Chapter 2
Wakefulness comes all at once, Harry’s eyes flying open as he braces for the usual rain of dust falling down onto his head, but all his ears pick up is the soft sound of voices somewhere in the distance. Slowly, the events of yesterday come back into his mind, being chased by Dudley and his gang, fleeing into the Buddhist temple, the man who saved him from his cousin, the other man. Tripitaka and Sun Wukong, he remembers through the lingering sleepy haze. Flinging the blankets off, he stumbles to his feet. In the bright light of day, Harry’s eyes are drawn to the hanging scrolls that line the walls. Graceful mountains in black ink rise up the page, while a road winds off into the distance. On one of them, there is a small group of travelers on the path, a horse carrying a man, another man, a vaguely pig shaped being and traveling by a cloud, a monkey. Black characters dance down the upper right corner of the painting, unreadable to Harry, but still remaining beautiful in his eyes. By the mattress he’d spent the night on, there is a small pile of neatly folded clothes, with a note on top.
For you, the note reads, and Harry nervously unfolds them. He finds that he has been given a pair of dark brown pants made of the softest material Harry has ever felt, and a soft long sleeved shirt, along with a pair of socks, underwear and slippers. Quickly dressing, keenly aware that there are two men who might be waiting for him, aware that he was already taking up their time and clothes, Harry nearly tumbles into the hallway in his desperation to find the men. Strong hands catch him as his arms spin, holding him firmly as he catches his balance.
“Easy,” Sun Wukong says voice warm and concerned, “there’s no rush.”
“I’m-I’m sorry,” Harry stutters, cheeks heating, “I overslept. Please forgive me.”
“Don’t apologize, you needed the sleep.” The words are firm, “I was just coming to wake you up so you could eat before we tell you what the next step is.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asks, “my scar can’t be healed.”
“We have a few cards up our sleeves,” Sun Wukong smiles, something toothy and almost viscous, “don’t worry. You will be free of your scar one way or another.”
He leans down to whisper in Harry’s ear as if he was imparting a huge secret, “I used to be a doctor, I actually healed a king once.”
“Is Harry awake?” Tripitaka’s voice floats down the hallway, away from the room Harry’d stumbled into the night before. When Sun Wukong calls back in an affirmative, he continues, “Good, I’ve just finished making breakfast.”
As Sun Wukong gently steers Harry towards Tripitaka’s voice, arm looped gently around his shoulders, Harry braces himself for watching the two men eat. His stomach growls, reminding him that it had been a while since he’d last eaten, and the smells that start to waft his direction are making his mouth water. In a small kitchen, Tripitaka stands beside a stove where a pot bubbles, gently spoon some of whatever it contains into pale white and dark blue bowls. On a small circular table, there are three places already set up, with cups of a white liquid that doesn’t quite look like milk at the top of each plate.
“Good morning Harry,” Tripitaka greets him, smiling in a serene way that makes Harry feel instantly calm. “Please wash your hands, I just need to finish dishing up the congee.”
“Yes sir,” Harry mumbles, walking over to the sink and washing his hands quickly. When he’s done, Sun Wukong is already sitting down at one of the places, as Tripitaka brings one of the bowls to the table. “Can I do that sir?” He asks, the question coming out instead of the other question that is bouncing around in his head, ‘where am I to sit? Who is the third place for?”
“I have it Harry, why don’t you go sit down?”
“Where?” Harry looks around.
“At the table with Sun Wukong,” Tripitaka tells him, voice strangely off. Harry blinks in surprise, as the other man pats the chair next to him, with an encouraging smile on his face. Gingerly, he sits down in the chair looking at the dishes already on the table. There were small bowls in the same white and blue design filled with different foods, some of which Harry can identify, while others he can’t. In a bigger bowl, golden brown pastries rise in a haphazard tower, while off to the side various sauces in bottles stand, ready to be used. A bare arm reaches across his view, placing a bowl in the center of the plate and he nearly jumps in surprise.
“Have you had congee before?” Sun Wukong asks. Harry shakes his head nervously, waiting for the rain of insults to come raining down on him, he knew it was better to admit ignorance and get punished then pretend to know and then mess up.
“You’re in for a treat, it’s basically a rice porridge but you can add toppings if you want.” Sun Wukong’s voice is off, like he is forcing himself to be cheerful. “Those are pickled carrots, green onions, fried shallots, pickled ginger.” As he speaks, he points to each item with a wave of his hand. “We also have youtiao, or fried dough sticks and for drinks there is fresh hot doujiang or hot soymilk.”
He turns to look at Tripitaka who is sitting down with his own bowl of congee, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going all out.” He comments, as Tripitaka rolls his eyes and they bow their heads. Hurriedly Harry copies them as Tripitaka starts speaking, the words unfamiliar and his tone rising and falling as if in song. When Tripitaka trails off, they all raise their heads, and both of the men start to eat.
“Eat Harry,” Tripitaka urges him, placing a piece of youtiao on his plate with a pair of long thin sticks. “It’s better when it’s hot.”
Hesitantly, Harry picks up the spoon by his plate and dips it into his congee.
“It’s better with toppings,” Sun Wukong tells him after he’s stuck his spoon into his mouth. “What do you want to try?”
