A soft, silent shower covered Jinghai. Mist curling into graceful hands left behind a lingering caress. Mysterious Mountains stretching farther down north of Jinghai— forthright and hawkish soldiers stood overrun in a high-tide of rushing waves of clouds and raining mist. Peaks after peaks were soon shadowed underneath misty clouds and foggy screens, and murky downpour lingered further on, as if noting a silent plea of summer's end.
It was the ninth month of the year; after three more this year would end too. No festivity, no new remarkable gatherings were on the horizon and Jinghai at this time of the year had fallen into a slothful slumber lulled by its wetlands and soaking greenery steeped in mud.
Carriages and carts dotted its roads — some dragged by hands, some pulled along by beasts. Some of them could be seen accidentally overturning into muddied and rain-washed pathways. Then a few tired and flustered faces gathered, crowding together to gain some heat, shivering in the cold. They could only wait for help from passersby or send words to bring helpers from the town, while they soaked in the rain.
If one happened to meet more unfortunate circumstances like carriage wheels completely coming off, there was no other solution but to wait and keep waiting for rescue or for another carriage to pass by.
One such unfortunate young master sat inside his broken carriage, awaiting rescue.
Draped in his fur, sometime peeking through the carriages now wet bamboo screens and curtain, sometime cursing at the weather in an almost indecipherable tone, while seeking some warmth from his hand-held brazier inside the carriage, he knew all too well that he was hopelessly waiting hours before any help could arrive in any form. Each screech would throw him off, with a rising expectation, to be immediately smothered too as he'd glimpse something else driving past him— this time, it was the loud rattle of rolling wheels created by a few peasants riding their ox-drawn carts.
"Ha, what a waste —! As if the heaven mandates my head be smeared in mud." The Second young master whispered to the wind. His tall back looked wistful, as he gazed ahead at the road leading to Jinghai's Town Gate, chasing distant gray backs. "Mother— I hope she hasn't started yet."
Soon rain covered his vision.
Often paper umbrellas could be seen floating like colorful shadows from one end of the alley to another, but seldom out from the town gate or even in suburbs. Festive reds, cheerful yellows and some supporting imitations of famous paintings —umbrellas floated around like hundreds of flowers blooming in spring misted over like a ghost painting. From one shopfront, people hopped to another, hoping to remain as un-wet as humanly possible in such a cumbersome weather, till the black tiled eaves of all visible shop fronts were filled with random strangers seeking refuge or running away in haste. Rain pitter-pattered on.
A few bare-bodied slaves ran along rushing to their young master's rescue, hurrying to bear the weight of carriage wheels stuck inside mud while he screamed his lungs out with anger.
"A carriage couldn't be arranged. Then why did you rush here without doing anything!? Don't tell me the house has every carriage occupied — what did you say? You're saying every one of them is engaged?! Ha! Are you taking me for a fool!!"
And thus, his voice echoed in the valley losing its shrill timbre as it reached farther and farther down south.
In the outskirts of the town southwards, there it was the worst hit. Continuous rain of three weeks, unsparing of the day or night had seeped into fields stretching all around the valley. A gloom had settled in; melancholic blues filled the valley's undulating hills and ravines. As far as the eyes could see, the land appeared as a sea overarching the heavens. It stretched on and on, farther till it melted away down into the opposite range of bluish gray Mysterious Mountains far into the southern horizon.
Forest and foliage, fresh and lush green forked sparingly. The rain had washed off their dusty paleness and once again filled them with choicest of hues. The landscape had regained its mesmerizing colors and the mountains had turned a stark blue, sharply contrasting with the rolling white mist, while the sea-like fields were turning softer and reflective as silence settled in, like finely cut pieces of an enamoring mirror capturing a piece of the moving heaven above in its breast. When a softer shower fell over it creating round ripples everywhere, the effect was ethereal...
Greens could be said to have become a bit greener and the town livelier by the time Second young master and his servants found their way back.
Despite the unfortunate weather, the roads were getting busier; shops opened, carriages and carts carrying wooden boxes and people with burdens on their shoulders started crowding Jinghai. Even the small river running through the middle of the town — although flooded with muddied water and red of the washed down mountain soil —had begun to get busier. There were hordes of flower sellers, vegetable sellers and fish sellers, all of them with their baskets of freshly picked bunches of water-lilies and lotuses, pods and leafy greens and baskets of jumping rainbow trouts sitting atop their boats, haggling with their customers.
While harkening of hawkers pitched up a notch, even inside shaded mansions of nobles a similar kind of chattering of servants was abound. Rows after rows of maids and servants were filing here and there in a set rhythm in Wei Jia as if some hand was pulling their string from above, guiding them, restricting their paces, restraining their actions, keeping anyone from sticking out of tune. The rhythm itself was fine, but often a strange artificiality dawned upon their features.
"No, no, no! Oh, heavens! You—Hong Tao! Tao'er look at your steps, will you? Look at the time! Look at what you have done! The mistress has been waiting for so long now, both of her feet have gone cold in wait. There have been no words, no messages. Who of you knows if the Second Young master has returned yet? You should be ashamed! Would you care to rush out and look for him and see where he is now? Why hasn't he come home when all those slaves have been sent for so long? Everyone else is worried, but you. No, run for heaven's sake! The young master is late — look at this rain, it doesn't intend to stop, does it? The soup will be cold soon…Oh my heaven! Guests have started pouring in too–!"
