“Beatease,myfriend,”themonkwiththedarkerhairsaid.“Wearesimplymonkstravelingtheworld,doinggooddeedstoensurehappinessandkeepchaosatbay.”Theothermonknoddedandflashedherasmile.Mulan’sfaceremainedstony.Thedark-hairedmanwenton,pointingatthesmilingmonk.“ThisisBrotherRamtish.IamBrotherSkatch.Webringyoufoodandfellowship.”
Food?
JusttheworditselfmadeMulan’smouthwater.Andwhenthetwomonksbroughtthefoodout,anyremainingfearvanished.Droppingherweapon,shegrabbedaplateandsomericeandsatdown.Despitetheoverwhelmingurgetoshovelallofitinhermouthatonce,sheheardhermother’svoiceinherhead,tellinghertoeatslowly,withgrace.
ButMotherwasneveronthevergeofstarving
,Mulanthought,thoughshedidasshehadbeentaught.
Watchingher,Ramtishchuckled.Turning,helookedatSkatch.“Ithinkhe’sthemostpolitestarvingpersonI’veeverseen.”
Skatchnodded.“Yes,heisagentlemanofremarkablygoodmanners.”Hereachedtowardhisbag.“BrotherRamtish,Isaywecelebratethisrepastwithatasteofwine.”