There’s something rich and earthy about the congee, that comforts him as it slides down his throat. It’s hard for him to believe that anything would add to the congee, but afraid of disappointing his savior, he studies what is available, before pointing to the mushrooms.
“Do you want any soy sauce?” Tripitaka asks, and Harry nods.
Unbelievable, the food is even better with the toppings, and it sits easily in Harry’s stomach, unlike some of the other foods he’s eaten in his life.
“Try dipping your youtiao in your doujiang,” Tripitaka advises gently, when Harry has finished the bowl of congee. Blinking, he copies Sun Wukong, dipping the fried dough in the milk and trying it, unable to believe that he is not having his food ripped away from him. Instead, he’s being shown different food combinations, encouraged to eat more.
As he takes a sip of his doujiang separate from the youtiao, something clicks in him and the aches that plagued his body subsided. Knots of tension that Harry had always carried in his body start unraveling and something strange settles deep in his soul, the same feeling that he rarely found when out in his aunt’s garden. Despite the array of food laid out in front of him, Harry quickly finds himself unable to eat more, his stomach going from feeling pleasantly full to teetering on the edge of uncomfortably full.
“Take it easy,” Tripitaka advises him, dark eyes seeming to pierce to the core of Harry’s body. “You have not had good food for a long time, it is evident in your body.”
“Don’t worry,” Sun Wukong chimes in, “we’ll get you back to being healthy.”
That sounds like I’m not going back to the Dursleys, Harry thinks stunned, shoving the small bloom of hope that had started to bloom in his chest.
When Sun Wukong and Tripitaka have finished eating, Sun Wukong stands to clear the dishes. Harry rises to help the man, but Tripitaka gently and firmly places his hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his seat.
“Rest,” the man advises, “I wish to talk to you about what will be happening.”
“Am I going back to the Dursleys?” Harry asks softly, ducking his head.
“No.” The answer is short, but firm. “No, you are never going back there. What I wanted to say was there is someone we think can help with your scar, but we will have to visit her.”
“Oh,” Harry stares, unbelieving at his hands as he twists them together. He doesn’t really believe Tripitaka, but doesn’t want to call the man out.
“However,” Tripitaka continues, “she is very important, so we want to teach you how to greet her respectfully.”
“She’ll love you,” Sun Wukong chirps as he picks up a stack of empty bowls, depositing them in the sink as if sensing the nerves that rise in Harry. “Don’t worry about it, if you mess up she’ll understand. It’s just good to start off the visit on a positive note.”
“I won’t disappoint you,” Harry promises them seriously, “what do I need to do.”
“Come with me,” Tripitaka tells him, “Sun Wukong…”
“I’ll finish here, then join you.” Sun Wukong interrupts, “you go show him how to greet her.”
Harry watches as Tripitaka gently guides him through the proper way to bow to whoever he is meeting, kneeling on the ground and placing his forehead to the floor.
“It’s called a kowtow,” Tripitaka tells him as he sits on his legs, gesturing to Harry to copy him. “You try it.”
On shaking knees, Harry tries to copy him to the best of his abilities, wincing as his head bangs against the floor.
“Gently,” there’s a smile in Tripitaka’s voice, “you don’t need to headbut the floor.”
Again, Harry stands, before kneeling once more. He’s not as fluid as Tripitaka, but at least this time his head doesn’t smack the floor and when he sits up, copying Tripitaka’s seating position less gracefully, the other man is smiling at him gently.
“Good job,” he praises, and it’s the first time Harry’s heard those words directed at him.
Both of them practice the kowtow a few more times, before Tripitaka declares that he is ready and then guides him down the hallway to a closet.
“Why don’t you choose some clothes to meet her in?” He asks, pulling open the doors to reveal rows of shelves full of clothes in different fabrics. Stunned, Harry raises his hand to hover above the clothes, not daring to touch them with his own hands. They range in colors and designs, ranging from pale grays almost white, to black with silver threads embroidered on them.
“What are you looking for?” Tripitaka asks, but Harry shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what to look for. Humming, Tripitaka pulls out dark blue clothes and hands it to Harry.
“Why don’t you try this?” He asks, “it’s silk with constellations embroidered on it.”
Looking down at the small mountain of fabric in Harry’s hands, he is struck with nerves at the thought of putting on so many clothes.
“I’ll help,” Tripitaka reassures him, as if sensing his dilemma. Unsure of what to do, Harry simply dips his head in agreement.
It’s a good thing Harry allows Tripitaka to help him because he doesn’t know how he would have put on the outer robe by himself. The shirt and the wide-legged pants he is given are slinky made of dark blue cloth with star patterns on them. With Tripitaka’s help he wraps the dark blue robe around his body, that starts from a lighter blue at the bottom of the garment and steadily darkening to black on his shoulders. A belt of pale gray with what look like clouds put on it, is wrapped around his waist tying the garment together.
The clothes feel awkward on Harry’s body, and looking at himself in the mirror, he can barely recognize the image that stares back at him.
“It looks good,” Tripitaka tells him, proudly, his smile reflecting in the mirror and into Harry’s memory. “Are you ready?”
Taking a deep breath, flattening his hair over his scar, Harry nods.
“I’m ready,” he lies.