The Scroll of Chaos, page 1
For Jesse, Matthew, and Gillian
Title Page
Dedication
How Pangu Created the World
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Mortal Girl Who Saved a Realm
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
How Pangu Created the World
Before the world was the world, the entire universe was stuck inside a single gigantic egg. For thousands of years, the insides of this egg got all mixed up together. Really, this egg was quite the mess, full of confusion and disorder, where very little made sense. Eventually, though, order came along. The universe began to sort itself out so that everything was in balance. And inside the egg, a divine being named Pangu started to form.
He soon grew tired of being inside this one egg, huge as it was—he wanted out!—so he stretched and stretched, twisting and pushing, until even more thousands of years later, the egg finally burst open.
Pangu fell out and his body slowly began to transform. His eyes formed the sun and the moon, his hair the stars. His blood became rivers, his bones mountains, and his skin the soil. His breath shaped into clouds and the echoes of his thoughts formed into thunder. The fur that kept him warm grew into forests; when he got hot, his sweat turned into rain. Tiny insects crawled onto his body and soon became the first humans to walk the earth.
This is the myth of how Pangu created the world.
And how, before there was Order, it was Chaos that ruled …
The entire class goes wild on their instruments at the sound of the school bell. It’s become a regular thing at the end of Friday’s last class, and for about ten seconds, you’ve never heard a school band sound so off-key.
Mrs. Battiste finally claps her hands for quiet.
“All right,” she calls out over the still-noisy classroom. “Only one week until Spring Revival! Let’s try really hard to fit in some extra practice time this weekend. If you’ve already sold all your raffle tickets for the concert, make sure to turn in your stubs to the office. See everyone on Monday!”
As Libby Pearson (my best friend) puts away her violin beside me, she clumsily bangs the instrument against the leg of her chair. Her parents would freak if they knew, since Libby’s violin isn’t a rental.
I’m way more careful putting away my clarinet. One, because it is a rental, and my parents are always worried about the damage fees. Two, because it’s a wind instrument, making it easy for mold to start growing inside. If that happens, you’re inhaling that mold right into your lungs each time you play. And three, because not only is that bad for any player, it’s especially bad if you’ve got asthma. Like me.
My asthma is also why I started playing clarinet. “To help build up your lung power,” Dr. Park said when she suggested the idea to my parents. “Let’s get you some super lungs, Astrid!”
That’s me. Twelve-year-old seventh grader Astrid Xu. Star clarinet player at Quincy Elementary School.
So, okay, the last part isn’t actually true. If I’m the best clarinet player at school, it’s because I’m the only clarinet in this year’s band class. There would have been three of us, but Beatrice Myers moved away during the summer and Owen Chabra decided to switch over to trumpet last minute. And since I’m still working on those super lungs, it also means I’m just an okay player, which doesn’t bother me at all. Most of the time.
Jasper Choi (my other best friend) walks over, backpack on and saxophone case in hand. “Bear ate my whole booklet of tickets before I could sell any,” he tells Libby and me glumly. “I guess my folks are buying the entire two dozen.”
For every ticket a student sells, they get their name entered in a school raffle for a brand-new iPad. Every kid at Quincy Elementary—including me—is hoping to win. And Bear is Jasper’s golden retriever. He once ate all the buttons off my jacket, and he farts a lot whenever we take him for walks, but otherwise he’s a pretty great dog. Jasper’s parents are always asking Libby and me if we want to adopt him, but we know they’re just kidding. They spoil Bear nearly as much as Jasper does.
“I left my tickets at the restaurant’s front counter,” Libby says, snapping her violin case shut. “Our regulars bought them all up!”
The Pearsons own and run Butter, one of Vancouver’s fanciest and most famous restaurants. Not everything on the menu is made with butter, but everything still somehow tastes rich, which I guess is why eating there is so expensive.
I check my clarinet reed for cracks (there aren’t any) and store it away in my reed container (there aren’t any spares left inside; I’ll have to remember to refill it before next class). I close the flap and grin at Libby and Jasper. “Three booklets sold for me.”
My parents might not be rich like the Pearsons, and we don’t own a house like the Chois. But it turns out living in an apartment complex isn’t just great for when I’m in the middle of baking my family-famous apple dumplings and I’m an apple short. It’s also a gold mine for customers.
Libby’s mouth forms an O of shock. “No way! That’s awesome! Maybe you can sell some more this weekend.”
Jasper looks even glummer than before. “At least my folks might have a real chance at a door prize, right? C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
Libby grabs her backpack from beneath her seat. “Astrid, you ready?”
Ever since the end of winter break, I’ve been walking partway home with them. We split up at Forty-Ninth Avenue, with Libby and Jasper off toward their places in one direction and me to our apartment in the other. But back in the fall, Mom would drive Marilla and me to school and then pick us up again nearly every day. Libby and Jasper asked me once why she doesn’t anymore, and I just told them she got too busy with work.
