Encountering a Snake C6

Chapter 6: Mid-Autumn

The next day the rain stopped all at once and the sky cleared.

The flowers in the courtyard, after days of wind and rain, were inevitably battered. Yet more dark green leaves pushed out, and among them sat small buds not yet grown. From the look of them, in three or five days the trees would be full of bloom again.

Shen Qingxuan sat in the courtyard, breathing the scent of wet earth, and looked into the distance. After only a few days the whole mountain wood had been washed into a deep, quiet green, shining like wet gemstone.

He sat until noon. The sun grew fierce and drew sweat from him head to foot, as if all the heat stored up over many days had burst out at once. Even the birds in the woods drooped.

He narrowed his eyes at the gold disc in the sky. In an instant his vision went white.

He shut his eyes at once to rest them. Irritation rose. He could only think, helplessly, that the old demon had left, and so the sun dared come out.

The thought turned and he found it funny. He tipped his head back against the chair and sighed softly.

He sat there until afternoon.

The sun stretched the shadow of him alone in the wheelchair very long, and longer still.

Yi Mo had been gone more than a month in the blink of an eye. In that time there was not a scrap of news.

Shen Qingxuan pretended he had never known of the departure and refused to think of it. Only now and then, turning, the thought would flash: whether the slough had been found, how long until the return to the mountain. The moment it appeared he forced it down. He would not go looking for trouble.

In that way the first month passed in peace.

In the second month, just after the seventh, he turned through the almanac. Marks made in ink met his eye. His mother’s birthday was near. He wondered what to send as a gift and worried in private.

The servant at his side saw his downcast look, guessed his thoughts, and worried with him for a few days. Then he offered a plan: the Young Master might prepare some of the mountain’s wild goods and go into the kitchen himself to make a bowl of longevity noodles for the old madam, and send that as a congratulatory gift.

Shen Qingxuan thought it over and agreed with pleasure.

The old madam of the Shen house believed in the Buddha and would not touch meat. Everyone knew it. The mountain mushrooms were all fresh, and after the rain there were tender bamboo shoots. One had only to stoop and look; they were everywhere.

He sent people to gather a large basket, sorted and stored them, then went into the kitchen to knead and roll dough.

After several busy days he at last rolled out one long, unbroken noodle. The old madam’s birthday had arrived.

He packed the boiled fresh mushroom broth, shredded the shoots and poured topping over them, put it all in a food box, and sent a man down the mountain, with the instruction that the longevity noodle must be cooked only after it entered the mansion, then dressed with the mushroom broth.

The servant took the order, shouldered the food box and a basket of wild mountain goods, and went down.

Shen Qingxuan saw him to the gate and watched his back for a long time, unable to come back to himself.

The maid beside him found the sight rather bleak. After standing a while she said in a low voice, “If the Young Master misses the old madam, why not go down and take it yourself? She would be gladder to see you.”

He came back to himself. His face showed nothing at the words. He shook his head slightly and gestured for her to wheel him back to his room.

The servant hurried down with the boxes. The sun had only just begun to sink when he reached the Shen mansion. Shen’s mother came at the news. When she saw the soup and food in the box, tears fell at once. She wiped them with a handkerchief and said to herself, “My son is filial.”

The servant was quick-witted. He bowed and spoke a few lucky phrases, then said, “This noodle was rolled by the Young Master’s own hand and sent with this humble one. Before he left he said it must be cooked only after entering the house. Will Madam eat it now?”

She nodded, went into the kitchen, watched the cook bring the water to a boil, and put that long single noodle into the pot. When it was lifted into a bowl and the still-warm mushroom broth poured over it, the hot noodle met the warm soup and was just right to eat. Neither cold nor scalding.

After the noodles she called the servant, rewarded him, and said, “Go back and tell Xuan-er that Mother knows what is in his heart. In other years, each time he came home I cried, and his heart was already bitter. Seeing me like that only added to his grief. Now that he does not come down the mountain, I do not blame him. Let him rest quietly on the mountain. This mother does not ask him to trade or to enter official life. She only asks that he be safe and steady.” At that she put her palms together, asked the Buddha’s protection, and left in tears.

The servant received a good deal of reward silver, tucked it away, returned to the mountain, and repeated the old madam’s words to Shen Qingxuan without missing one. He was rewarded again and withdrew in high spirits.

Time in the mountains passed extremely slowly, and it was summer. The days were long, the nights short.

Shen Qingxuan also felt the days crawl. He sat under a tree in a daze for a long while, opened his eyes, and the sun was still bright.

He did not know how the time was wasted away. One day he pushed open the window and caught, suddenly, the scent of osmanthus on the tip of his nose. He started. Was it already the eighth month?

Mid-Autumn in the eighth month: chrysanthemums yellow, crabs fat, osmanthus fragrant.

His spirits rose. He had the courtyard washed with clear water and fine sand spread on the ground. When the night turned cool he summoned the menservants, maids, cooks, and old retainers, laid three or four tables of wine and food, boiled several dozen large fat crabs and set them in the middle, heated wine, and told everyone to drink and enjoy the moon.

The servants of this mountain courtyard had never been under the tight rule of the main mansion. Their natures were rather wild. Given the master’s leave, and seeing his rare high spirits, they began to eat and talk at once.

