Everyone in my family had sickly bones.
My eldest sister coughed three times for every three steps, spat blood every third day, and fainted every fifth.
My brother’s bones broke at a touch—one a month, seven or eight times a year.
I alone had a head of iron and a body of bronze.
I could ram a peach tree with my forehead to bring down the fruit.
The tree shook, the peaches fell, and I was perfectly fine.
When I was seven, an eminent monk passed by.
One look at me, and he blurted out: “Bronze skin over bone.
A demon born.”
I couldn’t be bothered to listen.
I charged him headfirst and knocked him flat on his back.
It took him ages to wake up.
When he did, he laughed instead of getting angry and asked my parents: “Would you have your children live long lives, sound in body and bone?”
“Take one bone each from your eldest daughter and your son.
Nurture them beside your youngest daughter’s heart, then cut them out when she turns eighteen.”
“Your eldest daughter will then rise like the sovereign moon, and your son will be the richest man in the realm.”
My parents trembled.
“And this girl?”
The monk held my wrist, half closed his eyes, and chuckled out a little song: “No future as a human.
As a beast, she’ll have plenty of room to roam.”
