I am a tree spirit, born in the snow-swept twelfth month, upon the peak of Fulong Mountain — this opening line I have recited for three years.

The first year, I was searching for someone. No, not a person — a dragon who had fled the Eastern Sea. This dragon had taken the form of a man, and between us had been woven a thousand years of entanglement, of love and hatred, of parting and reunion, endless and inexhaustible. Later, he vanished for twenty years. One hiding, one searching — I grew weary of the hunt, and so in that city called Wang Chuan, I opened a small shop. I named it “Bu Ting,” and it sold sweets. The customers I met that year were just like the desserts in Bu Ting — a thousand shapes and flavors, each with their own taste. Of course, the great majority of them were not human. They were spirits, and they came to find me not out of any desire for food or drink. Most of them only shared a cup of tea with me and told me a story.

The tea I poured for them was bitter enough to offend both gods and mortals alike. You always had to endure the urge to recoil, to fight past that first moment of resistance at the tip of the tongue, before you could taste something entirely different — sweetness.

That tea was called “Fu Sheng.”

By the year’s end, I had married. No — that isn’t right either. I had married that dragon.

When we returned from our honeymoon, another year had passed. I came back to that quiet little alley, to the home that had waited empty for more than three hundred days, brushed the dust from my clothes, and returned to my old life. That year, Bu Ting became a proper inn as well. A mysterious visitor gifted me a lantern woven from gauze the color of soft smoke, accompanied by four lines of verse:

Pause your steps and drink my tea — One night, a dream of floating life. Go forth and ask no more of it; White clouds stretch on without end.

I loved that gift from the bottom of my heart, even though the one who gave it nearly led this world into ruin.

For the sake of all that, my husband, the guests, and I had all gambled with our lives, throwing ourselves into frantic struggle — but fortunately, it was not wasted effort. Humanity survived. The world remained intact.

Yet for me personally, the greatest change that year was that I went from being the proprietress to being a pregnant proprietress.

About the matter of becoming a mother, I remained quite calm. The one who was not calm was the child’s father. I won’t dwell too long on that man — he had run through every manner of flustered, embarrassing thing imaginable. Every book on child-rearing he could find, he had bought and brought home, reading by lamplight deep into the night with utter devotion, even filling several large notebooks with study notes written in his appallingly ugly handwriting.

I, too, had stared into the mirror countless times, noticing no particular change in myself — not even the slightest shift in my figure. Only occasionally — rarely, in those rare and fleeting moments — would I sense, like a flash of lightning, another vivid life moving inside my body: reaching out a hand, kicking a leg. I would imagine all the small gestures of this little creature, and find myself smiling without meaning to.

Indeed, one cannot measure by human standards. My child has a spirit-mother, and a father of dragon lineage. When I think on it, it feels chaotic, even inconceivable — and yet instinct still made me look forward to his or her arrival into the world. That anticipation was quiet and secret, a sweetness like honey that I never let show outwardly.

By everyone’s thinking, I ought to spend this year never venturing beyond my own threshold, content to stay in my Bu Ting, being waited upon with good food and drink, with no need to run the inn at all. Our family lacked for nothing, least of all gold — I need only round myself and my belly out nicely, and that would be contribution enough to earn the blessings of heaven.

So what did I actually go and do?

You don’t yet know where I am while saying all of this to you, do you? I’m sorry to say, dear audience — at this very moment, I am seated in a second-hand BENZ LMC motorhome, happily gripping the steering wheel, driving with my chin held high along a country road generously sprinkled with cattle and sheep.

Who says a spirit must go flitting through the air? Who says a spirit cannot sit an exam and honestly earn a driver’s license? I am probably the only eccentric in the entire spirit world to have obtained an officially recognized, state-issued driver’s license! As for things like identity cards and household registration, there is no need to worry — fabricating a human identity is the easiest thing in the world. And what’s more, last year I was the first in my driving cohort to pass the test!

Still, being a new driver on the road, and on my first solo long-distance journey at that, I hadn’t dared to be too reckless with my speed… Hmm? Why alone?

You’ve already grown so accustomed to thinking of me alongside that dragon, and the strange assortment of creatures in Bu Ting, haven’t you? Tsk, tsk — I’m afraid I can’t oblige you this time, because I left a note and slipped away on my own. Quite outrageously, I arranged for myself an entirely new long-distance journey.

I left Bu Ting behind, but I took the lantern that hung beneath the eaves — it now hangs behind the back door of the vehicle. I left behind Mister Zhao and Chi Pian’er, but I took the family portrait we took together, tucked into my coin purse. I left behind Ao Chi, but I took along the child I carry for him.

Don’t worry — there is no discord between Ao Chi and me. I did this out of more careful consideration.

Because a predictable kind of trouble had arrived — not long before, the Heavenly Emperor had once again dispatched that disagreeable War God to the Eastern Sea, naturally on account of that mystery-laden “Twelve Coffins of the Spirit Phoenix.” He declared it the Heavenly Emperor’s command to retrieve those items early. The Dragon King could only demur, saying that the dragon realm was a sacred place of the Eastern Sea, and the proper day for opening it was a matter of great ritual significance — one could not simply open it whenever one pleased. He told them to come again before year’s end. Fortunately, the Eastern Sea dragon clan does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Heavenly Realm, and even the War God Liao Yuan, exalted as his position was, had to accord the Dragon King a measure of respect — but clever as Liao Yuan was, how could he fail to sense that something was amiss?

Recovering the remaining eleven pieces of cyan amber — disguised as the eyes of a phoenix — could no longer be delayed. The day after Liao Yuan’s departure, the Dragon King came to Bu Ting. He didn’t even sit down before placing something on the table before Ao Chi and me — a stone. Egg-sized, rough and sandy-yellow in color, its jagged edges carrying an indelible sense of age. But what was strange — what was truly strange — was that right at the center of this stone, a small flower had grown forth, tender and bright yellow, as adorable as a newly-hatched chick.

This was unmistakably a life that had grown from within the stone itself, vivid and alive in the truest sense. I had wondered whether a seed might have happened to lodge itself in a crack — but though the surface of the stone was rough, it was naturally seamless. Stranger still, when you held it up to the light, you could faintly glimpse the interior: the stem and roots of that little flower genuinely grew from inside the stone, utterly of one piece with it.

The Dragon King said that the cyan amber he had brought back to the Eastern Sea had shed its outer jade shell the very next day, becoming what we now saw. No one had anticipated that this cyan amber concealed an entirely different world within. Previously, everyone had taken it for nothing more than a jade seal binding a fierce beast.

The Dragon King’s conjecture about this strange development: the stone itself was the true seal, and for some unknown reason, someone had added an additional layer on top of this seal, causing us to mistake the outermost cyan amber for the whole of the binding. Thinking of it this way — what manner of thing could require two layers of containment to hold it?! Recalling the fierce battle with You Qu the previous year, my stomach began to ache.

And yet, when I picked up the stone to examine it closely, that was when things reached their pivotal point — the instant my hand touched the stone, I was “burned.” Invisible flames leapt from deep within it, burrowing into my skin and flesh. It was not exactly painful, but the sensation in that split second was enough to make me want to weep. Grief and helplessness, longing and entrusted hope — all tangled together in a strange knot, striking me in the chest, then gone without a trace.

My hand slipped. The stone clattered to the floor.

Ao Chi thought I had simply fumbled it. He picked it up and looked — the stone was completely intact, but a single character had appeared on its surface, plain as something that had been carved there all along: a clear and unmistakable “北” — North.

We were all certain that character had not been there before.

We exchanged glances for a long while. North?

Could it be some form of enigmatic guidance?

Ao Chi said suddenly: to the north of the Eastern Sea, there was a vast island perpetually veiled by thick fog. No one set foot there ordinarily — the island was simply called Bei Shan, the Northern Mountain. Was this character pointing us there to find the remaining cyan amber?

The Dragon King thought it was worth following this lead.

My own thought, however, was that the character “North” perhaps simply meant we should travel north.

Before the Dragon King and Ao Chi left, I asked them to leave the flower-bearing stone with me for safekeeping. My reason: I might be able to research further clues from it. The Heavenly Realm clearly would not give up on the Eastern Sea easily, but the matter of the missing cyan amber could not be made widely known. We had no choice but to take on the burden ourselves, find trustworthy people, and scatter to search different places.

No one disagreed. Before stepping out the door, Ao Chi held me tightly, without saying a word.

We both understood — if those items were not recovered quickly, disaster could befall the Eastern Sea. The rumors about the old man who was the Heavenly Emperor were very few, but it was precisely those who could not be clearly seen who were most to be feared. And that was not even a person — it was a god, the sole sovereign of the Heavenly Realm, beneath whom even a figure like Liao Yuan had to kneel.

In any case, however it was counted, I was a daughter-in-law of the Eastern Sea. How could I watch my own kin be bullied? I would do everything within my power.

I did not tell Ao Chi where I was going, because I myself did not know exactly where I would end up. I only left a note saying that time was pressing, that we should spread out and search separately, and that if either of us had news, we should contact each other by message. I also reminded Mister Zhao and Chi Pian’er to mind the house properly and not forget to pay the water and electricity bills.

At any rate, the whole affair had led to exactly what you now see: me driving a second-hand motorhome, hauling several large crates of tea leaves, in the guise of a traveling tea merchant selling Fu Sheng tea, heading steadily northward.

This time, Bu Ting had truly become something that lived up to its name. My shop had moved into this boldly advancing motorhome.

What awaited me ahead? I had no idea.

But I was not afraid. A young and vibrant new bride, carrying a blue-patterned cloth bundle, riding leisurely on a little donkey. Sleek black hair twisted into an elegant bun at the back of her head, seasonal wildflowers tucked beside her temples. Lips painted red, humming a folk song in a lilting voice. The breeze passing by now and then lifted her emerald-green gauze skirt, revealing the playful swaying of her bound feet.

This woman wore far too many colors — garish, perhaps, but vivid.

No one knew whether she was visiting her family, or hurrying back to cook dinner for her husband. Only a painting-like scene moved forward, toward that stone-slab bridge ahead that arched over a winding river.

The little donkey bobbed its head as it walked up to the bridge’s edge. From a distance, a group of people could already be seen — men and women alike. The men were unremarkable, shouldering loads or leading horses, crossing as they pleased. But the women were another matter. They were not bad-looking — each of them was tidy and presentable, and having gone to the trouble of applying rouge and powder, they had quite a charm about them. And yet they had willfully undone all of it themselves. Before crossing the bridge, they dug from their bundles old clothing even more threadbare than a beggar’s rags and changed into them. They smeared their hands with mud and ash, and ruined their well-applied makeup until their faces were a mess of dirty smudges. Even their carefully arranged hair was pulled apart until it looked as though they had just rolled out of bed. With all this effort accomplished, the once-handsome women had instantly become slovenly frumps.

Once everything was in order, the women bowed to the right side of the road, muttering a few words of “May Shiyou Granny protect us,” before taking small steps — seven parts reverence, three parts dread — across the stone-slab bridge.

“What entertaining old dears,” the young bride murmured behind her hand, stifling a laugh. “Going to all that trouble to make themselves look like muddy little monkeys.” She smoothed her skirt and was about to step onto the bridge.

“Wait, young lady!” someone called out.

She turned. There stood an old woman, squat and ugly as a village earth-god idol, leaning on a cane, trembling in the weeds, a pair of nearly all-white eyes staring at her.

“What is it?” She turned to face her.

“Have you never heard the saying — beauty must not cross the Shiyou Bridge?” the old woman rasped. “Hurry and change your clothes before you go over!”

“This bridge is called Shiyou?” The young bride gave a small laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And why are beauties not permitted to cross?”

“This bridge is Shiyou Bridge, this river is Du Jin — the Jealousy Ford,” the old woman replied. “Only the plain of face may pass. Beauty finds no passage here.”

