Those eyes were like nothing Shen San had ever seen. The corners might’ve been drawn with the stroke of a brush, but perhaps by a painter who wasn’t quite a proper artist. This “brushstroke” held a hint of demonic energy—cold and eerie, making the souls of the beholder quiver.
As soon as their eyes met, the words “an immortal” died on Shen San’s tongue. “…a yao?” he finished.
3
THIS “YAO-XIONG’S” name was Wei. He had no last name.
Master Shen San asked if his name meant “towering into the clouds, ever steadfast and unmoving,” but Wei said it did not; it was just the combined characters for “mountain” and “ghost.” It seemed no thought had been put into it at all.
Yao-xiong spoke little, and when he did, it was always softly. When he didn’t want to speak, he would just smile. That smile must’ve been enchanted, because each time Shen San saw it, he felt as though the flowers on the mountain would burst into bloom, dripping with dew. It was a heart-stirring sight.
He was a good yao, his yao-xiong—elegant and kind. Since Shen San had a broken leg, his yao-xiong had taken him in to recover. Giving him shelter was gracious enough to begin with, but his yao-xiong also took the most attentive care of him, digging up a bunch of weird herbs to apply to his wounds every day. The herbs were very effective. The meals his yao-xiong prepared never contained rare or precious ingredients, but wild mountain herbs and game had their own unique flavors. There was a Go set in the little hut, each piece hand carved from stone; when they had nothing to do, they would play a game to pass the time.
Sometimes Shen San felt like he was no longer in the Mortal Realm, that he had instead fallen into some sort of ethereal, otherworldly place. Every morning, he woke to the sound of the wind brushing against the little bell at the window. When the bell chimed, it attracted flocks of birds that would chirp all at once in response.
The days were long but quiet. There were no sounds of horses and carts, no people’s rights and wrongs, and no bloody jianghu fights. At night, the soft breeze became long and mild. When the moon was round, they would look down to see frost covering the whole ground. When it wasn’t, they would look up to see the endless expanse of stars.
Shen San played countless games of Go with his yao-xiong under the huge plum blossom tree in the small yard. When not playing Go, they would chat about anything and everything while enjoying some wine that his yao-xiong said he had made himself. It was as mellow and rustic as his playing style in Go. It went down smoothly and would neither intoxicate you nor harm your health.
Yao-xiong might’ve simply grown out of the earth. He lived alone in this hidden corner of the mountain, a place so remote that even birds rarely passed by, yet he had everything he needed.
During Master Shen San’s recovery, he frequently asked Yao-xiong what his original form was, but Yao-xiong only ever responded with a smile. It wasn’t until Master Shen San had named every single plant he could think of, as if reciting a menu, that a thought suddenly struck him. “I’ve got it!”
Yao-xiong didn’t look up from where he was pounding medicine. “I’m not a camellia, nor jasmine, nor azalea, nor a plum blossom.”
“Oh, none of those flashy, commonplace flowers.” Shen San seemed to smile. “You’re a snowflake.”18
Though Yao-xiong took such nonsense to be idle chatter, he still shook his head, exasperated. “Snowflakes melt the moment they land,” he retorted readily. “Where would they get the time to cultivate? Come, it’s time to change your dressings.”
“Not all of them melt.” Shen San lifted his injured leg and set it down flat with a little difficulty. As he removed the splint immobilizing it, he kept talking. “Last year, I went to the west at a friend’s invitation. It’s all mountains over there—mountains connected to mountains. Even in the middle of the year, the fierce winds at the peaks make it feel like the dead of winter. The snow there never melts. It covers the peaks year-round. I think you might be a snow spirit from the top of one of those mountains.”
As his brain randomly retraced his travels through the mountains and sea, he started thinking about all sorts of bizarre tales. While his mind couldn’t help wandering, Yao-xiong had already carefully applied fresh medicine and re-wrapped his leg. Yao-xiong’s hands worked quickly, but his touch was extremely gentle. Shen San felt almost no pain.
When Shen San looked down, all he could see was the top of Yao-xiong’s head and all that ink-black hair. Yao-xiong, half kneeling on the ground, was being so careful—he might not have been holding an unruly man’s leg at all, with its thick skin and rough flesh, but a delicate, fragile heirloom. The tiny pot of boiling soup was emitting thin wisps of white steam and whistling faintly. The thatched hut was dry and clean inside, with clothes and bedding that smelled like fresh sunshine.
Wanderers of the jianghu had no career or family. They came and went in the wind and rain, like duckweed. A mere sip of warm congee was sometimes enough to make tears spring to their eyes.
Shen San was a wanderer among wanderers. His wanderings had brought him to the bottom of the cliff, and he’d come to this sudden stop at this small hut after being swept away by the torrential waters. Something stirred in his heart. Words burst from his lips. “Yao-xiong, you brought me back here and you’ve tended my wounds so carefully. If things go the way they usually do in books, I should be offering myself to you right about now.”
Yao-xiong’s hand quivered. The medicine bowl fell to the floor and smashed.
Shen San froze. “I’m just…”
Before the word “joking” could leave his mouth, Yao-xiong had picked up the broken pieces in a panic and fled.
The breeze from his passing made the little wind chime ring again and again. Much like the chatter of a gaggle of girls just leaving childhood behind, the sound was somehow both pleasant and annoying.
Eventually, Shen San came to a realization. He stared, dazed, eyes and mouth wide, at the half-open door of the thatched hut. Understanding dawned.
It was just like the stories: the scholar and the fox spirit, the lost traveler and the mountain spirit, Xu Xian and Bai Suzhen.19
He had met a male fox spirit, a male mountain spirit, a male snake.
A beautiful fruit that had fallen from the skies, perfectly sweet…but eating it resulted in a bit of a toothache.
4