Shen Qingxuan sat at one table with a few close servants and smiled at their jokes. Seeing the master in good humor, they grew happier still. Jokes and teasing followed one after another, some quite coarse. He laughed until he lost his composure, and when the laugh was done he rewarded the teller with wine.

After three cups of yellow wine a servant grew bold. The jokes lost all restraint. He wandered from south to north, the talk growing more wild, and somehow drifted to gods and ghosts—how Xingtian was, how Fuxi was—then stories of flower ghosts and fox immortals, one after another. Still less need be said of the tales they liked best: the down-and-out scholar and the loyal demon or ghost immortal, oaths sworn under flowers and moon. One servant started such a story; the rest carried it on, each more aching, each more lingering than the last.

For a time the courtyard was extremely lively.

The night ran to the third watch. Everyone in the courtyard showed their drink. Shen Qingxuan was glad at heart and had taken a few extra cups; he was a little heavy-headed. The maid who waited on him closely was still clear. She saw him back to his room to rest. He lay on the bed and sent her out again to drink with the others, and rested alone.

Only after she closed the door and left did the wine rise in him. He felt rather wretched, and a little clarity returned. The noise outside slipped in through window lattice and door crack, near and far, real and unreal. A thin bleakness touched him.

He could not help thinking of Yi Mo—where he was now, what he was busy with, whether he had found the slough, whether he had wine at Mid-Autumn… whether he had thought of him, of the hours of quiet talk by brush and candlelight…

While his thoughts ran wild, a clear woman’s voice, soft and delicate, called at his ear: “Gongzi.”

He opened his eyes at once. There was no one around. He almost thought he had misheard. He paused, then suddenly flung back the bed curtains.

Not far away a woman in red stood slender and still. Her cloud-like hair was piled high, her face flushed, her brows and eyes like a painting—indescribably lovely.

She was looking at him with feeling in her gaze.

He stared at her for a long while. The longer he looked, the pinker her cheeks, the more alluring she became.

Thinking he was in a dream, he pinched himself hard. It hurt a great deal.

He understood at once: this woman was either immortal or demon. Wariness rose.

She moved with light lotus steps to the side of his bed, lowered her head, and said shyly, “It is as Gongzi thought. This slave is a flower spirit of this mountain. For years I received Gongzi’s kindness and careful watering, and so cultivated a human form. Just now in the courtyard Gongzi was drunk and poured a cup of wine on me. Does Gongzi still remember?”

He listened in a daze, thought back in a daze, and suddenly recalled something of the kind. It had been a clump of phoenix-ball flowers.

Her pale neck bent. “That was this slave.”

Only then did he come fully back to himself. He still did not understand why she had come, and looked at her with suspicion.

“This slave received Gongzi’s grace, and so has today…” As she spoke a sudden flush rose in her face; she was beautiful beyond measure. Her voice was as small as a mosquito. “Tonight I came to repay Gongzi.”

She spoke extremely softly, too shy to lift her eyes. He was a clever man and understood her meaning. Shame rushed through him; his ears burned. He did not know how to answer.

For a moment both were overcome with embarrassment. The candlelight swayed. The air grew warm and lingering.

Seeing this, she still did not raise her flushed face, yet she put out a hand, lightly undid her bright red gauze robe, lay down slowly, and nestled into his arms.

Warm scent and soft jade in his arms—how could he feel nothing?

He was moved, and he hesitated. The matter between man and woman was no small thing. Though he had been born to a merchant house, he had begun his lessons at three, studied poetry and rites under famous teachers, and to this day had never been light or careless in word or act. He had thought of such things, but because of his body he had long given the thought up.

Tonight this woman was beautiful as a flower. She was of another kind, yet she was clean and clear. Even if liking rose in him, he dared not act rashly.

After this reasoning he grew gradually calm. The woman would not yield. Soft limbs in the bedding twined around him.

He could not speak. He could only push her away. He pushed a little; she twined back, shyly. He pushed again; she twined again.

After several times, the two on the bed were a man and a woman in the full flower of youth. Dry kindling and fierce fire—at last it caught with a roar.

His mind was already spent. In a blur he reached the crucial point—then the warm, fragrant, yielding body in his arms turned suddenly cold. An icy palm settled on his forehead. The low moans were gone. A voice, deep and low, whispered at his ear: “Shen Gongzi is indeed of clear antiquity and smelted brilliance, grace born of itself.”

He started violently. His waist shuddered. He opened his eyes at once.

The room was as it had been. There was no one. The bed stood some ten paces away. The quilts and pillows were neat. There was no sign they had been disturbed.

Sweat dropped from his brow, yet his whole body was bone-cold, as if the icy body from the dream still clung to him.

He looked down. He was sitting in the bathing tub. The water had gone completely cold.

He had fallen asleep while bathing and made a spring dream.

He let out a breath, shook his head with a wry smile, and lifted his arm to ring the bell.

In that instant the corner of his eye caught the water. The hand he had stretched out froze in midair. His face went paper-white as he stared at the thin threads of white cloudiness floating up from the bottom.

He had… spent.

—

Almanac : An old calendar book used to pick lucky days and mark birthdays.

Longevity noodles : A single long noodle eaten on a birthday; breaking it is unlucky.

Xingtian : A mythical warrior who kept fighting after his head was cut off.

Fuxi : A culture hero and ancient god said to have taught writing and order.