cocked her head to one side as she looked into Mimi’s face.

  ‘Something’s bothering you, I can tell.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Come on, what is it?’

  Mimi wasn’t used to telling outside people her feelings. ‘We Chinese keep them to ourselves,’ her mum always said, ‘that way we never lose face.’ But Mimi did feel a closeness with Miss O’Dell that she never felt with her parents.

  ‘I hate being a banana.’ The words echoed around the art room.

  ‘A banana?’

  ‘You know . . . yellow on the outside and white on the inside. I wish I didn’t look Chinese because I don’t feel Chinese. I feel just like everyone else. I hate it.’

  Miss O’Dell smiled her soft smile. ‘I know it’s hard being different, but that’s what’s wonderful about you. You are a Chinese Australian just like I’m an Irish Australian. And I think we’re lucky’

  ‘I don’t think so. Someone like Gemma Johnson is lucky. She fits right in.’

  ‘You might feel that way now, but as you grow older you will see how you can choose the best from both cultures. Sit down, Mimi.’ Miss O’Dell pulled out a stool. ‘You know, there’s something else, apart from your Chineseness that makes you different from others. You are an artist. You see the world in a special way – and you paint with your heart. Few people can do that.’ Miss O’Dell’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ve got an idea. If you don’t mind giving up your lunchtime, how about coming in twice a week, say Mondays and Thursdays? Your father surely wouldn’t object to that.’

  ‘Oh, Miss O’Dell, that’d be so great.’ Dad’ll never find out and I’ll be able to eat my lunch in peace, thought Mimi.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to give you something for a long while now. I think the time is just right.’

  Miss O’Dell went over to her bag and pulled out an oblong object wrapped in a purple silk scarf. She handed it to Mimi.

  ‘Open it,’ she whispered, as if she was about to share a secret.

  Mimi let the silk slip away. It was a long wooden box with a beautiful carving of a miniature oriental garden on the lid, with willows and pavilions and b
ridges crossing lakes. As Mimi ran her fingers over the honey-gold surface, it was like touching the finest silk or the smooth skin of a newborn baby. Flowing Chinese characters were carved around the sides and inlaid with mother of pearl. Mimi read each character out loud:

  Empress Cassia

  Supreme Ruler of all China

  80 Sticks of the Finest China Pastels

  A Treasure for Some

  A Curse for Others

  That’s funny, why would pastels be a curse? Mimi wondered, then put the thought out of her mind.

  She laid the box on the bench and opened it carefully. Inside were rows and rows of coloured pastels that shimmered in the light. The colours were so delicate they looked as though they had been made from the gossamer wings of fairies.

  Mimi rolled the pastels under her fingertips and her imagination began to fill with amazing pictures.

  ‘You must promise me one thing, Mimi.’ Miss O’Dell spoke in an unusually serious voice and a frown touched her brow.

  ‘What is it, Miss O’Dell?’

  ‘No one is to use the pastels but you. Look me in the eye, Mimi, and promise me now.’

  ‘I promise, Miss O’Dell. I definitely won’t let anyone use them. They’re too precious. Thank you so much.’ Impulsively, she gave Miss O’Dell a big hug. ‘I better go or Dad’ll be mad. Thanks for everything.’

  Mimi carefully wrapped the box up in the silk scarf and raced out the door, her mind brimming with pictures. She couldn’t wait to get home and start drawing.

  Mimi dumped her bag in the hallway and entered the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mum, has Dad gone out?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Your daddy go Sydney. Uncle Ting in hospital.’ Mrs Lu looked worried. She shook her head slowly. ‘He not live long, Mimi.’

  ‘Uncle Ting? But he’s younger than Dad isn’t he?’

  ‘His stomach no good, eat too much meat, too much greasy food.’

  Mimi hadn’t seen her uncle since she was six years old. She remembered how he had joked with her and recited beautiful Tang dynasty poems, each word rolling off his tongue like a polished pearl. How she wished her dad could be like him.