Work Text:
The car grinds to a halt, stopping along the road.
The sun is obscured by smoke-grey clouds. A light drizzle pitter-patters on the car’s roof, and on the woman’s shoulders as she exits, carrying a large bag in hand.
She has stopped at the foot of a mountain. It stabs high into the sky and into the clouds, and the woman swears that she can see the faint, broken remains of a statue eons-past on one small peak.
She sighs, opens her umbrella and sets off. The air is chilly and she shivers, but still she walks on, undeterred.
Her feet take her up the roughly-hewn mountain path of stone. Where the tiles were once clean and swept of leaves, they are mossy, overgrown grass shooting out through the gaps. The woman nearly slips on the moss, but she rights herself in time.
There was once a waterwheel, its idyllic revolutions amidst the splash and gurgle of water calm and soothing. Now, it is broken, the spokes in disarray, the paddles scattered to the rivers and streams. All that remains is algae and rotten wood floating on the surface of the stream.
There were once well-maintained training courtyards, the echoes of clashing blades and uttered mantras serving as the music that flowed around this mountain like mist. Now all is silent. As with the path, the stone flags are cracked, broken, neglected. Shattered relics from a lifetime past.
There was once a spring garden, with stone tables and chairs and little jugs of wine to savor while one watched the passing clouds roll by serenely. Now the trees are dead, the flowers have faded, the last leaves have withered. An aura of loneliness hangs heavy about the entire place.
The woman crests a hill – and there it is. A temple-home of wood and stone, perched behind a large stone courtyard. Where the courtyard once was swept clean of leaves and fallen branches daily, it is covered in a carpet of dead leaves and rotting branches. Her nose wrinkles.
The woman observes the porch and the cracked wood steps. At least they are still somewhat strong, and she takes care to avoid the broken steps as she enters the house.
Dust. Dust and dirt everywhere. The woman strikes at a cobweb with her umbrella, sending an innocent spider scuttling into the dark. The oil lanterns have run dry, and the floors are creaky and worn.
She enters the kitchen. Ashes and soot lie dead in the grate, and there are still the remains of pickled mustard greens in the small covered bowl on the table. The wok and pots are hung up, still clean and usable, but dusty.
The low table and its two cushions are in disarray. The glass tabletop is smudged and grimy, and the last pot of tea atop remains standing. The tea has long evaporated away. The cushions frayed and worn.
The woman enters the bedroom. The comfortably-sized bed is remarkably intact, with the neatly-folded blankets and pillows still laid out carefully. The writing table still has a sheet of calligraphy paper resting under a porcelain paperweight.
The ink in the inkwell has long dried up, and when the woman picks up the brush impulsively, black powder scatters all over the paper. There is a half-finished poem on the paper, but it has already faded beyond recognition.
The woman sighs and moves on.
Through the various rooms, all in some state of disarray and dilapidation, but also with an air of orderliness to them. Clothes neatly folded and put away. The chairs and tables in the right place. She opens a cabinet and finds two weapons. A pair of fighting gauntlets, and a large scabbard holding an old sword, spear and chainwhip.
“Why did you even keep these? The war was over a long time ago…”
For the first time she arrived, the woman speaks, and heaves a plaintive sigh.
Finally, she heads out to the backyard, and finds what she was looking for.
A pair of gravestones nestled in the shade of a willow tree. Bearing faded pictures and carved with the words of the names of the deceased. A short eulogy inscribed on each headstone. The woman kneels in the overgrown grass, setting her bag by her side.
“Hey, you two. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
The wind whips her long hair into action. It is blue-greyish, with a streak of pure white running down one side. She closes her amethyst eyes and sighs again.
“Look – I’m sorry. Really. Work has been a proper bitch and I couldn’t return every year. Five years alone in this little dell, on the top of the world. But at least you have each other. I’m sorry.”
The woman reaches into her bag and pulls a large brush. Slowly, reverently, carefully, she brushes the grime and the dirt and leaf residue from the gravestones.
“I…honestly, I wanted to just give up when Mom died. Ma, you were – you didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep, all you did was hug that Piyo plush and cry all day. And I—I—I couldn’t do anything. I just wanted to let it all go.”
As the woman speaks, she retrieves an incense burner, a packet of sand, a pack of joss sticks and a lighter, along with a small bouquet of flowers. The rain has ceased, and the air is crisp, near-mockingly.
“Then Ma, you died soon after as well. Scarcely three days after, you just laid down and gave up your life. Followed Mom into the afterlife, hope you guys are happy there.”
With practiced hands, she lays out the burner, pours the cleaned sand into it from its packet, and pulls out three joss sticks. She hesitates before lighting them, then bows her head thrice before the graves, and carefully inserts the sticks into the burner.
“Ma, Mom, maybe you’re here, watching me. I guess maybe heaven has a Fog Mount Temple too, where you guys can hold each other and enjoy each other’s company for all eternity.”
The woman sighs and reaches out to touch the faded pictures on the gravestones. Blurred beyond recognition by rain and wind.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m doing well – training is going well, Schicksal is still alive and kicking. I’ve got a girlfriend now – wish you could meet her. All your friends – they’ve retired. Even Theresa has left, bet you’d never see that coming, huh?”
The woman rises to her feet, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She lays the bouquet in front of the gravestones, and presses her palms together, offering up a silent prayer.
“Ma, Mom. Thank you. Thank you for my life, for raising me and loving me, and—I wouldn’t know what I’d do if you weren’t there. Guess I wouldn’t even exist, hmm?”
The woman gives a bitter chuckle and wipes away the tears.
“Damn, I’m sorry. You guys shouldn’t see me cry like this. Maybe Ma would, but I know Mom wouldn’t. Still, your lovely daughter is doing well, and when I’m free, maybe I should call in a cleanup crew to spruce this place up. The least I could do for you.”
The woman spends a few more short moments whispering into the air, then finally leaves, leaving the incense burner burning, and the bouquet of flowers by the graves. Her shoulders start to shake as she descends the mountain, and by the time she returns to the car, tears are flowing freely down her cheeks.
The woman scrubs at her tears, but still they come.
“Damn it…Ma, Mom, I miss you. I wish I could see you all again.”
Fu Lixue sits back in the car seat and rocks herself as her sobs subside. After a while, she drinks from a water bottle, then sighs.
“Goodbye, Ma. Goodbye, Mom. See you next year.”
As the car heads off down the lonely road, two ethereal figures look down from the mountain peak. Formed of pale golden light they seem, and their robes do not disturb the grass or the stones. Wordlessly, their hands find each other and clasp tightly, and they watch the car recede into the distance.
They stand there for a long time, before the wind suddenly whips up, sending the fallen leaves into a flurry. The smell of old leaves is pungent, but underneath there is a faint scent of spring. When the wind dies down, the figures bow their heads and melt away into the breeze.
All is still. The day is silent once more.
CODA
Our child, we are here for you always.
When the days grow hard, and the nights turn cold,
To Mount Taixuan turn your gaze.
Look past your grief and your tears and behold:
Our love for you.
Through and through.