If Grandmother had had a sense of humor, Frank would have thought she was kidding. But Grandmother never teased. Was she going senile?
“Stop gaping at me!” she snapped. “My mind is not addled. Haven’t you ever wondered why your father never came back?”
“He was…” Frank faltered. Losing his mother was painful enough. He didn’t want to think about his father, too. “He was in the army, like Mom. He went missing in action. In Iraq.”
“Bah. He was a god. He fell in love with your mother because she was a natural warrior. She was like me—strong, brave, good, beautiful.”
Strong and brave, Frank could believe. Picturing Grandmother as good or beautiful was more difficult.
He still suspected she might be losing her marbles, but he asked, “What kind of god?”
“Roman,” she said. “Beyond that, I don’t know. Your mother wouldn’t say, or perhaps she didn’t know herself. It is no surprise a god would fall in love with her, given our family. He must have known she was of ancient blood.”
“Wait…we’re Chinese. Why would Roman gods want to date Chinese Canadians?”
Grandmother’s nostrils flared. “If you bothered to learn the family history, Fai, you might know this. China and Rome are not so different, nor as separate as you might believe. Our family is from Gansu Province, a town once called Li-Jien. And before that…as I said, ancient blood. The blood of princes and heroes.”
Frank just stared at her.
She sighed in exasperation. “My words are wasted on this young ox! You will learn the truth when you go to camp.
Perhaps your father will claim you. But for now, I must explain the firewood.”
She pointed at the big stone fireplace. “Shortly after you were born, a visitor appeared at our hearth. Your mother and I sat here on the couch, just where you and I are sitting. You were a tiny thing, swaddled in a blue blanket, and she cradled you in her arms.”
It sounded like a sweet memory, but Grandmother told it in a bitter tone, as if she knew, even then, that Frank would turn into a big lumbering oaf.
“A woman appeared at the fire,” she continued. “She was a white woman—a gwai poh—dressed in blue silk, with a strange cloak like the skin of a goat.”
“A goat,” Frank said numbly.
Grandmother scowled. “Yes, clean your ears, Fai Zhang! I’m too old to tell every story twice! The woman with the goatskin was a goddess. I can always tell these things. She smiled at the baby—at you—and she told your mother, in perfect Mandarin, no less: ‘He will close the circle. He will return your family to its roots and bring you great honor.’”
Grandmother snorted. “I do not argue with goddesses, but perhaps this one did not see the future clearly. Whatever the case, she said, ‘He will go to camp and restore your reputation there. He will free Thanatos from his icy chains—’”
“Wait, who?”
“Thanatos,” Grandmother said impatiently. “The Greek name for Death. Now may I continue without interruptions? The goddess said, ‘The blood of Pylos is strong in this child from his mother’s side. He will have the Zhang family gift, but he will also have the powers of his father.’”
Suddenly Frank’s family history didn’t seem so boring. He desperately wanted to ask what it all meant—powers, gifts, blood of Pylos. What was this camp, and who was his father? But he didn’t want to interrupt Grandmother again. He wanted her to keep talking.
“No power comes without a price, Fai,” she said. “Before the goddess disappeared, she pointed at the fire and said, ‘He will be the strongest of your clan, and the greatest. But the Fates have decreed he will also be the most vulnerable. His life will burn bright and short. As soon as that piece of tinder is consumed—that stick at the edge of the fire—your son is destined to die.’”
Frank could hardly breathe. He looked at the box in his lap, and the smudge of ash on his finger. The story sounded ridiculous, but suddenly the piece of driftwood seemed more sinister, colder and heavier. “This…this—”
“Yes, my thick-headed ox,” Grandmother said. “That is the very stick. The goddess disappeared, and I snatched the wood from the fire immediately. We have kept it ever since.”
“If it burns up, I die?”
“It is not so strange,” Grandmother said. “Roman, Chinese—the destinies of men can often be predicted, and sometimes guarded against, at least for a time. The firewood is in your possession now. Keep it close. As long as it is safe, you are safe.”
Frank shook his head. He wanted to protest that this was just a stupid legend. Maybe Grandmother was trying to scare him as some sort of revenge for breaking her porcelain.
But her eyes were defiant. She seemed to be challenging Frank: If you do not believe it, burn it.