“What kind of tyrant rule is this, that forbids people from dressing nicely and forces them to appear wretched and miserable?” The young bride snorted coldly. “Today, I intend to break this rule, so that those who come after will no longer be subjected to such bullying.”

With that, the stubborn young bride took her donkey by the reins and strode onto the bridge, swaying with each step, making her way toward the other side.

The river beneath the bridge was neither wide nor swift. Its depth was something no one could say. In this season of deep spring warmth, the water was green with small white crests, a scene of quiet serenity.

The young bride had reached the center of the stone bridge when, without warning, the sky changed — clouds gathered, blotting out the sun. The river suddenly churned into a whirlpool, which vomited up from beneath the bridge a column of black vapor reaching to the heavens. Two eyes — neither quite white nor quite red — were embedded within it. With a howling shriek, the vapor crashed down, swallowing the young bride whole and dragging her to the river bottom.

The water splashed up, then instantly stilled. Sunlight returned to the mountains and water; spring wind still moved through the treetops. On the blue-gray stone bridge, only a dazed donkey remained, its mistress gone.

And at the bridgehead — the old woman had vanished without a trace.

“From that time on, every woman who came and went across Shiyou Bridge was careful and restrained, never daring to cross the river without first making herself look like an ugly woman.”

Old Song in the front passenger seat finished his story with great relish, then asked me with a hint of self-satisfaction, “Frightened, weren’t you, miss? Girls from the city must never have heard tales like this.”

I smiled without answering.

Several hours earlier, making my way steadily northward, I had been winding slowly out of a small town whose name I didn’t even know, on a meandering mountain road, when four men standing beside a broken-down van were frantically waving for help. They didn’t look dangerous — and even if they were, I could handle them. Convenience to others is convenience to oneself. Being a good Samaritan, I let them pile in with endless thanks, and the one who led them was Old Song. They were heading home. Their destination: Shiyou Village.

Old Song was a restless talker, chattering the whole way — mostly complaints about the harshness of the world, how talent goes unrecognized, how all the money ends up in the pockets of mediocrities, and so on.

“Is there truly such a bridge as Shiyou?” I asked. It was a rare thing, him telling a story instead of complaining.

“There is — follow this road ahead, and when you see the river, that’s it.” Old Song pointed forward. “I’m not making it up. There really is a Du Jin River, there really is a Shiyou Bridge. See, even our village is called Shiyou Village. These are stories our elders have passed down generation by generation. A few years ago, some official from the county came saying he wanted to develop the area into a historical scenic heritage site, and then it all came to nothing. Nothing but hot air and no action — these people read a few extra years of books and get to sit above the common folk, pocketing all manner of benefits. If you were to compare honestly, how are we any lesser than they are? Hardworking, frugal, minds that aren’t bad either — it’s just a matter of timing and luck, that’s all.” He grew more and more indignant as he spoke.

I looked at his face, flushed to the color of a pig’s liver, and said with a smile, “It’s better not to think of it that way. Anyone who gets ahead of us always has some reason for getting there. There is no such thing as a coincidence in this world.”

Old Song said nothing to that. After a long pause, he said, “There must have been ten or more cars that passed back and forth out there, and not a single one was willing to stop and lend a hand — only you, miss, were willing to do a good deed. Otherwise we’d have gone on eating road dust for who knows how long. Our village only has that one little van, and with it broken down, there was no one to send for us. Once we save up some money, I’d like to get a nice car like yours to drive around in.”

“It’s second-hand,” I said with a smile. “And cheap.”

“Were you coming back from the city with things you’d bought? I noticed you were carrying quite a large crate.”

Old Song sighed. “We were selling. Taking the ceramics we make to the shops in the county town. That crate is returned merchandise. The buyer said business is bad this year and he can’t take that many goods, then said our things are out of style — the designs and such can’t keep up with the times. He kept pointing at his own shop’s ceramics, saying those were what sold well. I took a look and they were all things from foreign films and animated cartoons — made into peculiar-looking figurines. How could those compare to ours in terms of character and spirit! This is a craft passed down in our family since the Qin dynasty!”

“The Qin dynasty?” I asked, curious. “Your whole village makes ceramics?”

Old Song fished a three-inch-tall ceramic figurine from his shoulder bag and held it out to me. “Stuff this fine, and it gets treated as worthless by people with no taste!”

I glanced at it a few times. By my judgment, having examined countless objects over thousands of years, it was genuinely quality work — fine materials, fluid lines, vivid and spirited in form. Ah, right — it was molded after terracotta warriors in miniature, far more lifelike than anything sold at local tourist shops. I couldn’t articulate exactly what made it good, only that there was a kind of vitality to it, impossible to describe as cheap.

“Your whole village makes knockoff terracotta warriors?” I teased.

“We make other things too — human figures, bowls and plates, animals and the like,” Old Song said straightforwardly. “But lately, the market keeps getting worse. It’s all those newcomers stealing business who are to blame — I’d bet they don’t even know how to select clay or build a kiln, just firing off whatever odd things they like to swindle money. Our ancestors’ fine craft, ruined by them!”

“Has anyone considered changing approach?” I asked, while discreetly glancing at his right shoulder.

“Change?” Old Song’s eyes widened, and he said with a certain pride, “Look across the whole realm — how many people still possess this level of genuine, orthodox craftsmanship? Our ancestors going back generation after generation have been the leading masters of this trade. Since the time of Qin Shihuang, our village produced many a first-rate artisan, summoned to help cast the Terracotta Army.”

“Impressive,” I said, not having the heart to interrupt his small moment of pride.

“I haven’t asked about you — are you traveling alone?” Old Song changed the subject.

“I’m out doing business,” I said with a smile. “Selling tea.”

Old Song looked genuinely astonished. “Looking at you, you’re the very picture of a pampered young lady of means — and yet you’re a merchant?”

“One has to make a living somehow. Ha ha.”

“Your tea must be very expensive, I imagine,” Old Song said suddenly. “Though I’m afraid we country folk don’t understand these things — our daily routine is to lean under the tap and gulp down whatever fills us up.”

He was afraid I’d pressure him into buying my tea, wasn’t he? I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s fine, really — the price isn’t fixed. It depends entirely on the person. For someone I have a bond with, I’d charge nothing at all. For someone I don’t, not even a fortune could buy a single leaf.”

Old Song scratched his head, looking thoroughly baffled. Just then, a loud ringtone blared from inside his coat pocket — a low-end phone set to maximum volume. He turned away and lowered his voice to answer: “On my way back… Yes, the person’s been picked up. The rest of you get ready as we discussed.”

From the back of the vehicle, the occasional sound of conversation drifted forward. Old Song’s companions were much younger than him, talking about things like the latest new phones.

But from start to finish, I only heard two men’s voices, though three people were seated in the back.

I didn’t need to look to know who was keeping silent. I still had a distinct impression of him — standing among Old Song and the others, he created the visual effect of a glass of refined coffee placed beside a rack of smoked country meats.

He was clearly not from the same world as Old Song and company. A heathered gray thick-knit turtleneck sweater, a matching knit beanie, a few stray locks of hair escaping from the hat’s edge and draping over his gleaming sunglasses — he didn’t bother pushing them back. Matte-black leather trousers, half-worn-in. A military green canvas shoulder bag hanging carelessly at his back. A pair of HANWAG brown hiking boots fitted firmly on his feet. Everything about him radiated the energy of an artsy, indie-type young man. Admirably, his figure wasn’t bad either — lean, but with muscle. A good head and a half taller than Old Song. He’d have done perfectly well as a print model. The only pity was that the sunglasses concealed about half his face, so there was no way of knowing what his features looked like. Possibly not bad?

No one had spoken to him the whole journey, and he spoke to no one — he simply kept earphones in his ears, inhabiting another world entirely.

“Once you’ve dropped us off, you’ll probably have to turn back and find another route, miss,” Old Song said, hanging up the phone. “Past our village, there’s the Du Jin River, and your car won’t make it across that bridge.”

“Du Jin…” I murmured the odd name, then thought of the story Old Song had told, and said jokingly, “Then I won’t take the car — I’ll walk across the bridge myself, just like that young bride in your story.”

“Don’t say such things carelessly!” Old Song grew serious. “That bridge was sealed off by us a few days ago. The villagers aren’t even allowed near the riverbank anymore.”

“Why seal it off? Is there a safety issue with the stone bridge?”

“You’re just passing through — stop asking so many questions.” Old Song lost his patience and stopped talking to me, only letting out sighs every now and then.

The horizon was already showing dusk. The last few threads of light were in retreat, scattering thinly across the green mountains and wild grass. From somewhere far away, the faint sound of flowing water carried toward us on the wind. I pressed down on the accelerator.

2

Shiyou Village was more dilapidated than I had imagined — wherever the eye fell, the dwellings were low and humble, a place that seemed to exist several centuries behind the outside world.

The moment the car stopped, a group of men and women came out to meet us. In the light of dusk, every one of them appeared anxious — or at least made a show of appearing anxious. The moment they saw Old Song, they crowded around him with a barrage of questions.

I overheard Old Song say: “The person’s been brought. Said to be extraordinarily capable. Don’t worry, we’ll find Little Donkey.”

Extraordinarily capable?

“You’d better head back quickly, miss. Your tea leaves will probably only sell in the big cities.” Old Song turned back and said to me, standing by the car — then gave me a small bow.

But the truth was, I was hungry. Who could blame me for catching a whiff of dinner? Before I could find a polite way to express my desire to beg for a bite of food, Old Song had already turned and walked away.

At that moment, the artsy young man — who had lagged at the back of the group — brushed past me, eyes fixed straight ahead, and said in passing: “Your stone is hot.”

His manner and posture suggested I was no more than empty air, or perhaps that he was blind.

But he said — my stone? I had secretly tucked that flower-bearing stone into a cloth pouch beneath the driver’s seat. No one but me could possibly know it was there.

I hurried back to the car. The moment I moved the pouch, I felt something was wrong — the cloth pouch was genuinely warm, like something had been pressing a pan of hot coals against it from inside.

I quickly shook the stone out. What landed in my palm was already a faint green glow. The yellow stone was embedded within it, like a floating seed. Looking more closely, I saw the source of the light was the “North” character — every stroke of it had transformed into a spectrum of radiant lines — but they were fading, growing dimmer by the second, and within a few moments, the green light was gone. It was just a stone again, the way it had always been. Only the character “北” had disappeared.

What did this situation mean? And it had to happen precisely now that I had arrived at this Shiyou Village…

I placed the stone back into the pouch. Through the windshield, I watched the young man’s retreating silhouette from a distance. The pouch was hidden and opaque, without so much as a pinprick of light. Unless he had snuck a look while I wasn’t paying attention — yet he’d had no opportunity to do so during the entire journey.

Could it be that what they called “extraordinary capability” was the ability to sense objects from a distance? A group of country villagers, one “gifted individual,” Old Song’s right shoulder carrying that thing… Yes — I had noticed early on that something interesting was perched on Old Song’s right shoulder.

I weighed the pouch in my hand, listening to the sound of the river, now growing clearer and clearer, and smiled to myself. A course of action had already taken shape in my mind.

I retrieved a few things from the back of the vehicle, then walked into the village without ceremony.

The demonic energy here was overwhelming.

3

Old Song was none too pleased by my uninvited appearance, but his wife was the complete opposite. The moment I mentioned stopping in for a hot meal and perhaps selling some tea leaves to the local folks, she agreed on the spot with great warmth, and even scolded Old Song for being impolite and ungrateful to the person who had done him a good turn.

Old Song glanced at his wife, then at me, and stepped outside with a resigned look.

And just like that, I was kept on as a “distinguished guest.” Old Song was the village head, and his wife had made the decision — she arranged for me to stay for dinner at their home and even invited me to drive my car inside, parking it in the open space by their front door.

