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and her deception, forcing her into the street to fend for herself? Mu-lan straightened the Khan’s medal on her chest, clutched the emperor’s scroll in her right hand, and pushed open the gate.
    In the open door of the front room, Mu-lan’s mother sat weaving. She looked up. Mu-lan’s heart sank when she saw the lines that years of worry had left on her face. Her mother’s hair was beginning to gray. She looked older, ten years older, maybe even twenty. As she looked up from her weaving, she saw Mu-lan’s uniform and went pale. She cast a quick glance at a young man who had come around from the side of the house to see who had arrived. Mu-lan recognized his eyes. The young man was her brother. Of course. Mu-lan’s mother would be worried that the soldier standing in the courtyard was here to draft him. Mu-lan tucked the scroll inside her sleeve.
    “Mother,” she said. It was all she could say before a lump rose in her throat.
    “Mu-lan?”
    Mu-lan nodded and went to her. She put her arms around her and felt her cheek against her own.
    “Mu-lan,” her mother said again.
    Mu-lan’s brother left and returned with their sister and father. Mu-lan handed the scroll to her father, then removed the medal from around her neck and hung it around his. Tears welled up in his eyes.
    She went to her old room and took off her armor and her soldier’s clothing. She washed the trail dust from her body and hair. Then she dabbed on some of her sister’s perfume and powdered her face with flower powder. She took her old clothes from where they had been hanging in the corner, put them on, and fixed her hair. It had been a long time—ten long years of sleeping in armor and attending to her clothing only when battles and marches allowed. Mu-lan looked in the mirror. The woman who looked back pleased her.
    Mu-lan’s companions came that evening. She met them by torchlight at the gate. At first they looked right past her, scanning the courtyard for a young soldier in armor. But when Mu-lan spoke, their eyes widened. This woman in silks and perfume was the soldier they had fought beside for ten years. They stood rooted to the path, staring despite themselves.
    “Come in my friends,” Mu-lan said. “Let’s eat, and drink, and toast our new lives.”

 
    M uay Thai is sometimes called Thai boxing. Using hands, feet, knees, elbows, and shins, a Thai boxer batters an opponent until he is unable to continue. Because the sport is so demanding, Thai b oxers spend a good deal of time and ener gy strengthening their body to be able to withstand punishment. They are some of the toughest fighters in the martial arts.
    To this day, Muay Thai fighters dedicate one of their fights each year to a man named Nai Khanom Tom, a fighter who lived centuries ag o, back when Thailand was still called Siam.
     
     
     
     Twelve Warriors of Burma
     
     
    “Who is that man?” the king of Burma demanded as he looked out over the battlefield. “The man in front of the Siamese charge. Who is he?” The king’s aide looked where the king was pointing. It was not difficult to see which man the king meant. In the front of the battle, where the fighting was heaviest, a single man was dropping Burmese soldiers one after another. “Your highness,” the aide said, “that is Nai Khanom Tom.”
    “Nai . . . what was that again?” The king could not take his eyes off the magnificent fighter.
    “Nai Khanom Tom.”
    “And why is it that none of my troops seem to be able to defeat him?” the king asked.
    “Well, sir,” his aide stumbled for words, not wanting to insult the king’s troops. “Some say that Nai Khanom Tom is not even mortal. He is Siam’s greatest boxer, and has never lost a fight. Some say he cannot die, that he was sent by the gods.”
    “Hmmph,” the king said. “All men die. Even kings die. Send in the right warrior to oppose him, and you’ll see that this Nai person can die, too.”
    “Yes, your highness,” the aide replied