Encountering a Snake C4

Chapter 4: Good and Evil

Shen Qingxuan had weighed it carefully in his mind. If this snake could pull him back from the edge of death, then letting him walk and jump and speak aloud like an ordinary man should not be difficult.

Only, the words were hard to speak.

To put it plainly: he, Shen Qingxuan, had for no reason at all poured a cup of hot tea over someone. He had walked a circle at the brink of life and death, yet in the end he had lived. The price of living was to guard this snake through its tribulation—because his fate was vigorous, great wealth and great honor. He did not entirely disbelieve the other’s explanation, but he could not believe it wholly either.

Up to this moment, the bargain between man and snake was still fair.

He had poured hot tea on it; it had bitten him. That was only right. It had left him a life; he would guard it through its tribulation. The trade was just.

Asking for a gift in return had been meant as a joke. He had to admit, though, that a little greed had slipped in with it. He had wanted to take more from this snake.

To think of oneself first when something arises is human nature. Shen Qingxuan was a scholar after all. When the words left the brush, expectation was hard to suppress, and so was shame.

He had not expected the demon to be so direct—to grant what was in his heart before he could even say it.

Shen Qingxuan lowered his head and did not move for a long time.

Before him the paper was white, the characters black, the ink not yet dry.

In the air of the room there was only the sound of his own breathing. Nothing else.

He had no answer. He did not even dare look again at the writing on the desk. He only kept his head down, his face turning now pale, now flushed.

He was twenty-seven. Fate had given him more thought and more experience than most, but how could that be compared with an old snake demon who had cultivated for nearly a thousand years?

Yi Mo had hidden his form from beginning to end. This meeting he had not even used his voice, only the inked brush. He saw through everything as if it were fire.

Shen Qingxuan was only a small seed just breaking the soil. The other already covered the sky.

The tea had long gone cold.

At last Shen Qingxuan lifted his head. He looked at the empty space in front of him in silence for a long while, then slowly took up the brush and wrote, character by character, beside those neat words: Thank you.

Those two characters were all he could write now. Any more would fail to hold what he felt. One extra word would be excess.

A moment later the wolf-hair brush, moved by another’s will, went of its own accord into the brush-washer. Shen Qingxuan watched it steadily and knew the conversation was over. Yi Mo was leaving.

In the blink of an eye, the cold, clear scent in the room slowly faded.

He sat there dazed for a while, then reached out and gathered the scattered sheets. He arranged them one by one in the order of their talk, went through them carefully once more, set them on his lap, and wheeled himself to the bedside. He put the pages away in a wooden box with great care.

The apricot blossoms in the courtyard opened and fell.

Peach buds pushed out one by one. In only two days, under the bright sun, they could not wait and burst open.

Shen Qingxuan sat in the sunlight again. He had himself wheeled under the peach trees and smiled.

The heavy cloak had been put away. He wore only a cape; the cotton-padded jacket had been taken off as well. He was in a pale moonlight-colored robe.

The servants still patrolled the garden in nervous circles, missing not a single corner, afraid another snake would appear and set their hearts pounding.

Shen Qingxuan paid little attention. He only lifted his face to the brilliant peach blossoms on the branches. Now and then a light wind passed. The thin petals drifted down and settled on his face, and his smile deepened.

When the peaches were done, the roses that climbed the fence rushed to set buds, as if afraid of failing the spring. Shen Qingxuan still had himself wheeled out and insisted on sitting beside the roses.

The demand made a young servant cry out in fright. “Young Master, this will not do! It will not do!”

The flowers grew along the fence; the leaves were packed so tight they formed a green wall that seemed to let in no air. Heaven knew what might be hiding inside.

But he was only a servant and could not refuse his master. Seeing that persuasion failed, he quickly scattered realgar powder around Shen Qingxuan to drive off insects and snakes. Shen Qingxuan could do nothing. He let the man mix the scent of flowers with the smell of realgar until it was a ruin.

His days wore away slowly through the overlapping seasons of bloom.

Perhaps Yi Mo had used some technique when he cleared the snake venom. Shen Qingxuan’s body was better than before. He no longer caught cold and ran at the nose so easily.

He was still weak. Too long in the courtyard and his spirit grew tired.

The servant who had waited on him since childhood had sharp eyes. The moment Shen Qingxuan’s face showed the least weariness, he was wheeled back inside and served ginseng tea.

At intervals Yi Mo appeared as well.

As before he hid his form, spoke not a word, and conversed with him in writing.

Sometimes Shen Qingxuan would have a table of wine and dishes set in the room. Whenever he showed the meaning of an invitation, Yi Mo came as if they had agreed.

They had never set a time in advance, yet there was never a mistake.