The villagers apparently hadn’t seen a vehicle like mine before. They gathered around it on all sides, pointing and murmuring to each other.

I was also thoroughly unused to being watched by a crowd while I ate, yet watch they did — utterly absorbed.

Word had spread and drawn a whole gathering of women — aunties and grannies and sisters-in-law of every variety — who planted themselves on stools close to me, cracking melon seeds and chatting away with Old Song’s wife about this and that, all while scrutinizing the way I ate, asking what my name was, where I came from, and where I was headed.

I answered their questions amiably, to a chorus of admiring, slightly dismissive clucks.

“It’s cold out — aren’t you freezing, dressed like that?” A young woman with dark skin, a sturdy build, and a thick down jacket thick with grease stains fixed her eyes on me so intently it nearly stopped me from swallowing a bite of fried pork ribs.

Before dinner, I had taken off my outer black wool coat, and beneath it I wore only a long qipao — the silk lustrous as skin, lotus blossoms blooming across its surface, the sheen shifting as I moved, the color like that of clear water. The cut and the embroidery could only be called breathtaking.

Don’t mistake this qipao for something merely beautiful and impractical — it had quite a history. You may still remember that gifted tailor Wuyi from earlier days; he and his girlfriend had been lodging under my roof for some time, until one year’s end, when Wuyi’s distant relatives tracked him down to my place and took the two swallow-spirits home to their old family home. When leaving, Wuyi’s elder sister-in-law gave me this qipao as thanks, saying the fabric was no ordinary material. While it could not match the miraculous Moon-Shade Cloud Brocade, it was woven from silk spun by the crystal glass silkworms of an immortal mountain in the sea. With this on one’s body, one would feel neither cold in winter nor hot in summer — light, supple, and resilient, not easily damaged. And most wonderfully, it would change to fit the wearer’s form, always remaining perfectly fitted, which meant even as my belly grew, I could wear it without the slightest discomfort. Truly the essential garment for life at home and travel abroad.

I had, of course, fallen in love with this qipao the moment I laid eyes on it, and I was well aware that its elegance and beauty could capture the attention of nearly every woman.

“I’m not cold. I spend most of my time in the car with the heating on,” I said, patting my stomach with satisfaction.

More women continued to toss questions my way — were you married, what does your husband do, each one more personal than the last.

After deflecting for a while, I asked Old Song’s wife, who was sitting next to me: “Uncle Song isn’t back yet? They seem very busy today.”

“Not a day goes by that he isn’t busy,” Old Song’s wife said with a look of deep grievance. “The whole village is busy — endless bowls and plates and cups to fire, cattle and sheep and pigs and horses to tend to, up at dawn and back after dark, and yet never seems to be much money coming back. ” As she spoke, her somewhat clouded eyes drifted to my left wrist, where several delicate, solid-gold bangles caught the light — things Ao Chi had given me not long ago, saying they were for protection and good fortune. He had insisted I wear multiple.

“Good health and peace of mind is what matters most,” I said with a smile. “Enough money to get by is plenty.”

The dark-skinned young woman made a dismissive sound. “That kind of talk is easy for someone like you — good figure, good looks, never lacking for food or money. The people here are all bitter-fated. Never mind money — even the simple blessing of safety and health is something they can’t count on!”

“What do you mean by that?” I looked at her — she seemed perfectly robust.

“Oh, it’s Widow Feng, isn’t it.”

The dark-skinned young woman rolled her eyes and launched into a bizarre and extraordinary account, rapid-fire as beans tumbling from a bamboo tube. She said: the widow in Shiyou Village surnamed Feng had scraped and struggled to raise her son — affectionately called Little Donkey — and had just about seen him accepted into a university in Beijing, which was the first in the entire village, truly a golden phoenix flying out of the nest! But who could have known that Little Donkey, home for winter break, had inexplicably gone missing a few days prior — searched everywhere, police reported, and nothing had come of it. The strange part was that not many days after, every night Widow Feng dreamed of her son sitting on the Shiyou Bridge weeping, saying the river was freezing cold and he wanted to come home. Seven nights in a row, the same dream. When the frantic Widow Feng told the village head what was happening, everyone put their heads together and decided to find a person of exceptional abilities to come and have a look.

The dark-skinned young woman had a loose tongue and no brakes, growing more animated as she went: “I always said there’d be trouble for Widow Feng’s family! She was told to make offerings to Shiyou Granny, but she said that money needed to go toward her son’s tuition fees. Now she’s angered Granny, hasn’t she, and Granny’s taken Little Donkey! Now she believes, doesn’t she! She was counting on her son to take her to the city for a better life someday…”

“Mind what you say!” Old Song’s wife cut her off. “Yu Qing and I have been close since childhood, closer than real sisters. Her son is the same as my son. After this, if anyone brings her up to mock her, I’ll be the first to come after them! Don’t embarrass us in front of our guest!”

Before the words had even faded, a round, chubby young man of about twenty came bouncing out from the inner room, clutching his own trousers, crying to Old Song’s wife in a thick, unclear voice: “Ma, pants — wet!”

“Oh Lord, you’ve wet yourself again!” Old Song’s wife rushed to take him into the inner room, and came back after some time carrying the soiled trousers, looking somewhat embarrassed as she said to me: “My son — knocked his head when he was small.”

“It wasn’t from a knock,” the dark-skinned young woman muttered the moment Old Song’s wife moved away, giving a few snide laughs. “Born that way. But what can you say — they had their eye on the village head position, drove poor Old He to his death. Now they’re getting what they deserve. What’s the use of being village head?”

Everyone present wore expressions that showed they understood perfectly well and were quietly glad of it.

I offered no opinion of my own, only glanced at each of their right shoulders, and quietly continued eating.

Shortly afterward, Old Song’s wife came walking out of the kitchen, asking whether I’d had enough to eat and setting down a large bowl of steaming soup. Before it was even placed on the table, someone came in through the door.

A slender young person of about sixteen or seventeen, skin as white and smooth as the soup in front of me, wearing a wide, heavy dark-blue work jacket that looked almost capable of crushing the wearer. The features were genuinely delicate — nothing like the weathered look of someone raised in these mountains — more like the appearance of a young gentleman fallen on hard times, forced to shelter in an unworthy place. The only imperfection was a patch of deep crimson birthmark beneath the right eye, shaped like five inconvenient fingers deliberately positioned to block the line of sight. A fine-looking young person, marred by that single flaw — truly a pity.

But I noticed more than just that — behind this person, there seemed to be a shadow, faint and indistinct, as if “attached” there.

“Sister Song, could I borrow some Chinese angelica root? We’ve just run out at home, and I need to make a broth for my brother.” The young person’s voice was bright and clear, greeting everyone warmly in turn.

“Oh, Chunlu! Wait just a moment, I’ll go get it for you right away.” Old Song’s wife quickly disappeared into the inner room and came back with a handful of pungent-smelling Chinese angelica to hand over.

“Thank you — I’ll return it shortly.” The one called Chunlu accepted it happily, then suddenly sniffed the air and said, “What a lovely fragrance of tea.”

In a room full of people, only this one had caught the scent of the small jar of “Fu Sheng” I had brought out.

I looked at this person with interest. “You like tea?”

“My brother does.” Chunlu glanced at me. “You are…”

“As it happens, I sell tea,” I said, pointing toward the door. “See that vehicle out there? That’s my tea shop.”

“Could I take some back for my brother to try?” Chunlu asked earnestly. “If he likes it, I’ll come to buy from you.”

I smiled. “A taste is certainly not a problem — but this tea needs to be brewed by my own hand to bring out its true flavor. Of course, if you’re willing to buy, I’ll teach you the exclusive method for brewing this tea. However — I don’t sell to just anyone. It depends on my mood, and on fate.”

Chunlu frowned slightly. “I’ve never seen a merchant like you before. Are you really willing to turn down money? What if I absolutely must buy?”

“With me, nothing is ‘absolute.’ And if I won’t sell, what can you do about it?” I had every intention of being difficult — deliberately going against the wishes of good-looking people is a bad habit of mine, and besides, Ao Chi wasn’t here.

“If someone else has something you don’t have but want very much, what would you do?” Chunlu turned the question back on me.

I set down my chopsticks and said, “If they have something I want, it means they’re impressive.”

Chunlu blinked, and those flower-bud lips curved upward. “Head north out the door, and when you see a big scholar tree, my house is right beside it. Come when you have a moment, brew a cup of tea for my brother. Whether the flavor is good or not, whether the tea is for sale or not — we’ll discuss it then.”

“Tsk tsk — when it comes to the refinement of tea-drinking, I think Chunlu’s family is the only one in the whole village with that kind of taste.” Old Song’s wife watched Chunlu’s retreating back, then turned to me. “You’ve come to the right place, actually. We nearly forgot — Chunlu’s brother is the oddest person, not interested in anything except tea. And he’s disabled besides. Poor Chunlu, taking care of him all this time, managing every large and small matter of the household, and going out of the way to find whatever the brother wants to eat or drink.” She sighed, then said to me with a hint of embarrassment, “I’d imagine what you sell doesn’t come cheap. But if that child really wants it — could you perhaps, as a favor to me, offer a slight discount?”

A simple matter had instantly sketched a picture of deep sibling devotion and warm neighborly feeling. I said to the frankly good-natured Old Song’s wife: “I understand completely. Just for this meal you and Uncle Song have provided, I should show my gratitude.”

Hearing that, Old Song’s wife was thoroughly pleased, repeating cheerfully, “Drink your soup! Drink your soup! What a good girl.”

How could I refuse such hospitality? I gulped down the hot, fragrant, savory chicken soup in one go — even though, by that point, I had no idea how much knockout drug had already been dissolved into it.

4

“Master, you never said you needed a human sacrifice!”

“Your wife proposed it herself. She felt it might be more helpful.”

“This…”

Under a starless, moonless sky, the river called Du Jin flowed as though it moved faster than at any other hour. The stone bridge spanned its two banks — its gray-white color like bleached bones long buried in the earth, stark and unmistakable against the dark water flowing below like black hair.

In the clearing before the bridgehead, a bonfire blazed. Before a large crowd, Old Song was pointing furiously at his own wife: “What have you done?! That was a human life! She gave us a ride in good faith, and you people drugged her and trussed her up and threw her in the river! Speak! Whose idea was this?!”

Old Song’s wife clenched her teeth and refused to make a sound.

“You foolish woman!” Old Song raised his hand, palm poised to strike her face.

“Brother Song! If you want to hit someone, hit me — Sister Song did all of this for my sake, for Little Donkey’s sake!” Two slender, pale hands seized his arm with force. The hands belonged to a woman about the same age as Old Song’s wife.

“Yu Qing… you!” Old Song looked at the determination on this woman’s face, slowly lowered his hand, balled it into a fist, and hammered it against his own head several times. With an air of powerless resignation, he stared at the flowing river and called out, “I’m sorry, young lady — in your next life, be born into a good family!”

He turned to the artsy young man who had been standing silently apart from the crowd. “Master, the hour of Chou has arrived — can you begin the ritual now?”

The young man moved slowly forward, crouched down, and quietly studied the river flowing before him.

“Are you certain it was on this bridge that your son stood, telling you he was at the bottom of the river?”

“Absolutely certain — seven nights in a row, he wept to me in my dreams.”

The young man picked up a pebble from beside his foot and tossed it into the river. “When did you last see your son?”

“At home. He said he wanted to take advantage of the winter break to buy some waterproofing materials and patch the roof. That morning I walked him to the door, and after that — no word at all. I asked the people selling building materials, and they all said he never came. The route to the building supplies place, the fastest way is straight across the Shiyou Bridge…” Yu Qing took out an ordinary backpack, choking on her words. “A few days later, this bag was found floating on the surface of Du Jin! Everyone says that bridge is cursed — but it’s always been harmful to women, so how could it have taken my son… I only have Little Donkey, just one child! He got into a university in the city — I should never have let him go out that day!”

