Dragon Pearls

Once upon a time, two sisters lived in a small village in the Ryukyu Kingdom. Most days, they woke, rolled their futons up, and ate a quick breakfast of soy beans and rice before heading out to the sprawling fields. The plants, some taller than the younger sister, produced a plethora of green tea leaves. As they plucked the tea, placing it in wicker baskets on their hips, the older sister danced or sang. Scents of fresh plants wafted while the village elder served noodles and fish. When the sun sank, they returned to their one-roomed home and started a charcoal fire in the sunken hearth. As they listened for the familiar whistle of the cast iron kettle, the older sister prepared tea. The ceramic cups warmed their palms as tea leaves danced in boiling water.

One morning when the younger sister rose, the older one wasn’t able to move from the futon soaked with her sweat. Breakfast sat unmade as an air of sickness filled the room. In a panic, the younger girl asked the villagers for help and some offered to watch over her sister. The statue of Ryukyu rested in the center of the village, and she recalled the legends of the green horned dragon that helped those in need. The younger girl feared the worst if she did nothing and left the village to save her sister.

At the time of my sister’s first cardiac arrest that day, I was sipping green tea from a paper cup and she had been eating rye toast slathered in butter. She was 22 and I was 18. We sat side by side, the steam from the tea attempting to calm in an atmosphere where calm was impossible. The white tiled floors of the hospital felt cold beneath my sandaled feet, and I curled them next to me instead. In a brief glance, anyone could hear the beeping and dripping from dozens of machines and see the patch recorders attached to her and IVs coming out of her. A familiar dimpled smile rested on her face as she pointed a finger at me and made a clever remark. The monitor’s beeping sped up. I put the tea on the side table, letting her hold my hand. We both knew what was coming.

The younger girl journeyed to find Ryukyu. She wandered for hours, days, years. Whenever she came across people, she asked if they’d seen the dragon recently. Some laughed, others pitied her, but every once in a while, someone told her stories — these were her favorite strangers. They told tales of others meeting Ryukyu and each one included people losing themselves in the process. When she told them she was going to save her sister even if it meant losing herself, they found it admirable. She retreated into the mountains, far from civilization. She lived on what little she could find and soon abandoned much of what made her human. Only once she forgot her name and what she came for, did she come upon the dragon’s cave.

By the time of the second cardiac arrest — only minutes after the first — nearly 20 people filled the room to watch my sister as if she was a piece of art on display. If one were to judge her as art, they’d notice the aesthetic quality of the way her fingers paled as they wrapped around my hand. The originality of how her back arched with each electric shock resonating from the ICD inside her. The complexity of how white foam made its way to the corners of her mouth as she screamed.

The younger girl didn’t enter the dragon’s lair. Instead, she thought of Daruma, who sailed to India from China only to sit for nine years meditating. It is said that one day when he drifted to sleep, without hesitation, he sliced his eyelids off so he never lost concentration again. The kind god Quan Yin wanted to aid people in finding enlightenment and grew the first tea plants from Daruma’s eyelids.

The younger sister didn’t have the discipline of Daruma, and instead she meditated for only three days. The first day, she sat on the earthy soil. Bamboo grew all around her except near the cave where the ground was made of volcanic ash that caught in the wind and blew into her eyes. The second day, she admired the way leaves blew in the breeze and the clouds moved in and out of vision. She watched the sun rise and set and stayed still as night chilled her skin. The third day, she positioned herself within the mouth of the cave on the obsidian floor and faced the forest. On the fourth day, the putrid taste of the ash stung the tip of her tongue. She stepped within the cave, admiring its smooth, circular entrance in the untamed wilderness. Once she entered the darkness, the sweet smell of jasmine flowers bloomed through the air. She was reminded of home, her sister’s dimpled smile, and her mission.

When my sister woke from her third cardiac arrest that day and didn’t bother sitting up, I bowed my head as we cried together. She knew another was coming. After all, my sister can sense them the way people can tell if they’re being watched. One day when we were in the comfort of home, sitting in plush recliners with red carpet beneath us, she explained, “I can feel it in my chest getting faster and faster. It’s like my body knows what it is and accepts it.” I found it terribly cruel for a body to accept something so wrong as cardiac arrest. She went on to explain that the attacks feel like a baseball player stuck her in the chest with a metal bat. She made sure to enunciate and add the joke of “swing batta batta.” I smiled along, but worried, knowing she had been hit by a metal bat over 50 times in the past 5 years.

Once the younger sister reached the end of the cavern, moonlight filtered from an open ceiling in the obsidian cave onto the jasmine flowers surrounding the great Ryukyu. The dragon’s scales danced across its shimmering body as it stood tall, the massive horns atop its head reaching toward the heavens. Its golden eyes, ancient and deep holding infinite understanding, stared into her. It spoke only through her mind and asked her what she’d come for. She bowed, deeply, her forehead chilled against the smooth volcanic rock below. “I’ve come to save my sister.”

There were many doctors in my sister’s hospital room. Some were just observing, others had brought students to point out the signs of cardiac arrest, but three doctors there contemplated the best treatment. Steam from my cup tried to obscure the vision of my sister’s body, but it was a small cup and didn’t produce enough steam. The doctors dallied about as if she wasn’t dying beside me. As if they were writing a case study of someone already deceased.

