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It was the season when Shi Mei could tell the hour from the wind alone. The morning breeze was astringent, not yet bitter, but with an edge like the memory of darkness. The air at noon was more tentative, as though the sun’s arrow-straight rays could pierce it through, pinning it to the staid earth for the duration of a favorable hour. And then in the afternoon, unease began to flit through the fields, from tree to tree, across inconstant waters. The evening breeze was restless, like wild dogs bounding out to the hunt. Shi Mei always listened to it rattling through the rafters of humble cottages and barns, grateful for the stale air against his face instead of the heartless chill outside.
Today, judging from the crisp, cold wind that tousled his hair, he had gotten an early start. He left the first village before he felt the warmth of the sunrise on his cheeks, before anyone could try to press more coppers into his hands. He let his feet fall where gravity wanted them to fall—down the dusty path, toward the river at the bottom of the hill. He knew when he had reached the edge of the fields by the change in the sound of his footfalls, muffled by a carpet of leaves and grass.
Shi Mei walked on, more slowly than before, more mindful of his footing. He could tell the path here had recently been traveled by others, judging by the height of the grass and the angle of the stalks as they brushed against his robes. Still, it wouldn’t do to trip over a carefully disguised den, or wander accidentally into someone’s prized harvest.
At last, he felt the ground soften beneath his soles, and he heard the gentle swish of the wide river before him. The wind seemed to hesitate here, as though in deference to the unerring, tireless movement of the water. Shi Mei, too, paused, turning toward the sun. The world at this hour was still and calm, but deceptively so, Shi Mei knew. Autumn was but a slow slide into winter, a time to build up stores, to fortify defenses. It was not a time to let down one’s guard.
This much his mother had taught him well—how to prepare for the cold. Yet she would also take him and Mu Yanli out to the pond in the fall, Shi Mei remembered. They always went in the morning, when the white dew lingered on the fiery leaves. The glistening shine of the dew was like his mother’s eyes, soft and sweet. The rich scarlet of the trees was like his mother’s lips, curved into a gentle smile. When she looked at him, when she smiled at him, it was like the long winter would never come. That golden sunshine through the painted forest would never fade.
A distant rustle shook Shi Mei out of his reverie. He heard wingbeats, first a lone rhythm and then a trailing chorus, rising up from the grass somewhere behind him, punctuated by plaintive calls. If Shi Mei really concentrated, he could probably estimate the size of the flock by the volume alone, and the time the geese took to fly overhead. But such an exercise no longer interested him. He had seen enough of calculations and schemes for a lifetime. Instead, there was only the journey of each day, from door to door, from village to village. The journey of each year, as warm days turned cool, as the geese flew southward to follow the sun, as the weakest among them needed healing before the merciless cold swept in.
Shi Mei walked along the river, following that flock of geese, toward the next village downstream.
She was almost frantic. Two days ago, Xiaohua’s arm was only swollen around the cut. Yesterday, the skin grew red and hot. Today, the girl’s left arm was almost twice the size of her right. She couldn’t even wrap her hand around Xiaohua’s forearm—a grown woman’s hand couldn’t wrap around her four-year-old daughter’s arm. Something was very, very wrong.
But she couldn’t do anything about it, because her daughter was too young. Too prone to crying, no matter how much she told her, You’re not allowed to cry, not in front of anyone else. You can’t let people see your tears.
Why? the girl would always ask, sniffling, looking up at her. Baffled and trusting.
Because people will hurt you if they see you cry.
But Lan-er next door cries all the time…
That’s different.
Sometimes her husband would swoop in, cajoling the girl, making her laugh. See, your tears are so pretty. You know what gold is? I guess you’ve never seen a gold coin before, Mommy and I don’t have any here… But see how it sparkles in the light? That’s why people like it. That’s why it’s very valuable. Your tears are so pretty that people will get jealous of you, and then they might do something bad. So you have to protect yourself, okay? No more tears. That’s a good girl.
It was different for her husband. He wasn’t like her; his tears weren’t golden. She hadn’t been sure, before Xiaohua, if their children would be like him or like her. But as soon as the little girl had taken her first breath, as soon as those first pearly droplets glimmered down her tiny red face, she knew.
The stakes were forever changed. A single misstep, a single tear, could spell the end of their entire family.