Yu Qing’s grief was beyond words.

Seeing a woman so utterly bereft, everyone present fell into silence. More than a few dabbed at their eyes with varying degrees of sincerity.

Old Song’s wife rushed to support her, offering comfort: “Everyone knows Shiyou Granny has a fierce temperament — and it seems the older she gets, the worse it becomes. We haven’t been generous enough with our offerings these past few years, and she may have taken it out on us by taking Little Donkey. Sister, don’t lose heart — now that we’ve found a person of great skill, if Little Donkey really was taken by Shiyou Granny, there will be news of him. Besides, we’ve just offered her a living sacrifice — even if she had some grievance, it should be appeased by now.”

“That young woman had no feud with us whatsoever. If anyone finds out…” Yu Qing pressed a hand to her chest.

“We had no choice. Without this, how could we help you? Do you think my heart is at ease?” Old Song’s wife’s eyes reddened, and then she added, “Everyone here is our own people. That young woman was alone and a stranger — no one will trace anything back to us. We’ll burn more paper money for her every year hereafter, that’s all we can do.”

The artsy young man stood up and turned around, the firelight flickering across his sunglasses. “Old Song’s wife — what is your relationship with the mother and son?”

“Yu Qing and I have been close since we were small children — closer than blood sisters. My husband died of illness, and when times were hard, it was entirely because of her and Old Song supporting me all the way. She cares for Little Donkey better than she does her own children.”

“I see.” The young man nodded, then began taking various items from his shoulder bag — nothing more than small stone carvings of men and women.

Old Song’s wife, seeing that he didn’t look as though he was about to open a ritual altar, rubbed her eyes and asked, “Master, you’ve been observing for quite a while now — what do you make of it?”

“It’s not about what I make of it,” said the artsy young man, picking up one of the stone figures with a faint smile. “It’s about what you make of it. These are stones that tell the truth.”

Old Song’s wife was taken aback.

Slender little Chunlu had also squeezed into the crowd. After watching for a while and apparently finding little of interest, Chunlu turned and left.

5

In Shiyou Village, the most plentiful things after the houses people lived in were the pottery kilns. Along roadsides, beneath trees, in the backyards of nearly any household — kilns of all ages and sizes could be found, some new, some old. When not in use, they were the most silent and cold things in the village, as though all the ash of ten thousand years had accumulated inside them.

Everything, given enough time, will suffer from buildup. Leave things untended long enough, and problems will arise.

Chunlu did not go straight home after leaving the bridgehead, but turned instead toward Old Song’s house.

Not long after, a solitary figure, cloaked in frost and dew, came walking up the path toward the old scholar tree, heading directly toward the small, modest house that stood beside it.

“Brother — I’m back—”

The door swung open, and Chunlu stepped inside with a buoyant expression, full of smiles. Those smiles, however, froze for quite some time upon catching sight of the person beside the brother — which was to say, me.

“Watching a charlatan make a fool of himself by the river — I imagine we were both bored,” I said with a cheerful grin, gesturing to the low table in front of me. Three cups of steaming tea sat in white porcelain cups of my own bringing, swaying gently. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to come find you. Since you so sincerely extended the invitation, and since I was so looking forward to making a deal — why not come early and be done with it?”

Chunlu recovered from the surprise, crossed the room in a few steps to the man seated in a wheelchair, felt his hand, and pulled the blanket on his knees up a little higher — very attentive.

If this man could stand. If he could produce even a trace of expression on his face, or open his mouth to say a single word. If any of those things were true, I could say without hesitation: this was an exceptionally fine-looking and thoroughly masculine man. It was rare to see someone with features so strongly defined yet so well-proportioned — his bearing and presence called to mind the kind of ceramic ware that has been through every careful process and emerged from a kiln burning at a thousand degrees. Not as refined and bright as porcelain, but possessing a quality of solidity and steadiness that was hard to come by.

A pity that this man, in this life — no, in every life from now on — would never rise from that chair. I had already seen through to the heart of him.

Setting him and Chunlu side by side, there was not a trace of resemblance between them.

“Please — wasn’t this about having your brother taste the tea?” I looked at Chunlu. “Before it cools.”

“All right.” Chunlu composed himself, lifted a cup, blew on it gently, and brought it to the man’s lips, saying softly, “Brother, have a taste.”

The man obediently opened his mouth. The tea flowed in slowly, and he swallowed it mechanically. Chunlu only gave him one small sip before setting the cup down, carefully dabbing the water from the corner of his mouth, and asking quietly, “How is it?”

Then Chunlu leaned an ear close to his lips and waited for some time before nodding. “I understand.”

I had heard not a single syllable from the man. He was incapable of speaking.

“What did your brother say?” I played along with Chunlu’s performance.

Chunlu said nothing, and simply tipped the rest of the tea straight into his own mouth, and licked his lips.

I watched this person with amusement. Someone who could down an entire cup of Fu Sheng in one go with no reaction whatsoever was either without a tongue, without a sense of taste — or not human.

“I would wager that you and your brother both enjoy this tea a great deal,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Chunlu’s suspiciously bulging coat pocket. “Otherwise you would not have casually helped yourself to several jars from my vehicle.”

Chunlu gave a small start, then slowly extracted a little porcelain jar from a pocket and placed it on the table, sat down, and rubbed the right eye. “The old people always say — when your eyelid twitches, something is coming. I’ve been wondering why my eyelid has been twitching nonstop these past two days.” A pause. Then the eyes that turned to meet mine were not sharp, but rather somewhat slow and dim. “You… are a spirit?”

That question actually surprised me. I smiled. “I would have thought, the moment you first saw me, you’d have recognized us as something of the same kind.”

Chunlu shook her head, and said with unusual candor, “I don’t have that ability.” Then a light flashed in those eyes. “Are you a very powerful spirit?”

How to answer that? This old spirit of mine, having wandered among humans for so long — yes, I supposed I would count as powerful. Otherwise I would not be immune to any ill-intentioned knockout drugs that humans might provide. And I would not have been able to, while they were binding the unconscious me hand and foot, so effortlessly cast an illusion — leaving an innocent chopstick to take my place. While Old Song and his companions were every one of them muttering about burning paper money for me, I had been watching from the shadows nearby, nearly laughing aloud multiple times, wanting to tell them that I only accepted gold — not paper money.

“Powerful or not, we’re all spirits, aren’t we,” I said.

“No, no — if you’re very powerful, then perhaps you can help me answer a very important question.” Chunlu sat forward with a look of genuine earnestness, the very image of a student consulting a teacher, with not the slightest concern that the person sitting before her — who had supposedly just been thrown into the river as a sacrifice — might have come back to settle scores. The dishonorable act of pilfering tea from my vehicle had also been completely set aside. Those eyes looked to me in undivided anticipation, focused as a ceramic figure.

“Ask.”

“Can a spirit cultivate a human form?”

What a beginner-level question.

“A spirit can cultivate a human body — flesh, blood, and viscera no different from a human’s. With cultivation at a higher level still, bearing children presents no difficulty. However — a ‘human body’ and a true human being are still fundamentally different in nature. For instance, one does not age, one cannot contract illnesses that belong only to humans. As long as the path is smooth, with no great disasters or unforeseen catastrophes, such a human body can last ten thousand years.”

“Like you?” Chunlu looked at me, admiration overflowing.

“Something like that.” I nodded.

Chunlu thought for a moment, then stood up, and in the dark lamplight, slowly began to undo the buttons of the outer garment, without the slightest trace of bashfulness, revealing a smooth and snow-white body.

I was taken aback.

It should not have been him at all — it was her. At least as far as this body was concerned, Chunlu was a girl — tender enough that one could almost squeeze water from her skin. The short hair like a tomboy, the wide loose clothing, the voice that could have gone either way — she had fooled everyone.

Before I could make sense of why she was undressing, Chunlu took up a pair of scissors from the nearby sewing basket and drew them from her sternum all the way down.

I expected to see something dreadful and bloody. Instead — nothing. The gash opened in Chunlu’s body held no blood, no flesh — only a solidified mass of grey clay. That yellowish-gray color, wherever it clung, instantly leached the life out of everything around it.

Chunlu set down the scissors and gazed at her own body in silence…

6

“Chunlu, bringing lunch for your brother again?”

“That’s right — hello, Big Niu, hello, Big Dao! Have you both eaten?”

“We’ve eaten, we’ve eaten. Your brother is still inside working — go on, go on.”

“Coming!”

The men resting outside the kiln knew, the moment they heard that bright tinkling of bells, that the little figure was here again.

Firing ceramics in the dead heat of summer was brutal work — the heat was maddening, enough to make a person wish they could shed a layer of skin. A blazing sun and a roaring kiln: the very thought was enough to feel like death. Only that sound — the small bell arriving precisely at noon every day — seemed to fan an inexplicable coolness into people’s hearts. Everyone in the workshop adored this child: always smiling, always sweet-spoken, the plain grey-white rough cloth skirt perpetually clean. She hopped like a little rabbit, a gold bell on a red string at her wrist, bright and clear and pleasing to hear.

“Brother! Brother!”

Chunlu’s voice arrived before she did. Song Yi, who was busy loading the kiln, poked his sweat-drenched face out from the furnace chamber and called, “Wait outside — it’s too hot in here!”

Chunlu had never been one for following such instructions. She carried her small basket and sat down as close to him as she could. “I’ll wait until you come out with me. It’s not like the heat bothers me.”

And indeed she never sweated, no matter how hot it got.

Song Yi couldn’t argue with her and could only work faster. Loading the kiln was a critical step — the placement of the ceramic forms required careful attention, and even a small error in positioning could lead to uneven firing and inferior work. The finest craftsman in the workshop was naturally Song Yi. In all of Shiyou Village, no second person could claim to be more skilled — he was Old Song’s only son, and had inherited his father’s craft completely, surpassing him in every way. Ceramics made by Song Yi’s hands never struggled to find buyers. Even the imperial craftsmen had admitted to being outclassed. Word had it that the most recent batch sent to the imperial palace had drawn praise from none other than Minister Li Si himself. The reputation of Shiyou Village’s workshop grew steadily, and those who came seeking Song Yi fell into two general types: those who wanted him to fire their ceramics, and those who wanted to become his students.

Everyone in the workshop was in some sense Song Yi’s student, and every problem would be brought to him. He was never stingy with his skill or his experience, answering every question — even teaching hand-to-hand how to fire a perfect piece. For those who came from far away seeking guidance, he taught without reserve; when he encountered someone in financial difficulty, he would even help them with travel expenses.

More than a few people had warned him: the more prominent you are, the more envy you attract. It would be better to keep your unique techniques hidden — if someone with ill intentions learned them and overtook you someday, you would suffer a loss you couldn’t recover from. But he always brushed it off with a smile, saying that if anyone ever surpassed him, that person must have merits superior to his own, and he would simply turn around and learn from them. Some said in private that he was a fool; others called him a true man of virtue.

But whether fool or virtuous man, Chunlu was always on Song Yi’s side without exception. She was his little sister, and also his sticky little shadow — no matter what season or weather, she always appeared at the workshop on time. The food she brought in the basket, she had made herself, carried while still hot, even weaving a lid for it, insisting on covering everything down to the last gap. The food she made for her brother could not have so much as a single speck of dust.

Everyone knew that Song Yi was also extremely devoted to this sister. The gold bell on her wrist was no small thing — it had taken him a long while to save up the wages, bought on a chance trip to deliver goods to Xianyang, carried back across hundreds of miles. He had even had four characters specially engraved on it: on one side, “Chunlu”; on the other, “Safe and Sound.”