Which is a lie.
I wipe out my clarinet with a drying cloth. “Sorry, my dad’s picking Marilla and me up today.”
Dad decided this morning to work from home, which is a sign of how he thinks the weekend’s going to go (hint: not great). He’s actually been working from home a lot lately, especially these past few weeks. Sometimes I wonder if he’s told anyone at his office why he’s not there. What would he have said? How do you explain a sickness you can’t really see—one that lives deep in your head?
“Okay, text us later,” Libby says to me.
“Hey, if you two want to come over tomorrow, I bet we can order in pizza for lunch,” Jasper adds.
“Sure,” Libby says. “We can bring Bear to the dog park, too.”
“Um, let me check, okay?” I say. It depends if Mom’s still in bed or not.
My friends wave goodbye and take off.
I finish putting away my clarinet, tucking each piece into its place in its velvet-lined case: bell, lower and upper joints, barrel, and mouthpiece. The case is the mini type, and after I zip it up, I slide it right inside my backpack. I’m not rushing or anything, but I also kind of am. Dad’s probably already waiting outside, and Marilla, too, impatient in the back seat.
Also … what if today’s the day everything actually goes back to normal? Since it’s Friday, we’ll bring home Chinese or Thai and eat while we all watch a movie on Netflix. The way we always do when things are right and Mom is fine.
“You sounded great today, Astrid,” Mrs. Battiste says at the doorway as we leave the classroom at the same time. “How are you feeling about your solo next week?”
She’s holding her teacher’s copy of Studio Ghibli for Kid Musicians. We’re doing a Studio Ghibli beginner’s medley for Spring Revival! (the exclamation point is part of its name, by the way). It’s a Quincy tradition that the students get to vote on a concert’s music theme, so songs like “Hot Cross Buns” and “Frère Jacques” never stand a chance (no offense to them). One concert, the school band did Star Wars songs, and for another, it was Top 2000s Hits.
“Pretty good,” I tell my band teacher, when my real answer is something closer to terrified. My solo for Spring Revival! is during “Path of the Wind” from My Neighbor Totoro. I’m pretty sure I’m looking forward to it as much as I look forward to getting a cavity filled.
Dr. Park did warn me that playing wasn’t actually going to fix my asthma, but that it would help me learn how to control my breathing, which would then make my asthma easier to deal with. She also said it would take time to show improvement. “Baby steps, Astrid! And lots of playing time, okay?”
I thought I could prove Dr. Park wrong about how long it would take. So back during Winter Fest (Quincy’s winter holiday concert), I strolled up onstage, sure my solo would be a breeze. The high notes were my kryptonite, but I’d been hitting them nearly every class.
The concert started out great. But the closer it got to my solo, the more I started imagining messing up in front of every
Even now I can shut my eyes and remember the feeling of everyone’s eyes on me, so heavy that I could barely play another note the rest of the concert. Marilla never makes fun of me for it, either, which is how I know it’s bad.
I’ve been skating along in band class ever since, hiding my playing behind the sound of everyone else’s. I skip high notes whenever I can get away with it. It’s only when I’m practicing by myself in my room that playing feels nearly fun again.
When Mrs. Battiste said we’d all get solos for Spring Revival!, I planned on faking a stomachache that night. But then Mom started to get sick again. She started to sleep way too much, the house would become oddly quiet, and Marilla and I never knew what to do, so we just argued to try to fill up that strange silence. That’s when I decided I would go to the concert, because if I have the chance to be great onstage, how could Mom not want to get better enough to come watch?
But now it’s nearly Spring Revival! and I still can’t play in front of anyone the way I could before the disaster. I guess I’m too scared to try if it means facing just how badly I’m going to blow my solo. Sure, some days go well enough that I can practically picture Mom in the audience, happy again as she hears me play with super lungs. But panic always ends up creeping close once more, making my air race away, so that I’m back at square one. Those days make the stage feel more for magicians than barely-able-to-play kid-clarinetists.
How am I going to figure out in a week how to get better so that I can make Mom better, too?
“Remember,” Mrs. Battiste says to me as she steps into the hall, “practice, practice, practice! I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully at the concert.”
Deciding she must have the shortest memory in the world for a teacher, I make myself smile back. “I’m sure, too.”
I push open Quincy’s front doors and stand on the steps. Our car is parked in the school’s drop-off/pickup zone.
Dad’s waiting in the driver’s seat. He’s checking his phone that he’s clipped to the dash. He’s a project manager, and whenever he works from home, he has to be online during business hours.
My younger sister, Marilla, is in the back seat, the top of her head popping up into view. She’s ten years old and in fifth grade. We both have the same long black hair, but she keeps hers pulled into a high ponytail for track and field while I leave mine in a low and messy half bun.
She sees me from her window, leans over the back of Dad’s seat, and honks the horn. “Hurry up!”
I climb into the back beside Marilla and pull the car door shut. “Hi, hi, thanks for waiting!” I set my backpack at my feet. “Sorry, it was band class and I had to pack up.”