Luckily, Xiaohua had been an easy child, cheerful and unfussy. She’d been healthy as could be through every turn of the seasons, for four entire years. Until two days ago, when some strange creature had bitten her arm as she’d played with Lan-er in the shallows of the river. Yesterday, the girl’s cheeks had grown hot with fever, and she could hardly keep her eyes open through the afternoon.
As she and her husband lay in bed last night, her husband said quietly that maybe they should ask if the village healer could take a look at Xiaohua. In the darkness, she’d let out a noncommittal grunt and flipped over, focusing on the sound of Xiaohua’s shallow breathing.
She didn’t trust the village healer—a grizzled man with a probing stare, nosy beyond what he could learn from poking and prodding at their bodies. She’d seen the volumes on his table, and though she couldn’t read many characters, the ones for Guyueye were branded into her memory. She didn’t trust a man who consulted compendiums from the sect that had treated her kind like cattle.
But if it were a matter between life and death… She drifted off to the ebb and flow of her formless, uncertain thoughts.
In the morning, when she touched Xiaohua’s arm, gently prodding the puffy wound, the girl’s eyes instantly welled with tears, though she hardly had the energy to flinch away.
No, she’d said to her husband, in a tone that brooked no argument. We can’t. She’s in too much pain. She won’t be able to control herself.
Her husband—that ever-cheerful man—had looked at her, then looked at Xiaohua, his mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. He didn’t look like himself; he looked like he’d aged ten years overnight. He left for the fields without a word, his footsteps uncharacteristically heavy.
Then she’d spent the day by Xiaohua’s bedside, only leaving to soak handkerchiefs in cold river water to replace the ones that grew warm on the girl’s forehead. The hours passed in a blur. The indifferent autumn sun traced a low arc in the window. She chanted over and over, whether in her head or out loud she wasn’t sure—Fight, fight, fight. Please.
Before the sun slipped below the horizon, someone came running through the door—it was her husband, panting for breath, barreling into their small cottage.
“There’s a traveling healer passing through. He treated the mantou stall owner’s mother’s sore leg this afternoon”—he tossed a bag of steamed buns onto the table without even looking, eyes fixed on Xiaohua’s small form—“and I heard he’s making his way through the market, we have to—”
“No, it’s too risky!” she cried. “You know I don’t like the village healer but at least we know what he’s like—this traveling healer could be anyone, he could spread word of us to the villages around here if we’re really unlucky—we have no idea who he is, why he’s here, what he wants, what if he—”
“Wait, listen—he’s really powerful—the mantou guy’s mom could barely even walk before, but after he saw her, she made it all the way down to the end of their street—and the most important thing is—”
“No, we can’t,” she said, looking at Xiaohua—there was a tiny furrow between her perfect little brows, whether from pain or confusion or both. Her voice broke, caught in her throat. “Please, no, don’t confuse her, don’t confuse me—you know that’s how my brother got—”
“Hey. Listen.” Her husband knelt, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were startlingly bright. “The most important thing: This healer’s blind.”
She jumped to her feet and flung open the door. Her husband cried after her a helpless reminder—“remember, he’s at the market, ask the mantou seller”—as she took off running as fast as her legs would carry her down the lane. She noticed but hardly registered the astonished stares of people ducking out of her way, the worried frowns of the aunties who pointed her between their stalls.
Then she saw a tall silhouette in white, robes fluttering in the chill breeze. She didn’t know anything, really, of cultivators or immortals, but this person’s ethereal beauty was undeniable at a glance, even from the back. The sight instantly called to mind the deities she’d seen in the painted scrolls. His posture was graceful, his limbs slender and long, almost androgynously lithe.
And when he turned around, she had to stifle a gasp. Dark locks framed gentle features—full lips curved into a soft smile, a small, straight nose, smooth skin that seemed to somehow reflect the golden sunset behind him. Perhaps his eyes needed to be covered by the pale silk ribbon encircling the upper half of his face because if any more beauty were to be added to his person, the natural order of the world might collapse.
She didn’t remember what exactly she blurted out. But she remembered his voice, smooth and soothing, when he replied. She led him back through the ramshackle market, then the uneven road that led to their cottage. The tap of his cane against the dirt was somehow far steadier than the rabbiting beat of her heart.
She opened the door and ushered him through, too anxious to be polite. Her husband jumped up from his seat at the bedside.