On many a summer evening, Chunlu and Song Yi would sit together in the courtyard of their home, drinking tea. Song Yi had been raised rough like any mountain man, yet possessed a refinement and sense of elegance that the others lacked. The men in the workshop, when they had a moment to rest, were happiest gathering in a group — eating great chunks of meat, drinking from big bowls of liquor, talking crudely about which village girl was the most attractive. Or they would pocket their wages and head to the gambling house to make a killing. Song Yi was different. He loved tea. His greatest pleasure was having someone bring, from all corners of the world, different kinds of tea leaves — stored in delicate little jars he had fired himself — and on a clear night with a bright moon, taking them out one by one and carefully brewing them, slowly savoring each cup. His life already held far too much roaring fire and high temperatures. What he treasured most was an armchair, a half-curved moon, a cup of clear tea in hand, and quiet around him.

Chunlu, too, was a being that had nothing to do with “roaring fire.” She was lively yet never rowdy, fond of talking but never tiresome, always able to offer him the right companionship at the right moment — chatting and joking with endless interesting things to say. Their personalities were not alike, and sometimes even contrary. She was like a stream: spirited but also still, never the surging force of a great river. He was naturally quiet, principled in all he did, much like the ceramics that left his hands — which others mistook for cool and solid, forgetting that they too had been born from blazing heat; though the surface had cooled, the warmth inside had never truly been extinguished.

He often said that ceramics also had lives of their own. A truly great craftsman could use that fire to burn a heart into being.

Chunlu understood that he genuinely loved his craft.

Those summer evenings sitting side by side, talking about everything under the sun — those were the moments both siblings loved most.

One such summer night, she looked at the gold bell on her wrist and shook it again, deliberately and happily — ever since Song Yi had given it to her, she had done this many times, always on purpose. Every time that tinkling started, Song Yi would sigh with fond exasperation, saying he would never have given it to her if he’d known she was going to play with it like this and give him no peace.

“Liar!” She leaned toward him and hugged his arm, pointing at the sky with one hand. “Even if I wanted a star from up there, you’d still try to get it for me — isn’t that right?”

“I couldn’t possibly reach a star,” Song Yi said with great seriousness. “But I would try for you. Even if I came back empty-handed in the end, at least you wouldn’t have too many regrets.”

“Don’t try — the stars are so high up, if you fell and died, where would I find another brother?” Chunlu rested her head on his shoulder, smiling contentedly as she shook her little bell. “This is enough.”

That gold bell had been her fifteenth birthday gift. Ten years ago that very day, she had been found huddled outside the Song family’s door, naked and curled small. It had been pouring that day; she was like a bedraggled little fish, washed up and abandoned on the shore.

Song Yi had carried her inside — a passing act of rescue that gave Song Yi and his lame father an unexpected family member with no blood connection. On the night they took her in, Song Yi had a strange dream: by the stone bridge near the village, a kiln blazed up out of nowhere, and a small girl — pale-skinned but without a clear face — jumped out from that kiln. It happened to be the bright days of the third month. Sunlight fell on that little figure coming toward him, and an otherworldly radiance spread behind her like the wings of a bird from a fairyland.

When he woke, he gave her a name: Chunlu — Spring Kiln.

Before the age of five, her memory was blank. Song Yi had once considered that if she ever recovered memories of where her home was, he would send her back to her parents. But as she grew older, that thought gradually faded: partly because she said she truly could not remember, and partly because he had grown too unwilling to let her go.

He and his father both regarded this little girl as a gift from heaven — so beautiful, so clever. He taught her to read, and one pass was enough; her memory was extraordinary. What was rarest of all was her innate intuition for appreciating and making ceramics. The designs she sketched in the dirt with a twig, when fired by Song Yi, were always the first to sell out. There was a period when Song Yi kept failing to control the firing temperature, and it was Chunlu’s suggestion that solved the problem. He was greatly astonished by her gifts in this area and asked her how she knew — Chunlu said she didn’t really know either, it just felt like it should be that way.

More than once, Song Yi said to Chunlu as she grew: If you had been born a man, you could have entered the workshop openly and shown the world what you are made of. Given no more than a little time, you would have become a master craftsman of renown — your accomplishments would have surpassed mine.

But Chunlu said she preferred the errand of delivering meals.

“I said you didn’t have to come with lunch in this heat.” Song Yi finished what he was doing, crawled out, wiped his hands roughly on his clothes, and pulled Chunlu down to sit under the tree farthest from the kiln.

“I don’t mind the heat,” Chunlu said, spreading out the food. “Now eat. You’ll need your strength for a showdown with that Shudan from Tiger Head Village.”

The matter drawing the most attention recently was the recruitment edict issued from the imperial palace. By order of the Emperor, Minister Li Si had commanded that workshops and craftsmen skilled in pottery be gathered from across the land. Whether publicly or privately run, all would be judged purely on their craft. Once selected as an imperial craftsman, the reward was one matter — but to have one’s work serve the Emperor: that was the highest honor and recognition of all.

Song Yi of Shiyou Village and Shudan of Tiger Head Village were both names that resonated throughout the craft at present. But that Shudan was arrogant about his talent, and had long regarded Song Yi as a thorn in his side. The irony was that when Shudan was still unknown, he had come running to Shiyou Village to learn from Song Yi. Song Yi had taught him everything without holding back — only for Shudan, once his star rose, to forget his teacher entirely, and spend his days scheming to drive Song Yi and the others out of his sight entirely, so that only Shudan’s workshop in Tiger Head Village would stand supreme.

For this recruitment, the selection went from the bottom up through multiple tiers. Each village workshop was required to produce one human figurine per the specified requirements and submit it to the county magistrate’s office for review and evaluation by officials sent from the palace. Those who passed would be recommended upward.

The submission date was fast approaching. Tiger Head Village had long been a whirl of frantic activity, yet Song Yi remained unhurried and composed, going about things one step at a time — firing the figurine while also keeping the workshop’s regular work uninterrupted.

“I’ve never had any intention of competing against Shudan,” he said, biting into a steamed bun. “If he makes it through, it simply means his craft has surpassed mine, and I still need to hone my skills. Whether I become an imperial craftsman or not — that’s secondary.”

“Shudan doesn’t see it that way,” Chunlu said, pressing her lips together. “He wants to use this chance to defeat you. If he wins, our workshop will have a very hard time going forward.”

He flicked Chunlu’s forehead. “Little one, you worry too much. Leave these things for your brother to handle. You just study hard and learn your needlework at home. You’re nearly a grown young lady — if you can’t take up a needle or set down a thread, where will you ever find a husband?”

Chunlu grinned foolishly. “Then I’ll stay in the Song family forever, and follow my brother.”

“Silly girl. How could that be possible?” He laughed softly.

At those words, Chunlu’s little face fell. She pouted. “Unless you don’t want me anymore. Unless you want to throw me away.”

“Nonsense.” He patted her head. “I can’t bear to throw away even a broken ceramic piece. How much less you — a living person.”

Only then did Chunlu break into a grin again, holding tightly to his arm.

A gentle breeze moved from under the tree all the way to that crumbling section of earthen wall ahead. The gap in the wall faced directly onto Du Jin River — that four-season current flowing without cease.

When taking a break from the workshop, Song Yi loved to sit here, listening to the sound of the river, looking at the misty green of the mountains. He had always believed this river and the stone bridge were the most beautiful scenery in Shiyou Village; the name Du Jin only diminished their spirit. Chunlu had once asked him why this river was called Du Jin — the Jealousy Ford — and why the bridge, and the whole village, bore the name of Shiyou.

Song Yi told her: before Chong Er came to power, he had been forced by circumstances into years of wandering exile. Among the retainers who followed him, there was a man named Jie Zhitui — steadfastly loyal, who accompanied him through nineteen years of exile without a word of complaint. Unfortunately, this Jie Zhitui had married a deeply jealous wife. She had no care for the fact that her husband’s wandering exile was for the sake of loyalty to his lord. In her eyes, he had simply gone out to enjoy himself with other women, carousing through the seasons. This wife was called Shiyou.

When Chong Er returned to the state of Jin and ascended to power, Jie Zhitui — heart full of longing for his wife — couldn’t even pause to receive his reward, and rushed straight home. When he arrived, he discovered that Shiyou had moved back to her family home years before. He rode without rest to find her, but when this woman saw her husband suddenly returned, not only did she show no joy — she produced a rope she had long prepared and enchanted, bound Jie Zhitui fast, enumerated his many invented “offenses,” and swore never to let him leave her side again, never to look at another woman, only to “face her day and night.”

When Chong Er later noticed that Jie Zhitui had been missing for days, he sent his men to search for him. They called Jie Zhitui’s name near his home, but received no answer. One hot-headed retainer had a foolish idea: he set fire to the entire mountain, thinking that once Jie Zhitui saw the flames, there was no reason he wouldn’t come running out. But poor Jie Zhitui, a great man that he was, was bound at the neck by that rope and had no freedom of movement. His clothes were in disarray, and too ashamed to show himself before others, he had not dared respond. Seeing the fire now, and thinking of the humiliations he had endured, he simply set fire to his own house. Inside and outside, all was engulfed in flames. Neither husband nor wife had any way out. Shiyou clung to him, weeping that she would never be jealous again — but fire and water spare no one, and it was already too late. The conflagration reduced them both to ash. When people came to clean up afterward, they found that the couple’s remains had become one with the earth, impossible even to bury properly.

From that time on, strange events befell the area. Near where Shiyou was buried, there was a river and a stone bridge — for many years without incident — but after this event, any woman of pleasing appearance who tried to cross the water was swept to the river bottom by a demonic wind. Not one survived. Those who were plain or elderly, however, could cross without harm. Everyone said this was because Shiyou Granny’s resentment had never been laid to rest — she could not bear to see pretty women, always believing they were the disasters who had stolen her husband’s heart. And so people built a temple here and began to offer worship to Shiyou Granny. For many years, women who crossed this river would always make themselves look plain and disheveled before daring to cross safely. This was why the river came to be called Du Jin — the Jealousy Ford — and the bridge and the village both took the name of Shiyou.

Song Yi also noted, however, that it was legend, after all. Whether this was truly where Shiyou Granny had met her end could no longer be verified — though the unusual quality of the earth here was a fact. The clay produced in Shiyou Village was finer and more heat-resistant than anywhere else, and the ceramics fired from it were dense and solid. Some said this was because Shiyou Granny’s essence had merged into the earth.

Chunlu asked him whether he believed in Shiyou Granny. Song Yi said he didn’t — the women who disguised themselves to cross the bridge were simply ignorant. Chunlu, however, said she did believe.

After the meal was finished, Chunlu began tidying away the bowls and chopsticks. “What would you like for dinner tonight? Father caught a really big fish today.”

“Ah — I’m afraid I won’t be home for dinner tonight. I need to go collect A’Zhi.” Song Yi slapped his knee with a laugh, ruffling Chunlu’s hair. “She went to visit a sick uncle, and asked me to go pick her up from Bai Shui Village today. The fish — split it with Father, eat your fill. You’ve got a big appetite anyway. I’m going back to work — you finish up here and head home.”

“Oh…”

Chunlu’s usually quick hands grew slower and slower. Every time she heard the name A’Zhi, her movements would unconsciously fall a beat behind.

7

A’Zhi would become Sister-in-Law A’Zhi before long, wouldn’t she.

She and her brother — a match made by heaven. Everyone in the village said so.

A’Zhi and Song Yi had been promised to each other since childhood. They had grown up alongside one another, until the year Song Yi turned ten, when A’Zhi’s father needed to go out to do business, and A’Zhi’s family had to temporarily leave Shiyou Village. Two years ago, after A’Zhi’s father passed away, her mother brought her back to her old home — also to fulfill the betrothal from all those years before.

On the day Song Yi brought A’Zhi over happily and introduced her to Chunlu, Chunlu had been helping the father and son shape their clay in the workshop. She looked up, and saw someone who looked like a fairy — delicate and shy, nestling against her brother.