“It’s totally fine; we barely waited.” Dad pulls out of the school lot and onto the road, whistling badly to BTS on the radio. His face in the rearview mirror is carefully cheerful looking. The more he works from home, the better he’s gotten at pretending everything’s okay.
“It’s not fine; we totally waited,” Marilla grumbles as she slides down in her seat. Her favorite track pants—her Bruce Lee ones, yellow with the black side stripe—are canary bright beneath the spring sun streaming into the car. “And you were definitely slow. I would have just walked home with Glynnis if I’d known you were going to take so long.”
“I was ten minutes, tops.”
“Who takes ten minutes to leave school on a Friday?” Marilla keeps grumbling, mostly to herself by now.
Glynnis is my sister’s best friend. Not only does she live in our apartment building, she and Marilla are in the same homeroom and they’re both on Quincy’s track team. Marilla’s over at her place a lot, especially on days like today—when it’s somehow hard to breathe at home, even though I’m the only one who has asthma.
I should be glad that she’s got a place to go where she can talk as much as she wants without having any worries at all. With someone like Glynnis who has a lot in common with her. But once that place was home, and once that person was me.
Through the car window, houses and shops and traffic slide by. Quincy’s one of Vancouver’s fastest-changing neighborhoods. Mom and Dad say we’re lucky we moved into the area when we did, which was when I was a baby and Marilla not even a speck yet, because everything that’s being built now is super expensive. A lot of their old favorite shops and restaurants are disappearing. I’m just glad we live close to most of my friends from school and that Banh Go, maker of the best banh mi sandwiches in the world, is still around.
Marilla lifts her foot to kick mine. I’m in sneakers, but she’s wearing real runners since she’s in track. Not only can she run way faster than me—her track teacher says she’s got a natural talent—she’s also taller and more outgoing. Libby and Jasper’s nickname for her is Marilla Godzilla (which she doesn’t even mind; when she heard, she just thanked them) because she demolishes everything in her way. Most people guess that she’s the older sister.
“Hey,” she says, “guess how I did on my science test.”
I quizzed her in the car on the way to school this morning. Science is one of her favorite subjects. “Ninety percent?”
“One hundred!” She grins at me so widely it’s like all our recent arguing never happened. Mom used to say we were stuck together with Xu Glue, we were so close. Like how it used to mean letting Marilla sleep in my bed on the nights she missed Mom most. It meant her not telling on me when I pretended to be sick just to stay home from school, thinking that if Mom was busy taking care of me, she’d forget the illness in her head.
“Hey, that’s excellent news,” Dad says from the front seat. “I think that calls for celebratory Screamers, don’t you two?”
“Yes!” Marilla shoots forward in her seat. “And extra swirls of ice cream?” Mac’s is on the way home, their slushie-soft-serve combos practically iconic.
Dad laughs. “How can we not?”
“You should tell Mom about your test when we get home,” I say to Marilla.
“Okay, sure.” But her face changes slightly before she picks up her phone and starts typing, ignoring me, and I can tell she won’t. She’s remembering the strange silence from this morning and avoiding it the way she always does. I don’t get why she does this when she’s supposed to be the brave one.
Dad’s phone chimes. He turns down the radio.
“Sorry, kids, work call. I’ll be done by the time we get to Mac’s, okay?”
In response, Marilla slumps down even farther in her seat and keeps texting. Glynnis, probably.
I unzip my backpack and take out a small book.
It smells of vanilla, the way very old books can. Its red leatherlike cover has gone as soft as fabric. There are tiny cracks running all across it, like a vein-filled leaf. The title on the front says A Handbook of Ancient Chinese Myths in faded gold letters.
I took it this morning from the box on the dining room table. Mom’s an appraiser for a chain of collectible shops, and she gets first dibs on any items they decide not to carry. After her coworker Raj dropped off the box before school, I ate breakfast while checking out what Mom wants to keep. There was a little jeweled elephant and a pearl-covered photo frame and a magazine on heritage tulips. But it was the book I couldn’t let go of.
Almost everyone already knows about the Greek gods and goddesses. Deities like Zeus (Roman name, Jupiter) and Athena (Minerva) and Poseidon (Neptune) and all the rest.
But my favorite myths are Chinese ones. Growing up, the stories Mom told us all came from Chinese mythology. There’s the goddess Nüwa, the Great Mother of humans, who patched up the sky with colored rocks when it got busted. Fuxi was a god and inventor who created things for mortals like coins and cooking and music. Hou Yi was the archer who shot down all the extra suns after too many rose into the sky at once, keeping Earth from burning to a crisp. Then there’s Erlang Shen, who has a truth-seeing eye in the middle of his forehead, and who wasn’t just an engineer who kept lands from flooding but also the demigod warrior who fights with his triple-pointed spear. There’s his loyal dog, Xiaotian, always at his side.