It was like a silent pebble falling into still water.
Still, like a timbre broken off in a jerk and rescinding in the same manner, a Yellow-Tailed Warbler's song broke upon a magnolia branch drooping under the shower. It wasn't the flowering season yet its leaves shook with passion of a quenched thirst; the day was mellow, and the tune was heartening. Where did it break off to? It was a wonder…
Soon, the files of maids dressed in fine silks of modest cut went to east and to the west, to north and to south, and to each direction on their bidding. The rhythm had dawned upon them once more, all the more absorbed and grievous.
Somewhere a little splatter of feet rushing back and forth echoed, and then silence lingered in a vacant courtyard.
"Second Mistress…I have done what you ordered. Second young master will remain confined in abandoned courtyards till our task is done. Are there any other orders, miss?"
"Shitou, do you think I am being too cruel?" Draped in a lavender shawl, the woman carefully tucked a freshly pruned flower into her bun, sitting in front of bronze mirror. She waited for a reply but when silence filled the chamber, she closed her eyes. "A mother, Shitou, she can do anything for her child. Even if it means angering the gods and heaven to achieve her goals, she will still be fearless."
"Miss..."
"It is time. If one of them must die...it cannot be my daughter. I refuse to sacrifice her."
The woman stood up and walked out, leading a group of maids behind her.
By this time, the houses of nobles and commoners alike was bursting with vigorous rushing. The dawn had passed, and noon approached fast. In sharp contrast, the gloomy sky above and muddied paths snaking down sketched a wretched picture. The eaves of many houses still leaked with murky dark water, droplets rolling down in sheets of silvery sparkling train, down onto the stoned marbled floors. It was a solemn picture yet equally mesmerizing in its unsettling uncanniness.
Silence descended, then a shout emerged suddenly as if one has embroiled another in its existence, unceasingly mellow in its likeness.
***
Through the shade of white free-floating curtains sliding off the canopy of her bed, Wei Zhiruo looked up, still lying on her aching back. Her hazy mind though, rushing past everything, escaping all spatial fastenings of the courtyards and its forted manor, observed the town's walls and its mighty looking gates and its overbearing towers — some of them still embraced traces of ancient wars, there were scratches and mortifying wounds passed down through hands of men of past and mighty warriors.
She rose up, flew high and looked down. She took in all the rushing vigor of the small town, its bitterness and sweetness, its multifaceted chaos and liveliness, she felt its taste linger on her tongue and felt its strain enduring over her ears. For a moment she ceased to be anything but a speck of floating dust roaming over a halo of the past, stringless, unfathomable heights gripping her present and future, as it all melted in a single pot. A shadow engulfed her senses and then, as if chiding her willfulness her aching soul snatched her back.
The figure on the bed shook with vexation.
"How…?"
Wei Zhiruo heard her own breath coming out in clear, audible wheezing. Her pale face contrasted with the black free-floating strands of her smooth long hair, while her back — leaning against the wooden headboard, cushioned in cloud like pillows —was quite easily distinguishable against the almost paranoid staleness present in her eyes.
Flickering in the early morning sunlight, dust floated around stuck in a grave prayer. A few windows were parted open unceremoniously, without taking into account the health of the occupant. Naturally, the ache from chilly winds aroused her bodily instincts, making her feel everything touching her skin feel like a silent blow. As she kept staring blankly, the windows started letting in a faint drizzle and turbid smell of broken soil and crushed leaves and a faintly nostalgic smell tickled into her nose. The chill lingered over her pale skin, burning against her dull eyes. Dull, shadow less, mirthless, unapologetically apathetic.
She felt it. She knew it too. This was not her own — this room, this boudoir.
Somewhere in the room lay a delicate piece of embroidery, stacked together with piles of colored threads, a wooden frame still mounted with a piece of fabric, and silk rolls. Pearl beads hanging around her bed enclosed the view along with the parted muslin curtains, soft and embroidered with silvery totems of birds and auspicious clouds, which rose with the blowing wind teasingly.
By the door was a latticed wooden screen, hiding the bed from the direct view upon entering through the main door opening into the western walls. Crafted with luxurious rosewood, latticed window screens were parted open, but there was much missing. The room itself was full of a unique taste of incoherent extravagance and unpretentious barrenness, perhaps even a trace of simplicity.
Not like her palace at all.
It wasn't luxurious enough. Bright enough. Familiar enough…cough! And the smell that wafted here held a strange mellowness, lingering, covering a slightly muted moldy smell of rot. Something still stranger, this place, this chamber was altogether brimming with human weaknesses. Human interest, human taste and…what was this faint weirdness, this incongruity?
'No, it's not my palace at all—there is nothing like this at home.' Wei Zhiruo straightened up slowly like a few invisible strings were pulling her up, forcing her to rise from her death.
The room was unkempt. Shards of broken jars were still lying scattered over the floor...
The charms strung to the pearl strings suddenly burst into a tune, recapturing her wandering senses.
Wei Zhiruo closed her eyes and lulled the deep ache in her heart to sleep.
In fact, she knew something was off about the whole thing. The biggest giveaway had always been her body, her hands, her arms. Pale, small and weak. Yes, she had turned young, a child again.