The Tale of Iroh.
There was music to be found in marketplaces.
Iroh could hear it everywhere. The steady beat coming from shoes as customers drifted from tent to tent. Tambourine notes of gold, silver, and copper pieces exchanging hands, dropping into cashiers' boxes, or jingling in pockets. Bell-like laughter from children, staccato bartering between traders, trumpeting calls from vendors—it all swirled around him, an ocean of music.
I am much happier while shopping in this city, he thought, than I could ever be laying siege to it.
Ba Sing Se had its own methods of changing a person. It had done wonders for him, that much was for certain: a month ago Iroh had been stuck on a ship of iron and steel, watching his only nephew burn himself out by chasing after a ghost from the past. He had known that it was only a matter of time before the Fire Lord, his very own brother, would turn them both into fugitives. It hadn't caught him by surprise at all.
Prince Zuko, on the other hand, hadn't fared too well with being exiled in the first place. And being betrayed by his own flesh and blood...well, his nephew was still finding ways to cope with it. A Prince wasn't supposed to be a renegade. Royalty didn't have to search for jobs, beg for spare change, or sleep outside. The fact that Prince Zuko had controlled himself enough not to burn the city to the ground...well, it was commendable, at the very least.
But now look at us, Iroh reflected, smiling as he thought about his good fortune. Working in a grand impenetrable city, no longer under the rule of a tyrant, and actually having enough money to walk through a marketplace, looking for whatever catches my eye.
And something did.
It was a picnic basket. Finely woven from lake reeds, large enough for a decent meal to be carried in.
It will be perfect for carrying my…
He did not consciously allow himself to finish the thought.
Instead, he stepped closer to examine the product, smiling to himself, running calloused fingers gently over the basket lid. Goodness, it even felt warm to the touch. Fine wood, that. He looked up into the eyes of the approaching shopkeeper, an elderly gentleman with a bald head who was just as skinny as Iroh was round.
The shopkeeper used on hand to gesture at a different basket. "If this is for a romantic picnic," he said, "may I suggest this lavender one?"
"No, it's not a romantic picnic," Iroh smiled and laughed while reaching into the folds of his robe. "But it is a special occasion." His hand came out holding a gold piece. The same one that he'd had to dance for, in the middle of the street, just one week ago. Trading it for the basket almost seemed to make the sun shine even brighter.
Slinging the basket over one shoulder, he walked a few paces down and was almost to the next tent when his twinkling eyes landed on a yellow flower sitting in a vase. Its petals were closed, drooping— like a head bowed downward to escape the glare of a sky that was much too bright. Iroh pushed the vase back a couple of feet into the tent's shade cover.
"The moonflower likes passive shade," he explained to the shopkeeper. Indeed, the yellow blossom seemed to breathe in the cool darkness. The shopkeeper saw this and his eyes brightened with delight. Iroh offered him a farewell and a bow, then set off once more.
The next thing to catch his eye was over at a tent that sold finely crafted musical instruments. The man behind the counter here simply nodded at him and resumed working, putting the final touches on a four-string guitar. Iroh marveled at the impressive collection of instruments that the man had created: multiple reed flutes, drums of every size and percussion, string instruments from harps to single-cord timekeepers…
This is a man who knows what he does, and loves every minute of it.
Iroh opened his mouth to ask about the price of a flute, but was interrupted by a sound known in supermarkets the world over.
The screech of a cranky, crying child being dragged along on a shopping trip.
He looked over at the source of the scream, along with a multitude of other shoppers. Tiny as a doll, a little boy stood in the middle of the street with tears practically shooting from his eyes in a fountain. His distraught mother sank down beside him, offering words of comfort.
"It's okay…shhh…it's okay…it's okay…"
Her words did nothing to sooth the child—if anything his wails got even louder.
Within a matter of seconds, only two things could be heard in the entire marketplace. The first was easily recognizable as The Cries Of A Young Boy On The Verge Of Getting Spanked For Causing A Ruckus. The second sound was nearly drowned out by the first…but it wasn't vocal, and it seemed very out of place in that particular setting.
It was the sound of a newly made four-string guitar.
Iroh walked slowly towards the mother and child, plucking one note after the other in a calm rhythm, playing a song he hadn't practiced in years. It made no difference. The music had never left him.