A’Zhi was wonderful: beautiful, gentle, good to Song Yi, good to Old Song, and good to Chunlu. There was nothing one could fault her for. Because of A’Zhi, Song Yi never had to worry about having new clothes and shoes to wear — A’Zhi’s needlework was unmatched. It truly seemed as though heaven had taken pity on a virtuous man and given him a worthy wife. Old Song had already chosen the date: by year’s end, Song Yi would marry A’Zhi.

After A’Zhi appeared, the summer courtyard evenings went from two people to three. A’Zhi sipped, little by little, the tea Song Yi brewed for her — and not only could she drink it, she could describe what kind of tea it was and trace its origins. Their voices mingling above the drifting fragrance of the tea, they were perfectly matched in every way.

At these times, Chunlu would always pretend to yawn, set down her cup — emptied in a single gulp — and tell them she was tired and going to bed first.

And every time, reaching the doorway of her room, she would always be unable to stop herself from turning back, to look at those two figures leaning together in the moonlight. Something like a stone pressed down on her heart — a feeling she could not name.

Her needlework would never surpass A’Zhi’s. Her sense of taste would never surpass A’Zhi’s either. Any liquid that entered her mouth tasted the same to her — because she had no sense of taste. Everything she put in her mouth was like chewing wax.

She was not human. She was a spirit — and one without even a body of flesh and blood. No sense of taste, no sense of pain. She could not feel warmth or cold.

As the end of the year drew near, she heard more and more frequently Song Yi and A’Zhi painting pictures of their future: how they would decorate the new room, how they would expand the workshop, how many lovely children they would have. Chunlu gradually came to understand: her brother was about to have a real, complete family — harmonious between husband and wife, surrounded by children. But this family had nothing to do with her. She had no place in their future. The happy smiles they wore more and more often became the greatest fear in Chunlu’s heart — and jealousy. It was only much later that she understood: what she felt was jealousy.

She hated this feeling. Her brother had promised never to abandon her — it was he who had pulled her back from the brink of destruction. Even with A’Zhi here, they would still treat her the way they always had. They would. They definitely would.

Only by telling herself this, over and over again, could she barely manage to fall asleep.

Chunlu quietly picked up the bowls and chopsticks and carried the basket home.

The next day at noon, Song Yi returned with A’Zhi. Before they even came through the door, Chunlu had already heard the familiar sound of a bell — and her heart sank.

A’Zhi walked in radiant in new clothes, her snow-white wrist bearing a gold bell that was all too familiar.

Song Yi was not a wealthy man, but he was willing to give everything he had to those he loved most.

“Chunlu — Sister A’Zhi’s gold bell and yours are a pair,” Song Yi said with a smile. “I had someone bring one back from Xianyang City not long ago. From now on, when both bells ring together, our home will be even livelier.”

A’Zhi laughed softly, pretending to scold him: “I told you not to waste the money — look at your brother, always buying things for me. This dress too — and it was so expensive.”

“Ha ha — she’s going to be my future sister-in-law, of course he should spend money on her. If anything, I think he doesn’t spend enough!” Chunlu smiled brightly at Song Yi. “Isn’t that right, brother?”

“You — I can already tell you can’t be allowed to follow us around when we’re married. That mouth of yours won’t know when to stop making trouble.” Song Yi pinched her nose.

Chunlu stuck out her tongue at him and ran back to her own room.

She pushed the door shut behind her, and her smile vanished instantly. She thought of how, a few days before, she had happened to see Song Yi hand A’Zhi a small clay piggy bank, saying that from now on he would put every coin he earned into it. A’Zhi had accepted it with a smile, nodding and saying she would work hard to earn money too, and together they would fatten the little pig as quickly as possible.

No wonder her brother had been even more frugal lately. When she had wanted to buy a new chair recently — to replace the worn-out one in the courtyard — he had refused, saying the old one was still usable and money shouldn’t be wasted. And yet with A’Zhi, he was entirely different. That money jar would be filled with everything they needed for their life together. A man about to have a wife naturally had to think about building his own home.

And what was there to blame in any of that?

Chunlu quietly slipped the gold bell from her wrist and tucked it into the very bottom of her clothes chest. She didn’t want to wear it anymore. Two bells ringing together — that would be far too noisy.

8

Today was the river lantern festival in the village. Song Yi had taken A’Zhi to Du Jin early in the morning. He had originally meant to bring Chunlu along, but she had found an excuse to stay behind.

Stars filled the sky and the moon shone bright. Along both banks of Du Jin, lanterns floated on the water, and the riverbanks were crowded with happy men and women of all ages, setting their wish-laden lanterns one by one into the current.

Chunlu sat alone before a small stone shrine. Inside, the statue of Shiyou Granny was enshrined.

The firelight and laughter of Du Jin drifted from not far away. Chunlu drew back a little, as if afraid of being touched by any of it.

The small oil lamp inside the shrine cast a faint light on the offerings of fruit set before it. She reached out and took a piece of fruit, slowly chewing it.

She so badly wanted to know what sour and sweet and bitter and spicy actually felt like. She had even thought about bearing children someday — but peel back her skin and flesh, and all that lay beneath was a mass of grey clay.

She was nothing but a discarded ceramic figurine — a defective piece. By the rules of the trade, things like her were smashed and thrown out.

She did not know who had created her. She only remembered a young, handsome man who stopped the hammer that was about to destroy her.

He looked at her and said: quite a decent little girl figurine — a shame to smash her.

But no one wanted a defective piece. He brought her to a stone shrine near Du Jin, placed her among the offerings to Shiyou Granny, and said it would at least be company for them both.

And so she became neighbors with that ill-tempered old woman.

The legendary Shiyou Granny did indeed live within her statue — squat as a tree stump, the wrinkles on her face deep enough to trap flies. Every day she recounted her husband’s failings without tiring of it, cursing and resenting the beautiful women she believed had stolen his heart.

She had watched more than once as the old woman flung those lovely women who tried to cross the river into the water, and then laughed with satisfaction.

A few years passed, and one day the old woman suddenly said to her: “Little one, my tribulation is coming. You’ve kept me company all this time — tell me what you want. This old woman can give it to you, even my spiritual power.”

She had no desire for power like that. What was the fun in throwing people into rivers?

But she thought of that one person’s face. Being with him would surely be more interesting than staying with this old woman.

“Can you turn me into a human being?” she asked.

The old woman hesitated for a moment and said: “I can help you take on a human form — but it will only be an outer shell. Your body will still be grey clay beneath. However, if you are willing to cultivate with diligence, perhaps one day you may become a true human.”

And so she came to look like a child of five.

On the night Song Yi took her in, a great thunderclap descended from the heavens, and the statue of Shiyou Granny was split in two.

She never saw the old woman again after that. The Shiyou statue now in the shrine was rebuilt later — nothing more than an ordinary stone carving.

Tonight, however, she suddenly began to understand why the old woman had been so furious.

The night breeze stirred. A chill settled in. She hugged her own arms, curled herself even tighter, and yet could not bring herself to go home.

“Little girl, if you take me with you, all your troubles will be gone.”

A thin woman’s voice drifted from behind the shrine. Chunlu was startled. She crept around to look — no one was there. In the grass, only a pigeon-egg-sized patch of blue-green light, flickering faintly.

“You can speak?” Chunlu did not dare go closer.

“You envy A’Zhi, don’t you. You resent her.” The blue-green light spoke in a hushed, distant voice. “She merely has a body of flesh and blood — and for that, she has taken everything that should have been yours.”

Chunlu froze.

“With A’Zhi here, you have no place to stand. When they have their own home and children, he won’t spare you a single glance.” The light continued, as though speaking to no one in particular. “But if you take me with you, everything will be different. I can make the things you don’t want to lose stay with you forever.”

“What are you?”

“Nothing more than the companion who understands you best.”

Chunlu bit her lip and walked toward the light. “Can you really… keep him from throwing me away?”

“I can. Just reach out your hand, open the door, let me in.”

Chunlu’s eyes were lit with an otherworldly color by the glow of the blue-green light. As if in a trance, she reached out her hands and cradled it in her palms.

The world lost its color. Light and shadow swirled. She saw a woman with an indistinct face walk out from the void, walking toward her until she stood right before her, and knocked on her forehead as though knocking on a door. “May I come in?”

Dazedly, she nodded.

A wave of cold stabbed through her entire body. Her right eye was suddenly plunged into darkness, accompanied by a piercing pain. It was the first time she had ever felt cold and pain.

Chunlu covered her right eye and collapsed to the ground.

9

The girl Chunlu from the Song family developed a red birthmark overnight — shaped just like a hand covering her right eye.

Song Yi was afraid it was some strange illness and had a physician come to look, but the physician said she was not sick.

Faced with this change in her appearance, Chunlu was indifferent. She joked to Song Yi as she always had: “Getting a husband for me is going to be even harder now.”

Song Yi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He only said that someday, when the opportunity arose, he would take her to Xianyang to find a renowned physician and have it properly treated.

But Chunlu was still Chunlu — easy to smile, easy to please. A birthmark was a birthmark; it did nothing to diminish her good standing with the villagers.

The day for submitting the figurines was three days away.

Song Yi’s piece and Shudan’s piece were already en route to the county magistrate’s office. Both villages had their work sealed in wooden crates under careful watch, waiting for the verdict in three days’ time.

Shudan brought along a whole crew of craftsmen. Song Yi brought only two brothers — plus Chunlu, dressed as a boy, who had insisted on coming along to see the excitement.

That evening, both parties settled their carts in a mountain hollow for the night.

Shudan, seemingly in a moment of conscience, came over to toast Song Yi, even sharing meat and food he had brought with Chunlu and the others. He drew Song Yi aside to say that in his heart he had always been grateful for Song Yi’s teaching, and that what people said about him being disrespectful was nothing but rumor — he hoped Song Yi would not take it to heart. Whoever won the selection, their friendship need not be harmed.

A person like Song Yi would never think the worst of others. He drained his cup in one go and gave Shudan a sincere word of praise.

The food was genuinely delicious, and tired from the road, they ate every last scrap.

What a pity that human hearts are so hard to read. Fine food and strong drink are indistinguishable from poison and blades. Shudan, with his narrow spirit, had never truly come in peace. A wave of his hand, and the drugged Song Yi and the others were shifted to one side. His men pried open the wooden crate and lifted out the vivid, exquisitely crafted figurine within.

When Shudan saw Song Yi’s work, astonishment gave way to relief that he had been clever enough to act. Against this craft, he would have had no chance.

He took up a chisel and hammer, and reduced the figurine to a ruin.

When all was done, the figurine was placed back in the crate exactly as it had been, and his men returned to their original positions, pretending to sleep off the drink.

In the early hours before dawn, Shudan, who was sleeping soundly and well-pleased with himself, was suddenly woken. He opened his eyes to find himself standing before a kiln he did not recognize, in a place unknown to him. Before him stood the birthmarked young person who had been following behind Song Yi.

“Who are you?! Why have you brought me here?!” Shudan shouted furiously, trying to stand — but could not move a single muscle. Some force held him perfectly straight, propped up to face that young person.

“My brother is already the finest craftsman.” Chunlu said slowly, head lowered, working a lump of grey clay in her hands. “But perhaps one day you will walk ahead of him. I don’t want that day to come.”

Before the last word was spoken, clay was already falling onto his face — piece by piece, sealing his eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth.

Inside the kiln, a roaring fire blazed, casting a bright red flush over Chunlu’s cheeks. And the birthmark — more vivid than ever, shaped like a blood-red hand, intent on blocking out something…

10

Song Yi did not disappoint. He won. The examining official issued the formal decree, inviting Song Yi to enter Xianyang City next month as an imperial craftsman.

Song Yi’s figurine was tall and powerful, the face so lifelike and meticulously rendered that its spirit and bearing drew exclamations of awe. Beside it, Shudan’s work was so outclassed it was barely worth looking at.

