Chapter 46:
Peach Blossom Spring (Part 3):
Eighteen Tendrils…
Eighteen tendrils, their surfaces slick and black, each one moving independently, their sizes and directions varying, a grotesque display. The great ghost had emerged in this manner, its silent offering of flowers a strange mimicry of the village girls.
But why give him flowers? And why such a grand gesture? Chen Henian felt a sense of unease, the villagers staring, their curiosity a burden he couldn’t explain.
“You have the most flowers now,” Jiang Wan said, a playful smile on her lips. “That ghost is quite thoughtful, isn’t it?”
She seemed to understand the situation, teasing him. Chen Henian, his lips pressed together, addressed the ghost. “Go back.”
“Go back,” he repeated, trying to verbally command the ghost, but the tendrils didn’t retract, only stilled.
Black mist billowed from his back, the air turning cold. He thought it was about to throw a tantrum, but then he noticed the flowers in its grasp were rapidly wilting, their petals turning black and brittle, as if consumed by fire.
It was trying to preserve them with its yin energy.
“It’s no use,” Chen Henian said. “You’re only making it worse.”
The stronger the yin energy, the faster the flowers withered.
He had forgotten. The great ghost’s yin energy was the essence of death, its touch fatal to living things.
The petals turned to dust, the tendrils releasing their hold, the fallen flowers turning to black ash.
Only the flower in Chen Henian’s hand remained intact. The tendrils drooped, like wilted radish strips.
He coughed softly. “Go back.” He was relieved, but he couldn’t show it. The wilting flowers were a blessing. He didn’t want to walk through the village looking like a walking bouquet.
The tendrils tilted, as if listening to his voice, then drooped again.
Did it expect him to offer comfort? That was a problem. He had never comforted anyone, let alone a ghost.
The tendrils, sensing his hesitation, retreated, disappearing into the shadows on his back, except for one, which coiled around his arm, the one holding the flower.
It had calmed down. “Alright, let’s go,” he said.
Zuo He relaxed his grip on his sword, Jiang Wan seemed unconcerned, and Zhao Cuicui, unafraid, giggled. “Pretty Brother, you can transform?”
“What was that? A bug?”
“No.”
“A snake?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Chen Henian was impatient. As they walked across the bridge, he looked down at the river, the village houses built on stilts along the banks, the water clear and shallow, no more than two meters deep in most places, fish swimming among the rocks.
Zhao Cuicui, seeing his silence, didn’t press further, walking ahead, leading the way.
Though she had stopped asking questions, others hadn’t. Zuo He, his face serious, walked beside Chen Henian. “A pact with a ghost is dangerous,” he said.
“What kind of pact is it? Is there a way to break it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? How?”
“Drop it,” Chen Henian said flatly. “It’s none of your business.”
Zuo He was annoying. Chen Henian quickened his pace, catching up with Zhao Cuicui, the tendril still wrapped around his arm, a sticky, unpleasant sensation.
Zhao Cuicui led them across the bridge, past the terraced fields, to a small river, stone steps leading down to the riverbed.
A young man and woman stood in the river, and Zhao Cuicui introduced them. “These are my good friends, Manman and Wang Mazi.”
“Did Granny say anything?” the two asked, looking up at them.
“They’re guests,” Zhao Cuicui replied.
“Oh.”
Zhou Manman, the girl who had threatened to poison them, smiled. “Hello.”
“Can I borrow a fish basket? I want to make fish for our guests,” Zhao Cuicui asked.
“Sure,” Zhou Manman replied, looking at Chen Henian and the others, a playful smile on her lips. “Do they even know how to catch fish?”
“I’ll help them,” Zhao Cuicui laughed, wading into the knee-deep water, splashing playfully. “If you want to eat fish, you have to catch them! Come on in!”
Chen Henian didn’t move, finding a clean spot to sit down.
Jiang Wan and Zuo He joined Zhao Cuicui in the river.
“Why isn’t he coming?” she asked.
“He’s afraid of water,” Jiang Wan replied.
Zhou Manman laughed. “Afraid of water? How pathetic!”
“It’s alright,” Zhao Cuicui said. “We have enough people.”
Chen Henian watched the ripples spreading across the water. He wasn’t antisocial, but this was a nuisance.
And he hated nuisances.
He could smell the water warming in the sun, the midday heat intensifying, the grass tall around him, the sunlight on his face, a warm breeze blowing, his vision blurring slightly.
The tendril on his arm moved.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes following its movements.
It reached his feet, then, with a thud, pierced the rock he was sitting on, creating a hole.
“Do you have a problem with this rock?” he asked.