"Leaves on the vine…falling so slow…
Like fragile, tiny shells…
Drifting in the foam…
Little soldier boy, come marching home…
Brave soldier boy, comes marching home…"
The child stopped his crying, looking up at the old man playing the music, replacing his screams with confused sniffles. Iroh watched his eyes go from tearful to trickling, then nervous innocence, like he was suddenly more interested in figuring out just what was going on, why this strange old man was calling him a soldier...not that he didn't mind...he'd always wanted to be a soldier...
Perhaps his mother never sang to him…
The boy reached one hand forward and gave a surprisingly strong tug on the tip of Iroh's gray beard.
"Yeowch!"
Giggle…
Iroh looked down at the boy and saw him laughing, hiding behind his mother now. The poor woman didn't know what to think—how could she apologize to this man who had just saved her from death by embarrassment? Iroh looked at them both—the mother grateful and afraid, the boy now laughing, and decided that having a couple old whiskers being yanked was a fair trade-off.
He stood and waved, smiling with his whole being to show them both that everything was all right, and gave the gitar back to its owner before slinging the basket back over one shoulder and setting off to find a place where they sold apples.
Walking out of the marketplace, Iroh came upon more children.
This time it was a group of four boys playing in an empty lot. Two were earthbenders—they created stone pillars and curving ramps to sling a ball back and forth from each other, trying to make it into the goals at either end. Their talents were impressive, Iroh had to admit: even the two boys who couldn't earthbend were holding their own, kicking the ball every which way. He wondered how the goalies kept track of the thing—
Like he himself should've been doing.
An unlucky kick rebounded the ball off of one stone pillar and sent it streaking toward the old man's head like a comet. He was lucky enough to duck in time—but his luck lasted only half a second, its end announced by the crash of breaking glass and the indignant shout of a homeowner who just found a ball shooting through his window.
The boys all froze. Unsure of what to do.
Iroh himself looked back at the broken window and felt guilty; had he been hit, everything would've been all right. A bloody nose would've been the worst damage, and the boys would have learned a lesson to play more carefully anyway.
He straightened up and walked to the group. They all looked lost. Run? Take responsibility? Which path to choose?
"It is usually best," Iroh offered them with a voice like a warm tea kettle, "to admit mistakes when they occur, and to seek to restore honor."
BOOM!
Pounding footsteps shook the house, and a giant's face filled the broken frame.
"WHEN I'M THROUGH WITH YOU KIDS, THIS WINDOW WON"T BE THE ONLY THING THAT'S BROKEN!"
"…but not this time," he amended. "Run!"
The kids took off in separate directions, and Iroh, with vigor that surprised even himself, followed his own advice. Shooting through the city streets like an arrow, he twisted and turned down one random street after another, paying no attention to his destination, only hoping that the angry giant would find no one to punish except his own feet...Iroh's certainly had enough weight on them to feel each lunging step…
After a solid minute, he leaned back against an alley wall and listened. No pounding footsteps. Only his heart. Which was good—gray hair and wrinkles aside, old Uncle Iroh still had it in him. And the boys had almost certainly gotten away; it didn't matter what city you were in, children always knew how to escape from angry adults.
He placed his picnic basket on the ground and peered around the corner, checking to make sure the coast was clear.
"You!"
The hiss from behind practically scared him right out of his skin. Iroh turned and found not a giant, but a small, skinny man pointing a very wicked looking knife at him. His voice was low and deadly, urgent, but not loud enough to attract the attention of anyone nearby.
"Give me all your money."
He stepped closer to accentuate his threat. Even with the knife in close proximity, Iroh couldn't help but notice how closely the thief's knees were to each other.
The old man turned and raised an eyebrow at the thief. "Ah, what are you doing?"
"I'm mugging you!" His tone of bewilderment asked silently, What does it look like, old fool!
Iroh gestured with one hand at his knees. "With that stance?"
"Wha…? What are you talking about?" The skinny thief looked down at his knees quickly, then decided that altering his posture would have to wait until later. "Just give me the money, old man!"
Eyes shut, lips pressed together, head shaking slowly, Iroh admonished his assailant in a tone of voice that was normally reserved for his nephew. "With a poor stance you are unbalanced, and can be easily knocked over."
His words were prophetic. Snatching one hand forward, Iroh grabbed the thief's wrist and yanked him closer, then drove the palm of his other hand into the thief's chest. It was a perfect demonstration. The sudden knocking-about lifted the man off of his feet and he sprawled onto his back in the dirt.
Iroh spun the knife, now in his own hand.
Then he reached down and helped his assailant up from the dirt.