“X-Xianjun… Zong—Zongshi…” he stammered, eyes going wide.
The healer only smiled that lovely, unreadable smile, shook his head, and walked toward the sound of his voice.
She went to the other side of the bed and helped Xiaohua up into a sitting position. The girl jerked awake, startled out of her slumbering daze. “Mama… What’s happening…”
“This kind zongshi here is a healer. He’s here to take a look at your arm.”
“Healer…” Xiaohua turned muzzily toward the beautiful man.
“Your mother told me you’ve been very brave,” said the healer softly.
Xiaohua blinked and looked away, suddenly bashful, fever-reddened cheeks flushing darker.
“May I examine your arm?”
Xiaohua nodded tentatively.
“Yes,” her husband piped up.
Xiaohua reached out, then winced at the first brush of the healer’s long fingers on her wrist.
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to take off the bandage…”
“Sure, please go ahead,” she said in her daughter’s stead, then turned her head away.
“The demonic qi is not too advanced yet,” said the healer, after a terrible moment that seemed to stretch on for an hour. “I can draw it out. It’ll be painful, but not for long. You came to me just in time.”
As the healer put his hand to the wound, Xiaohua flinched. Her eyes were welling with tears. “Mama…”
“Shh, you’re okay. It’ll be okay.”
“Mama… I know…I’m not allowed to cry…but…” Xiaohua sniffled. “It hurts… It really hurts…”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “Just this once, it’s okay.”
A tendril of something like dark smoke wafted from the wound into the healer’s outstretched palm. Xiaohua let out a whimper. Then the girl’s tears spilled over, running down her tiny face like twin rivers of liquid gold, splashing onto the healer’s lovely, jade-like hand.
“Zongshi, sorry about that…” She felt a split-second of panic—what if he could know—somehow, by feeling the weight of those tears? What if the ribbon around his eyes was all part of a ruse?
But the healer only shook his head, a gentle smile on his lips, his serene expression never wavering. “My mama also used to tell me not to cry,” he said, almost absent-mindedly. “In front of me though, you can cry as much as you want, okay? No need to be brave.”
Finally, she let out her breath in a great whoosh of relief. Her husband uncrossed his arms. Never once did the healer raise his face away from Xiaohua’s arm. After what felt like an age, the flow of dark qi grew intermittent, then stopped.
With deft, practiced movements, the healer drew a tube of ointment from his qiankun pouch, dabbed a generous amount around the wound, then wrapped the girl’s arm with several layers of fresh gauze.
“All set,” he said, smiling that perfect, breath-taking smile. “Ah wait. One more thing.”
He reached into his qiankun pouch again and took out a pure white handkerchief. “No more crying, okay? You’ll be all better soon.” He handed the square of fabric to Xiaohua.
Xiaohua’s eyes widened. Then she broke into a grin—her first one in days. She took the fabric and clumsily swiped away the streaks of gold from her cheeks.
“Say thank you, Xiaohua,” her husband said.
“No need,” the healer said, his tone gentle but firm. He rose.
“Zongshi, please, allow us to—” She reached into her pockets, just as she saw her husband doing the same.
“Take care of yourselves,” said the healer, gracefully stepping away from the bed.
“Zongshi, we can’t express our gratitude enough,” she said. “You’re the only one who could’ve helped us today.” The words sounded so woefully inadequate as they left her lips. This man, this total stranger, would never know that this statement was not courteous exaggeration, but rather unvarnished truth.
“Would you at least stay for dinner, or…” her husband said, trailing off as the healer bowed deeply.
“I’m afraid I can’t accept. There’s more work to be done yet.”
And with that, he swept out of their cottage into the blue twilight.
Shi Mei made his way down the village road. From the briskness of the air, he could tell the sun had set; the temperature was dropping precipitously, and the pitch of the wind through the trees had risen by a noticeable interval. But the darkness made no difference to him. In that way, it was almost a blessing to be blind—he could work for as long as he needed.
It was a lucky thing that the mother of that girl had found him, he mused idly. A sweet, bashful girl—shy with her tears. And her mother had been so protective. Her voice, musical and kind, had tugged on an old memory…
How nice it was to give children fewer reasons to cry, whether or not they were allowed to, for whatever unknowable reasons, Shi Mei thought.
He walked on, toward the next village, into the cool, clean night.