What was strange, however, was that on such a momentous day of selection, Shudan was nowhere to be found. After that night in the mountain hollow, no one ever laid eyes on him again. His subordinates had submitted the figurine in his stead. Those who didn’t know the full story assumed he had lost his nerve and fled rather than face defeat.

In any case, no one cared about a loser who had slunk away with his tail between his legs. Everyone cared only about Song Yi, who had brought glory to Shiyou Village — on the day of his return, the whole village celebrated as if it were a holiday.

Only A’Zhi noticed that Song Yi was not himself.

That evening, Song Yi looked at the figurine that had won him his honor, and said, “I keep feeling as though this figurine looks different from how I remember.”

A’Zhi laughed. “Could it be that the figurine changed its own appearance?”

“Perhaps I’m simply too exhausted and my eyes are playing tricks on me.” Song Yi laughed too, pulling A’Zhi close. “I’ll be heading to Xianyang next month — who knows when I’ll return. What if we marry three days from now, and you come with me to Xianyang?”

“What about your father and Chunlu?” A’Zhi asked.

“Father is not in good health, and Chunlu is still young. The road to Xianyang will be full of hardship — it’s better for them to stay in the village.” Song Yi looked tenderly at A’Zhi. “I’m only sorry you’ll have to follow me to the ends of the earth.”

A’Zhi shook her head and pulled Song Yi close. “Wherever you go, I go. The two of us will never be apart.”

In that moment, the whole world shrank to only this pair of devoted souls.

Behind the door, Chunlu’s shadow slowly dissolved into a room of darkness.

He was leaving. That brother who had said he would try to reach for the stars — he was going to abandon her after all.

Inside her, a fire blazed to life — burning so fiercely, so painfully.

11

A’Zhi disappeared.

The day before she and Song Yi were to be married.

The entire village turned out to search for her and found nothing. Rumors of all kinds circulated: some said she had quarreled with Song Yi and run back to her mother’s family; others said she had offended Shiyou Granny and been swept under the river while crossing Du Jin.

Song Yi grew gaunt, his spirit drained. The day he was to set out for Xianyang had arrived, yet he pleaded illness and refused to go — all his thoughts fixed on finding any trace of A’Zhi.

Chunlu also ran about on his behalf, making careful inquiries, but the results were one disappointment after another.

Meanwhile, a small, peculiar incident took place in Xianyang.

In a large workshop that was firing terracotta warriors, a row of finished figures stood in the courtyard, waiting to be transported to the palace. On the day the appointed official arrived to oversee the loading, his men had just begun the work when everyone heard a faint, delicate ringing of a bell. When they paused and listened, the sound stopped. On closer inspection, it seemed to be coming from inside the last figure in the row. They looked more carefully: the figure’s face was delicate and beautiful, and though armored for battle, it lacked the masculine bearing of the others — more like a girl in disguise.

The official hurried to ask who had made this figurine. The craftsmen looked at each other blankly and all said it wasn’t theirs. The workshop records were brought out and checked — the count was off. There was one figure too many.

No one could explain where this extra figure had come from. The official, afraid the matter would grow and delay the schedule, quietly amended the records and had the figure transported along with the rest. Where it was sent after that, no one outside would ever know.

Back in Shiyou Village, Song Yi — who had refused to go to Xianyang on grounds of illness — was reported to the county magistrate by old rivals in Tiger Head Village. They claimed he was in perfect health, merely using personal feelings as an excuse to shirk his duty to the Emperor. This brought Song Yi an unexpected disaster. Had it not been for his exceptional skill at the craft, and the fact that the county official had a genuine appreciation for talent and chose to be lenient, it might have ended far worse. As it was, he received a hundred lashes before being sent home.

Gravely wounded, Song Yi recovered at home for a full month before he could get up. A’Zhi’s whereabouts remained a mystery. Undaunted, he took up a walking stick and, with Chunlu supporting him, continued to search in every direction.

One month. Half a year. A full two years passed before Song Yi gradually gave up the search. He returned to the workshop, working day and night without rest.

Chunlu put the gold bell back on her wrist and went every day to bring him meals, just as before. In everyone’s eyes, what a fine girl Chunlu was — always smiling, always sensible, loyal to the Song family through everything.

But Song Yi was no longer the Song Yi he had been. The ceramics he fired had suddenly lost their spirit — careless and chaotic. By degrees, no one wanted to buy his work anymore. The workshop’s reputation slowly declined. New workshops had risen and moved ahead.

Faced with the questions and reproaches of others, Song Yi ignored them all. Every day he came to fire his ceramics on time, whatever came out of the kiln. When work was done, he returned home at the set hour, arranged all his various teas in the courtyard, brewed them one by one, and while tasting them, pretended as though A’Zhi were still there, holding conversations with empty air.

But Chunlu seemed entirely untroubled by his state — she was happier every day than the day before, caring for the father and son with even greater attentiveness than before. Every night she slept without disturbance.

Now she was safe. There was nothing and no one who could make him leave her behind anymore.

But she had also noticed a problem — her body had stopped growing. Even if it was only an outer shell, in the ten years before this it had been changing and developing in accordance with the cultivation methods Shiyou Granny had taught her. Why had it stopped now?

Shiyou Village’s fortunes worsened day by day. Without Song Yi to anchor it, the workshop dissolved not long after. Some villagers remained to farm what little land they had; others left to seek their livelihood elsewhere. The signs of decay were everywhere.

One morning, someone found Song Yi in Du Jin. By the time he was pulled to shore, it was too late.

No one knew whether he had slipped and fallen or gone in deliberately. Only this: in his already stiff hands, he clutched a single embroidered shoe. It was A’Zhi’s.

Old Song’s father, overcome with grief, passed away shortly after. A once-flourishing Shiyou Village, a once-whole Song family — all had become shadow and ruin.

Left behind was one Chunlu, who looked at Song Yi’s body and shed no tears, made no sound. She was utterly calm.

That same night, both the dead Song Yi and the living Chunlu disappeared.

12

Several hundred years later, a pair of brothers came to Shiyou Village. They moved into a house that had stood abandoned for far too many years — the former owners, it was said, had been surnamed Song.

The younger brother had refined features and a slender build, with a vivid red birthmark beneath the right eye. The older brother was tall and handsome, but paralyzed, and could not speak — just barely more than a piece of wood.

The younger brother said his name was Chunlu, that his ancestors had once been people of Shiyou Village, and that he had now brought his elder brother home, returning to the roots of their lineage.

As time passed, the village folk developed quite a fondness for this pair of brothers. Chunlu was hardworking — plowing fields, tending crops, caring for the elder brother without a single word of complaint. And what’s more, Chunlu fired ceramics with a skill that had no equal — in Shiyou Village, where the craft had long since declined, Chunlu’s arrival was an unexpected beam of light. Chunlu taught the old and young alike how to shape and fire clay. The money earned from selling ceramics gradually began to change a once impoverished existence.

Chunlu gathered many students, yet none surpassed the teacher. Occasionally one or two showed signs of surpassing, but in the end, they always disappeared in peculiar ways.

To the eyes of the villagers, there was no one calmer or gentler than Chunlu — willing to help others, never seeking credit, doing nothing all day but working before the kiln, or going out to find tea leaves from various places, and on fair-weather days, pushing the elder brother into the courtyard to sit and feeding him, sip by sip, tea that Chunlu had carefully brewed.

By degrees, the once-tranquil Shiyou Village grew less tranquil. Neighbors who had once lived harmoniously began to quarrel over petty things — nothing more than envy over the advantages one family had gained over another. These quarrels escalated from shouting to violence, and some even ended in death.

Whenever such things happened, Chunlu would offer a few mild, meaningless words of comfort, then return to work.

What Chunlu was most skilled at making were small human figurines — eerily lifelike, barely three inches tall, both male and female, in every sort of pose, delicate and adorable. Chunlu was also very generous, gifting a set to every household in the village.

People thought of them as nothing more than playthings, buying them by the handful to amuse children and delight spouses. But no one knew that in the dead of night, these small figures could move freely of their own accord. They would hop in front of sleeping people and speak in a language only they understood, exchanging unknown things with the dreaming, and in the end would knock solemnly on the person’s forehead and ask: “Will you open the door?”

The outcome was one of two things: either the figure returned empty-handed to its original spot and went on being a decoration — or it transformed into a streak of blue-green light and leapt into that person’s body.

Each time one of the little figures leapt in, Chunlu’s vitality would improve a little. These were the years Chunlu had been subsisting this way. These small figures, made by her hands, were like instruments hunting on her behalf — the more who entered people’s bodies, the better Chunlu’s own body became. As for those who had “opened the door” — nothing too terrible would befall them. They would simply become men and women ever more unable to make room for others. Whatever they chose to do with that, Chunlu did not concern herself. She only needed to be with her brother, and that was enough. Perhaps with a little more time, she would shed this body of clay and become a true human being.

Two thousand years passed. Chunlu became the eternal constant of Shiyou Village — no matter how many generations of people were born, lived, and died, she always kept to the same way of life. And in the eyes of those people, because of the enchantment Chunlu had cast on them, they always believed Chunlu was some ordinary person who had moved here from elsewhere two or three years ago. No one ever thought to remember that Chunlu was the person who had lived in this village for the longest, longest time.

As for the figurines Chunlu made — in two thousand years, not a single day had they stopped their “work.” Always there was someone, today or tomorrow, who opened a door that should never have been opened.

13

“My story is finished. Can you answer my question for me now?”

Chunlu had finished re-dressing. The tea on the table had gone cold long before.

“Tell me — why do you think heaven gave human beings two eyes?” I asked with a smile.

Chunlu shook her head. “Perhaps for the sake of symmetry.”

“One eye to see what is there. One eye to appreciate what is beautiful.” I paused, glancing at the wooden figure seated beside her. “If one is covered — what do you suppose happens?”

Chunlu looked at me. “What does that have to do with my inability to cultivate a human body?”

“The inability to appreciate the strengths of others means the inability to grow,” I said. I rose to my feet and met Chunlu’s seemingly innocent gaze without blinking. “Cultivation itself is the pursuit of growth. You have never grown. How then could you ever cultivate a true human body?”

I raised my palm, and a streak of flame shot out, instantly enveloping Chunlu’s “brother.”

Chunlu cried out and lunged toward him, only to be held back by me.

In moments, that entire outer form had burned away. What was revealed beneath was nothing but a mound of clay shaped like a human being.

“How long do you intend to keep deceiving yourself?” I said coldly. “You can’t even make yourself whole. What do you have to offer in making another person whole? Or do you believe that doing this means Song Yi is still by your side? Failure.”

Chunlu’s whole body began to tremble violently. The birthmark on her right eye blazed more crimson than ever. She snapped her head up, and her refined eyes blazed with what looked like fire.

A long-haired woman — one eye open, one eye shut, her body bare — came crawling out from Chunlu’s right shoulder, a single pale hand pressed directly over Chunlu’s right eye.

There it was. The shadow I had noticed from the very first moment I saw Chunlu — faint and uncertain, always clinging close behind her.

A malevolent creature living deep inside another person’s body always required some extreme emotion — like fury — to draw it out of its host. This was the most sophisticated technique in my repertoire as an old spirit with considerable experience.

“You also have moments of jealousy — I can see it in your heart. There is a woman’s shadow inside you, and she has a face identical to yours.” The creature’s voice was sharp and tinny with laughter.

“Yet I never hated her, never went mad with the desire to be rid of her,” I said. “Perhaps that’s why I look better than you.”

“You should not have come here!” it snarled through clenched teeth.

A tremor rose from beneath my feet. The whole room began to shake. I was not entirely confident in my ability to subdue this creature — but I could not go on watching this jealousy-inciting evil run rampant. Just look at the people of Shiyou Village — Old Song, Old Song’s wife, the dark-skinned young woman. Nearly every one of them had a grinning little figure perched on their shoulder, one tiny hand covering their right eye.