"With a solid stance," he instructed, giving the weapon back while planting both feet firmly into the ground, legs bent. "You are a much more serious threat."
The thief looked at him like he was crazy, weighing the results of what had just happened in his rattled mind. He eventually decided that, if there was anything to learn from this, he might as well understand it.
Iroh gave him a congratulatory smile when the thief mimicked his stance, then offered a few adjustments; a straighter back here, a head lowered more into the shoulders there…then stepped back to view his handiwork.
"Much better!"
The thief, once hard-eyed and angry, couldn't keep the spark of pride from reaching his eyes.
"But to tell you the truth, you do not look like the criminal type."
The man was fully aware of that. "I know," he admitted. "I'm…I'm just confused…"
Iroh placed a brotherly hand on the man's shoulder. It was easy to see why. There was a war on, after all.
Ten minutes later, Iroh poured a steaming trail of herbal tea into a small cup. A cup held by the same hands that couldn't properly wield a knife.
"So you really think I could make a good masseur?"
"Of course!"
Iroh had noticed right away that Lee's hands—that was the man's name, what a coincidence, the same alias that Zuko had—were meant more for comforting and healing others instead of assailing them. After telling Lee this, the skinny man had opened up a little and proved to be a fair drinking companion, telling stories of how he had once been inspired by a blind massage therapist that had healed his back in a matter of seconds. Iroh, in kind, offered his own input that in a city filled with people—especially refugees who were injured from hard living and long travels—there could be plenty of business for a man who could give even so much as a proper foot massage.
"This is so…great," Lee said.
Iroh sipped at his cup and smiled.
"No one has ever believed in me…"
"While it is always best to believe in oneself," he sighed, staring pensively into his teacup, "a little help from others can be a great blessing."
The man looked down at the contents of his own cup. And for the first time in months, he felt hope and possibility grow, warming his heart, just as the tea warmed his belly. And the tea itself wasn't half bad, either.
As the sun went down, Iroh found himself climbing to the top of a hill. It was a special place, one he had never been to but nevertheless had picked out days before. A large hill, yes, and a bit of a hike for an old man carrying a picnic basket over one shoulder, but the magnificent view of the entire Ba Sing Se city and the beautiful oak tree at the top was a destination that old Uncle Iroh would never be strayed away from. Not on this day.
This day, after all, was special.
He reached the top of the hill and placed the picnic basket down on the soft grass. The sun was setting behind the city walls—the clouds painted the departing rays into a palette of warm reds and purples. A truly beautiful painting, moving in the sky, a one-time-only performance for an audience of a single old man.
At the base of the old oak, Iroh turned his back on the sunset and reached into the basket, pulling out one item after another. Two flat stones…a folded blanket…a small pouch of pipe tobacco…three apples… each was taken out with reverence, and each was positioned in its proper place. When he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, Iroh slowly bent it back into shape and stared, once more, at the drawing. He closed his eyes. Then he placed it down with the others. The lighting and positioning of twin incense sticks completed the little construction project.
A tiny altar.
"Happy Birthday, my son."
The face that looked back at the old man from the parchment was young, but mature just the same. The artist had captured the subject's youthful eyes with masterful precision, eyes that could see into an old man's very heart, even after decades. Eyes that were incapable of judging anyone. Eyes that had always been so quick to reveal the deep well of emotions that the young man had once kept.
Iroh knew that Luten, his son, was proud of him.
Even now, the old man could feel his son's arms once more wrapped around his waist.
Today I helped a shopkeeper feed his family with the gold piece I gave him for that basket. I helped a mother and her little boy avoid public shame and tears. I gave a small bit of wisdom to a group of kids and helped them escape from harm. And I helped turn a desperate man away from doing terrible things, pointing him in a direction to help himself and help others.
Iroh closed his eyes. Diamond tears spilled over and formed a path down both cheeks.
"If only I could have helped you…"
He knew what Luten would say. He would say that it wasn't his fault. Soldiers go to war. Sometimes they don't come back. He had served his nation and given his everything, even dying in the manner that Luten had always said he'd want to go—Dad, I live a good life by helping my people. Doesn't it make sense that I can die a good death the same way?
Iroh kept his eyes shut.
The tears found their way out, anyway.
Then the shuddering.
Then the song.
Leaves on the vine…
Falling…so slow.
Like fragile, tiny shells,
Drifting in the foam…
Little…soldier boy…
Come marching home.
Brave…soldier boy…
Comes marching home…
In Honor of Mako