The tendril continued to move, carving a circular pattern, then paused, as if admiring its work, waiting.
Waiting for the wind. A gust of wind blew away the stone dust, carrying the flowers the girls had given them into the river, scattering yellow petals across the water. The dust settled, and Chen Henian saw what it had done.
It had carved a flower on the rock.
Not just one, but eighteen, a circle of flowers around him, like a floral halo.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked, his voice flat.
The ghost, persistent, curled the tendril towards him, its tip as thin as a finger.
He couldn’t help it, extending his own finger, the tendril harmless now. It reached out, touching his fingertip, its surface cool and smooth.
Then it recoiled, its form expanding, black smoke rising from it, its tip glowing red, sharp thorns appearing along its length, before vanishing.
Chen Henian sat surrounded by carved flowers, a floral prison.
So annoying.
This ghost was incredibly annoying.
He buried his face in his arms, his knees drawn up to his chest.
A splash of water startled him. He looked up and saw Jiang Wan emerging from the river.
“Bored?” she asked.
“Why are you back?” he asked, tilting his head.
“I was worried you were bored,” she replied. “Not entirely. The girls are having a competition, seeing who can catch the most fish. The loser has to dance in front of the entire village tonight.”
“I’m not participating,” Chen Henian said.
“Nonsense.” Jiang Wan sat down beside him, then quickly stood up, the uneven surface of the carved rock uncomfortable. She looked at the strange pattern, then continued, “We’re a team. You can’t escape if we lose.”
Chen Henian glared at her.
“What are you afraid of? Zuo He is a skilled fisherman, we won’t lose,” she said. “This place isn’t so bad, just relax and enjoy it.”
“It’s not good,” he replied.
The fields, the mountains, the clear blue sky, they reminded him of his old home, the fields filled with tadpoles in the summer, swimming beneath the rice stalks, their round heads and tiny tails, and the menacing yellow weasels, emerging from the fields, their sharp teeth tearing at him in his dreams.
He fell silent. After a while, the others emerged from the river.
Wang Mazi and Zuo He held up their fish baskets. Zhao Cuicui’s basket had one more fish, all black crucian carp, caught with her bare hands.
“Alright, we can have fish for lunch! Let’s go back and cook! We have special sour soup, it’s delicious!” she said excitedly.
“See you tonight!” Zhou Manman and Wang Mazi left.
Zhao Cuicui slung the fish basket over her shoulder. “Huh?” She pointed at the ground. “Where did these flowers come from?”
The others looked down, then at Chen Henian. Under their scrutiny, he stood up, his face darkening.
“Stop staring!” Jiang Wan exclaimed, pointing at him. “Even the rocks are blooming for him! What will happen if we keep looking?”
Chen Henian wanted to throw her into the river.
“Stop it, you’ll upset him,” Zuo He said, turning to Chen Henian, his voice soothing. “It’s alright to like flowers.”
“Your hand was so steady, carving those flowers. Impressive. You have the talent for swordsmanship. You should join our sect.”
Chen Henian couldn’t take it anymore. He scoffed, his face expressionless, and walked away.
“Are you really angry?” Zhao Cuicui called after him.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything next time, okay?”
He didn’t reply, his silence a wall.
Their voices faded as he walked away. Back at Zhao Cuicui’s house, they started preparing lunch. Granny Zhao wouldn’t be back, so Cuicui, taking on the role of hostess, decided to make three dishes and a soup.
She asked them to wait, bustling around the kitchen, Zuo He, feeling guilty, offering to help.
Braised crucian carp with ginger, scallions, and chili peppers, a plate of greens, stir-fried pork, and the special sour soup.
Soup first, to whet the appetite. As the dishes were served, Zhao Cuicui rushed back to the kitchen, returning with a small plate, another fish.
She placed it before Chen Henian. “What’s this?” he asked, his voice flat.
The fish was headless, just the body. Was this a curse?
Zhao Cuicui sat down, wiping her hands. “They told me you’re a picky eater. You wouldn’t eat from the communal plate, so I made a separate dish for you. Try it, our fish is delicious, and I’m one of the best cooks in the village.”
Zuo He brought the rice, Jiang Wan the chopsticks.
Chen Henian hadn’t lifted a finger, and if he weren’t so heartless, he might have felt a pang of guilt.
“Try it!” Zhao Cuicui urged him.
He picked up a piece of fish, placing it in his mouth. It was fresh and tender, not fishy at all.
“Not bad,” he said.
He had an appetite, a rare occurrence in someone else’s house.
As he ate, he thought about the snake. If it escaped too far, he might not be able to catch it.