Old Song’s rejection of everything new and different from outside — was it truly out of a conviction that such things insulted the craft of his ancestors?

Nothing but jealousy. He could not reach that level himself, yet never thought of changing, only clung stubbornly to envying others and doing nothing.

Old Song’s wife and her crowd of women who could, without hesitation, use me as a living sacrifice — was that truly done for the sake of helping Yu Qing find her son?

Nothing but jealousy. That one eye they had left, the eye that knew only envy, could not endure the presence of a woman younger, prettier, and wealthier than themselves. Using her as a sacrificial offering served two purposes at once.

“Whether you should or shouldn’t have come here is not for you to decide,” I said, bracing myself for a hard fight.

Heading northward along the road, I hadn’t yet found the stone, and already I had a battle on my hands. What was this thing’s plan for dealing with me? Borrow Chunlu’s power and turn me into a terracotta warrior?

“I’ve finally found a place to shelter myself, and this foolish girl had to bring you straight to me! Let me tell you — being a good person is not something just anyone can manage!”

Bricks and dust rained down from overhead. The four walls rocked left and right. I was like someone standing in a world on the verge of collapse — one moment of inattention, and it would be total ruin.

Then came a sharp crack. Something gray came tumbling from the top of a cabinet, hitting the floor and shattering into several pieces. I glanced over: it was a pig-shaped ceramic money jar. A heap of corroded old coins spilled out, and beneath the coins, the edge of a bamboo slip inscribed with characters.

At that moment, the creature let out a piercing shriek. Using Chunlu’s body, with black hair fanning out behind like a terrible tide, she launched herself toward me with full force.

In the instant I focused my full concentration to meet the attack, a flash of white cut past from behind her. A translucent long sword, carved with unusual patterns, came cleaving down from midair. In the chaos, what appeared to be some kind of animal — seemingly a crimson fox — ran along the blade, and with one bite caught the creature by the throat.

Was it really going to be this easy? I watched, wide-eyed, as the red fox dragged the creature out of Chunlu’s body and swallowed it whole. Another blink and the creature was gone, the fox was gone — before me there remained only an unconscious Chunlu, a soft, luminous object glowing with a faint radiance like jade — a “pigeon’s egg” — and the man who had just converted the long sword into a thread of white light and sealed it back into a small round container labeled “Toothpick Box”: none other than the stone-faced artsy young man!

Wait — the “pigeon’s egg” first — wasn’t that a piece of cyan amber?! It was identical to the one we had found inside You Qu’s body — even the crack patterns looked almost the same!

I rushed forward to grab it, but another hand was faster.

“Mine,” the expressionless artsy man said mildly, producing a cloth pouch and slipping the cyan amber inside without ceremony.

“Give it back!” I lost my composure and grabbed his arm.

“I don’t take your things. Please don’t take mine.” He was unfailingly polite — so polite that I almost felt I was the one in the wrong. And yet how could I possibly let go of something this important?

I planted myself in the doorway. Channeling the authority I ordinarily used to boss around my staff, I declared: “If you want to take that out of here, you’ll have to walk over my dead body first.”

He looked up at the sky, which was about to break into dawn. “The police are almost here. If you want to stay and give testimony against the woman who threw you in the river, I have no objection. You have a vehicle — if you’re willing to give me a ride for part of the way, I have no objection to that either.”

He had taken what he wanted and yet felt no urgency to be rid of me — on the contrary, he was asking me to drive him somewhere?

“Who are you, exactly? What’s your name, and where are you from?” I still hadn’t moved from the doorway.

“You can call me Jiǎ Yǐ,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “I come from a Daoist temple called Youjian Guan.”

“A Daoist?” I looked him over again from head to toe. “Youjian Guan — which one is that?”

“The temple’s name,” he said, “is simply Youjian Guan.”

What a baffling, baozi-shaped name — whether for the temple or for himself.

If this man was a Daoist, everything made sense.

“Surely you’re aware that I’m a spirit,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. Between spirits and Daoists, there had never been friendly relations — not since the old days. “Isn’t it strange to ride in a spirit’s vehicle? Or are you planning to catch me off guard and test your sword on me?”

“You’re not my target yet,” he said, looking down at me. My face — covered in question marks — reflected in his sunglasses. “Can we go now?”

Several crows called in the distance. A corner of the sky grew pale. Far along the gray-white mountain road, the sound of sirens began to carry toward us.

My eyes fell on Chunlu. “Take her too!”

Before he could respond, I turned back into the room, picked up the bamboo slip that had fallen from the money jar, scanned it quickly, and was briefly taken aback.

14

I drove out of Shiyou Village and found a new road heading forward, stopping only when I had rounded to the opposite bank of Du Jin.

Day had fully broken. It didn’t look like it would be clear — gray-white clouds had settled like layers of blankets over the river, still not yet awake.

“What did you do to Old Song and the others?” I asked Jia Yi, seated quietly beside me.

“Helped them find out the truth,” Jia Yi said, without moving.

“Did you find Yu Qing’s son?” I remembered clearly what this fraud had said and done at the river’s edge. “And you showed complete indifference to them using me as a sacrifice!”

“They were no match for you, were they?” He deflected the question entirely. “That woman’s son has been found.”

“In the river?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing to do with Shiyou Granny, I would imagine.”

“Something to do with Old Song’s wife.” His calm suggested no awareness that life and death were being discussed. “She pushed the young man into the water and drowned him while no one was looking.”

“Like sisters since childhood, yet long filled with barely-buried resentment. Her own son is simple-minded, and other people’s sons were just about to become golden phoenixes taking flight,” I said coldly.

“People with little figures standing on their shoulders are rather interesting.” Jia Yi turned slightly, and before long the sweet sound of contented snoring filled the air.

He’d seen it too.

“How did you determine the truth?”

“That’s my trade secret. Can’t be told.”

I made a sound of mild dismissal, got out, and climbed into the back of the vehicle. Chunlu was already awake, curled in the corner, looking at me blankly — her face clean and pale, that infuriating birthmark entirely gone.

“Awake?”

“You said… I’ve never made any progress all these years?” she asked slowly.

She remembered what I had said.

“That’s right. Though it’s not entirely your fault. That creature covering your eye corrupted your heart and nature,” I told her.

I still didn’t know the origins of this spirit that covered people’s eyes and amplified the worst of human jealousy until it twisted into something malevolent — but I had noticed that its manner of operating was similar to You Qu’s: both used a host’s body to cause harm, and both chose hosts who already shared something in common with them. The despairing You Qu had chosen the despairing Ao Ze as host, and this creature had chosen the jealousy-stricken Chunlu.

“There was a spirit inside my body?” Chunlu looked bewildered.

“Not anymore.” I looked at her. “You felt nothing at all?”

Chunlu shook her head. “I always believed all of those things were done by my own will. Occasionally I felt that the people who died because of me were innocent, and I wanted to stop making those ceramic figures — but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt I had to do it to be happy. Including…” She fell silent for a long time. Tears suddenly welled in her eyes. “Including the moment I sealed A’Zhi inside the figurine — I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. I told myself this was what I had to do to be happy. I never imagined that my brother still left me behind. I took his body away with me, and with my method made him into a ‘living figurine,’ so he would be like he was still by my side. All I wanted was for us both to become true human beings. Holding onto that, I spent two thousand years… and in the end, gained nothing. If only I hadn’t been jealous of A’Zhi all those years ago…”

She covered her face and wept.

“Leave Shiyou Village, find another place, and begin your cultivation again,” I said to her, with gravity.

She lifted her reddened eyes, looking at me in astonishment. “You don’t intend to destroy me? From the very first moment I saw you, I couldn’t tell you were a spirit — but I sensed that you were someone who could help me find answers, and also someone who could ‘end’ me.”

“I didn’t expect you to tell me everything about yourself and Song Yi.”

“I don’t know why — I only felt a suffocating weight in my chest, and I knew I had to speak these things aloud. Two thousand years, and I could never tell any of this to anyone. Only when facing you…”

“You don’t need to explain it,” I cut her off. I reached into my bag, took out the bamboo slip, and held it out to her. “Take it and go. This was hidden inside Song Yi’s money jar. Never be jealous of other people’s gifts or happiness. With two eyes open, you can cultivate into a true human being. Remember — if someone walks ahead of you, there is always a reason they have walked ahead.”

Chunlu nodded, half-understanding. Then she looked down at the bamboo slip, and the tears she had just managed to stop broke free again.

Carved on the slip was a single line:

A dowry prepared for our most beloved Chunlu.

Song Yi and A’Zhi’s world had never contained only two people.

~ Epilogue ~

I gave Chunlu a jar of Fu Sheng tea.

“I have no sense of taste,” she said, shaking her head. “Giving it to me would only be a waste. I am not someone who can appreciate tea.”

“Drink it when you do have a sense of taste. Perhaps that day will come a little later than usual.” I pressed the porcelain jar into her hands and winked. “And if you still remember me when that day comes, come find me at Bu Ting.”

“Bu Ting?”

“I am a tree spirit and a proprietress. Whatever shop I happen to be running at the time, it will always be called Bu Ting,” I said with a smile. “As long as you’re not too dim, you’ll find it.”

“All right.” Chunlu nodded, a little uncertainly.

“Then — goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

I started the car. In the rearview mirror, Chunlu stood small by the roadside. Behind her, Du Jin murmured and flowed.

I truly detest the name of this river. Change it already — even “Tree Spirit River” would be better than this.

Wait — the person beside me wasn’t dead or anything, was he? I let my eyes drift sideways and snuck a glance at his bag. If I were to make a move right now and take the cyan amber back…

“Do you know the name of the stone you’re carrying?”

He spoke without warning and startled me. His operational rhythm switches very quickly.

“How do you know I have a stone?” I asked.

“I see. I smell. I feel.” He answered without answering. “You still haven’t replied to my question.”

“How would I know — stones don’t talk.” I gave him a sideways look.

“Yours is called Jueli Hua,” he said slowly. “Mine is called Xiaohuyuan. The Jueli Hua — it is a stone from the Absolute Desolation Shoal: a place of extreme heat and unrelenting drought, where nothing survives. And yet in that landscape of complete despair, these stones alone are able to bloom flowers. This is why the stone carries the meaning of a precious thing — ‘hope.'”

Jueli Hua… I had never heard of it, yet it didn’t sound like something fabricated without basis.

“And Xiaohuyuan?”

“What is it that subdues jealousy?”

“Appreciation, naturally.”

“The story of Xiaohuyuan — I’ll tell you when I’ve finished sleeping.”

“You… fine. What happened to Old Song and the others?”

“The police will deal with it.”

Very well. I imagined that from this day on, Old Song and his people would no longer have tiny figures perched on their shoulders covering one eye. But they would still need to answer for what they had done. After all — it was they themselves who had allowed those little figures through the door.

The weather had improved. Sunlight fell across the roof of my dusty vehicle. Beside me, a rather stylish, foul Daoist monk snored without a care in the world.

I sighed. The first transaction of my Bu Ting tea shop on the road — nothing but give-aways. Next time, I absolutely must recoup my losses. And this fellow Jia Yi — he hadn’t even said where he was heading. Wait, for that matter, where was I heading?

Forget it. Forward.

Gradually, the road grew wider, the sun grew brighter, and Du Jin — and Shiyou Village — fell further and further behind.

I couldn’t recall which film it was from, but a line came to mind: When a close friend fails an exam, you feel bad. But when that same friend scores first in the class — somehow, you feel even worse.

The next time something like that crosses your mind, you might want to reach over and feel your right shoulder — and see whether there happens to be a small figure standing there, one tiny hand covering your eye.

If there is — please, drive it away without mercy.

This has been a word of advice from a proprietress who nearly ended up as a river sacrifice.