Shen Qingxuan had still never seen his face. To this day he did not know what this taciturn, indifferent snake demon looked like.

Sometimes he guessed, without malice, that the face might be ugly, and that was why he would not show himself.

Every time the thought rose he pinched it out. Yi Mo was a snake, and a demon. Even if his true form were extremely ugly, he could easily take on a fine appearance.

This evening, after bathing, Shen Qingxuan spread paper and brush and sat at the desk to wait.

Time had taught him a little of Yi Mo’s pattern. Every half-month he went to the hot spring on the mountain. Coming down from the spring, passing the side courtyard, Yi Mo would stop in for a short while—though Shen Qingxuan still did not know whether the other actually sat while they exchanged writing.

It was all only his guess.

Tonight was again the night the snake demon went to the spring. Shen Qingxuan waited.

In the idle time of waiting he took up a book. Lately the whole villa knew that their Young Master’s temperament had changed and his tastes with it. He had set aside the old classics and sought out only strange, crooked volumes—village night talks, tales of the uncanny, wild talk of every kind: fox immortals and flower ghosts, snakes and insects and tigers and wolves taking human shape, and all the mysterious legends that circulated in the marketplace. He found them and read them every day.

No one could make sense of it.

Shen Qingxuan did not take the stories in those books very seriously, but he found the coarse marketplace writing interesting, so he read on.

When Yi Mo arrived, Shen Qingxuan was holding a book over his face, laughing without sound. He was laughing at a doggerel verse in the book, written crudely and yet impossible not to smile at.

Catching the familiar scent, he set the book down and wrote: You have come.

Beside the three characters a single word fell at once: Yes.

Shen Qingxuan wrote again: Lately I have been reading some mixed books.

Yi Mo wrote: I know.

Shen Qingxuan thought a moment and wrote: The things those books tell—are they true or false?

Yi Mo answered: Half true, half false.

Shen Qingxuan paused, then wrote quickly: Just as I thought.

A moment later he smiled faintly and wrote, teasing: The spirits in those books are some good and some evil. I wonder—is Gongzi Yi good or evil?

As soon as he finished he felt the question was abrupt. Though they had grown somewhat familiar, it was only the surface. Since they had met he had never even seen this snake demon’s face. Other matters he had never asked, because they were still strangers.

Their dealings were frequent on paper, but the talk stayed on the surface.

Unease rose in him. He knew the question was sudden and excessive. If Yi Mo turned his face and left, Shen Qingxuan would have nothing to say.

This snake demon had saved him and given him a promise. And he had asked: are you good or evil?

How muddled!

The thought that the other might vanish left a taste in his heart he could not name.

This late night on a lonely mountain, the bright little room, the rustle of paper, the lingering scent of ink, the silent crossing of cups, the faint meeting of characters—because of one absurd question, all of it might scatter like smoke.

He found he did not want that.

Shen Qingxuan sat frozen, looking at the empty space in front of him, not moving at all.

The time seemed long and was in fact very short. Then the inked brush rose into the air again and wrote slowly beside his elegant small regular script: By what standard does one judge good and evil. It paused, then added a small question mark.

Color rushed back into Shen Qingxuan’s face. He was glad the other was not angry.

But looking at the ink, his brows soon drew together. Those eight lightly written characters left him speechless.

After a moment’s thought he wrote: I do not know. How do you distinguish them?

The brush tip hesitated, then came down slowly again. This time there were only six characters: Whoever treats me well is good.

Shen Qingxuan stared at those six characters and could not come back to himself for a long time.

After a long silence he took up the brush and wrote:

If someone first treats me badly—bullies me, harms me—and later changes his heart, pities me, loves me—then what?

Yi Mo added quickly beside his words:

Bully her, harm her, then pity her, love her.

Shen Qingxuan bit his lip and wrote four characters beside that line: An eye for an eye. He raised his brows and looked, smiling and not smiling, at the empty space beside him.

This exchange on paper lasted longer than usual. Shen Qingxuan’s strength was failing, but he could not bear to stop. He forced himself on until midnight, then put away paper and brush. His head touched the pillow and he sank into dreams, not waking until noon the next day.

After some ginseng soup his energy returned, and he became again the Young Master Shen who passed the time in the sun. His gaze rested quietly on the fiery pomegranate blossoms not far away, but his heart was not quiet. He imagined that at this season next year he might sit with this “good” snake demon who had shown him kindness, drink wine and talk beneath a tree full of red flowers.

Only one more year.

One year remained until Yi Mo’s heavenly tribulation.

—Whoever treats me well is good.

How simple.

Shen Qingxuan lifted the corners of his mouth. The smile that appeared was clean and clear, warm as a spring wind.