One doctor, not on my sister’s team, had an angled face and long-tipped nose. He spoke loud over the chaos of beeping machines and talking people. He said to wait it out and see how many times of heart failure her body could withstand. My sister was merely an experiment to him. A rat trapped in a cage, waiting to be shocked for his enjoyment. And I had no place there. After all, the rats don’t have caretakers since no one cares if they die.

Tears welled in the younger girl’s eyes as she begged Ryukyu to save her sister. The great being gazed into her soul and agreed. His form swelled and curled around the cavern as a magnificent pearl around his neck shone in the moonlight. Inside the pearl, liquid spun perpetually as a single drop pooled into a tear, dangling before gravity pulled it toward the floor. The tear fell dozens of feet and slashed into the smooth rock which cracked and splintered, allowing the liquid to steep in. Within seconds, she watched as a plant sprouted, making its own place in the world as it grew from a crack within the obsidian. While she watched, the dragon disappeared, leaving her with the fragile plant and the jasmine flowers that grew up the walls.

My sister’s toast had fallen and my tea had gone cold around the fifth cardiac arrest. The toast smushed against the tiled floor, butter side down. Two small nibbles was all she ate before the attacks came on. Her cries and shouts were but incidental music to accompany the constant beeping from the monitors. As the machines’ tempo accelerated, her whimpers followed in unison. Tears left glistening streaks down her round face, providing a visual effect for the performance as her body jolted up once more and the crowd of doctors murmured their applause.

The younger sister protected and nurtured the plant. From it, delicate, young leaves grew. When the leaves were just old enough, she plucked them. With a sharp rock, she cut into a tall bamboo plant and the once towering structure fell. She sliced a section away and carved the bamboo into a drying tray. As she dried the leaves, she watched the way they curled in the gaze of the sun. When the leaves were ready, the younger girl infused them with the Jasmine flowers by placing them in bamboo containers with a layer of tea leaves, then flowers, and then more tea leaves. After, she pressed the layers together with a rock for weight. She did this five times, infusing the flowers into the leaves until her hands cracked and bled. Once finished, she twisted two leaves and one bud into a sphere, imitating the pearl from which the plant originated.

Somewhere between my sister’s fifth and sixth cardiac arrests that day, my hand numbed from the pressure of her grip. It turned a shade of sickly pale that I had never seen before. I tried to ignore the way my arm pulsated as if to escape the death that was becoming of it. My sister hadn’t spoken. She only moved when the ICD in her body shocked her back to life. I wondered if she was ever going to be okay or if we would sit side-by-side forever with her grasping my hand for life and me wishing I could give her mine. If my hand was comforting her, I’d let her hold it as long as she needed. Even if it meant being in pain for eternity.

On her way home, the younger sister saw her reflection in a pool of water. Wrinkles formed along her eyes and a streak of gray adorned her hair. At first, she was certain it was someone else but when she touched her sagging, wilting skin it reminded her of leaves drying in the sun. She realized how long she’d been away and how much of her life she’d missed. The memory of her sick sister surfaced and she wondered what she’d find when she returned. In a panic she rushed back, hoping the magical pearls in her hand would save her.

Adenosine. Amiodarone. More Adenocor. Syringe after syringe stabbed into her. Red dots swelled across her arms in their aftermath. The seventh cardiac arrest rose her body off the bed only for it to slam back down. The beeping from vital monitor stopped abruptly as her heart ceased and then reset as her heart pumped again. I thought of how many times in the last 20 minutes she’d been battered. I wondered how much scar tissue ran along the inside of her chest. The machines’ beeping faded into the background.

Upon returning, the younger girl couldn’t find her sister’s body in their home. But there were signs of life — several futons rolled up and put away, warm embers resting in the hearth. She went where they once picked tea together and found her older sister tending to the fields, a child on her back and a partner at her side. The younger girl clenched the pearls in her fists, not believing what she saw. Her sister was dancing as she sang to the child and tenderly placed the leaves in a wicker basket beside her. Upon locking eyes with one another, her sister smiled, welcoming her home with tears in her eyes. The younger girl opened her fist. The scent from the pearls were as sweet as ripe strawberries. They curled up with white streaks of jasmine flowers, forming a multitude of colors and textures within a single pinky-nail sized ball. Her sister complimented the tea pearls in her palm and explained what she’d missed while she was gone.

Her hand thumped heavily against the guardrail as I let go. I pushed through the crowd of doctors, students, and onlookers, tears wetting my face. I searched for a hot cup of tea, wishing to remember my sister for her smile, jokes, and dancing. Wishing to eliminate the memories of the day from my brain. By the time I found a cup of jasmine tea and returned, most of the crowd had left. The doctors induced her into another coma: her third coma of her life.

Weeks later, I curled my feet beside me as I sat in the same chair next to her bedside. I held a steaming cup of tea, sipping it softly. She avoided toast since the incident, and instead nursed a cup of orange juice. Her dimple smile caressed her face as she pointed a finger at me and made a clever remark.