Yin Yang Diviner

I was woken up early the next morning by the aroma of tea.

It wasn't the amber-colored bitter tea my second grandfather brewed; it was a different kind—clearer, lighter, with a subtle sweetness, like the first breeze that greets you when you open the window on a spring morning. I got dressed and went outside. My second grandfather was already sitting in the courtyard. Two cups of tea sat on the stone table, the tea liquor a pale turquoise, with a few tender leaves unfurled at the bottom. A pot of water was boiling on the clay stove beside him, just about to boil, the spout emitting intermittent wisps of steam. The bamboo in the corner was translucent in the morning light, the dewdrops on its leaves sparkling like shattered silver.

"What are we learning today?" I sat down on the stone bench and picked up my teacup.

Grandpa didn't answer immediately. He held his teacup, his gaze passing over the courtyard wall to look into the distance. "What do you see?"

I followed his gaze. Beyond the courtyard wall was the canopy of an old locust tree, beyond that were the rooftops of the town, some high and some low, and further still, several low hills. The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the outlines of the hills were faintly visible in the fog, like a few strokes of light ink on rice paper.

"Mountain," I said.

"Anything else?"

I stared at that hill for a while. "Fog."

Second Grandfather put down his teacup. "Come with me."

He got up and walked out, and I followed behind with my teacup. We walked through the alley, past the old locust tree, and along a path I'd never taken before, heading out of town. The path was a dirt road, damp with morning dew, soft underfoot, leaving shallow footprints. On both sides of the path were vast rice paddies, the rice ears not yet sprouting, a sea of ​​green as far as the eye could see. Further away, the Willow River meandered in the morning light, its surface shimmering with glittering gold.

After walking for about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, Second Grandfather stopped on a high slope. On the slope grew a crooked jujube tree, its trunk so thick that one person couldn't encircle it with their arms; its bark was cracked and crisscrossed with furrows. Second Grandfather stood under the jujube tree, turned around, and faced the direction he had come from.

"And now? What do you see?"

I turned around, mimicking his gesture. The entire town of Liuhe came into view. The canopy of the old locust tree, like a giant open umbrella, sheltered the town's entrance. The rooftops of the houses rose and fell, their blue tiles and white walls contrasting beautifully with the rising smoke from the chimneys, shimmering in the morning light. Behind the town, rolling hills stretched out like a low screen.

"Liuhe Town," I said.

"Let's see."

I stared at the town for a long time. The morning mist dissipated another layer, and the light was brighter than before. The leaves of the old locust tree were translucent in the light, each one looking as if it were soaked in oil. The blue tiles on the rooftops shimmered with a very faint, almost invisible bluish halo in the light. It wasn't the color of the tiles themselves—it was a very faint aura rising from above the tiles, from the surface of the entire town.

It's bluish-green, like the color of the first grass sprouts in spring.

"I see it," I blurted out. "There's a layer of blue mist above the town."

Grandpa nodded. He raised his hand and pointed in the direction of the old locust tree. "That's the aura of the locust tree. The locust tree is yin, but it has lived for hundreds of years, so yang arises from yin, and its aura is green. This layer of green aura covers the entire town entrance, preventing wandering ghosts from entering."

He then pointed to the hills behind the town. "The mountain's aura is dark blue. Mountains belong to the earth element, and earth's aura is profound; dark blue is a pure color. This mountain is not high, but its veins are straight, and its aura is stable. The town is close to it, and the people feel at ease."

Finally, he pointed to the highest rooftop in town—the town's local shrine. "The shrine's energy is golden. Golden energy belongs to Yang, and it's accumulated from incense offerings and the power of prayer. With this layer of golden energy pressing down, the evil spirits in the town can't cause any trouble."

I looked at each color in the direction he was pointing. Green, dark blue, and gold. The three colors intertwined above the town, like an invisible yet very real dome.

"This is 'observing qi'," my second grandfather said. "The first lesson in feng shui is not looking at the compass, but observing qi. The compass measures direction, while qi indicates vitality. Direction is static, qi is dynamic. Only by learning to observe qi can one truly enter the door of feng shui."

He turned around, facing the direction of the Willow River. "Look at that river."

The Liu River meanders around the south side of the town, curving into an arc in the morning light. There is also a layer of mist on the river surface—unlike the bluish mist above the town, the mist on the river surface is flowing, like a very thin layer of water mist rolling along the water's surface, its color between white and transparent, shimmering with tiny silver specks in the light.

"Water vapor belongs to yin, but flowing water contains yang within yin. The Liu River flows from west to east, which is the correct direction. The water vapor stays close to the river surface and does not spread to the banks—this indicates that the riverbed is clean and no one has drowned unjustly in the water."

My second grandfather spoke these words in a very calm tone, but I understood the unspoken meaning. No one has ever drowned unjustly in the water. If they had, the water vapor would have spread to the shore, changing the color to a murky, grayish-white.

"Second Grandfather, what if it's an inauspicious place? What color is the aura there?"

Second Grandfather was silent for a while. "Black. Not the black of ink, but the black of decay. Like rotten meat, like mud that has been fermenting for too long. Black smoke rises from the ground, it can't be suppressed, it can't be covered, you can see it even in broad daylight. You've seen it."

I remembered the grave in the mountain valley. Dark green grass, murky yellow water, and viscous liquid seeping from the cracks in the coffin. At that time, I didn't know how to read qi, but my body could already feel it—that "cold smell," that chill seeping from the very bones, was black qi. My pure yin destiny allowed me to "smell" black qi even without seeing it.

"That cold you felt in the mountain valley that day was the reaction to the black energy entering your body." My second grandfather seemed to read my mind. "Ordinary people can't feel it, they just feel cold. You can feel it because of your destiny. A pure Yin destiny is ten times more sensitive to Yin energy than ordinary people. This isn't a bad thing, but it's not a good thing either. Being able to sense it makes you more susceptible to disturbances. So you need to learn to actively look and actively distinguish. Only by seeing and recognizing it can you defend against it, avoid it, and suppress it."

The sun rose higher. The morning mist dissipated, and the bluish-green above the town, the dark green of the hills, and the golden light on the temple roof became clearer in the increasingly bright light. It wasn't the light that made it clearer—it was my own eyes adjusting, like a camera that had just been focused, the image in the viewfinder gradually becoming sharper from blurry.

"Observing Qi isn't about looking with your eyes," my second grandfather said. "It's about looking with your mind. The eyes are just a channel. True 'observation' comes from here—" He raised his hand, his index finger pointing to my brow, "Looking out from here. The brow is the ancestral aperture, the gateway for divine light to enter and exit. Sink your mind to the ancestral aperture, and look outward from there. What you see is not form, but Qi."

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I pulled my mind away from the chaos of thoughts, letting it sink down to my brow. My brow felt slightly swollen, as if something was gathering there. I held onto that swollen feeling and opened my eyes.

The world has changed.

It wasn't a radical change. The mountains were still the same mountains, the rivers were still the same rivers, the town was still the same town. But everything had an extra layer—like an extremely transparent, light-painted underpainting superimposed on the original picture. Each leaf of the jujube tree had a faint bluish tinge around its edge. My second grandfather had a warm, jade-like glow emanating from his head, reaching all the way to his feet. I looked down at my hands—wisps of energy flowed between my fingers, extremely pale, somewhere between grayish-white and transparent—it was my energy. An ordinary person's energy, abundant with yang, should be a pale golden color. My energy was grayish-white because my pure yin destiny suppressed my yang energy.

"I see it," I said softly, as if afraid that any force would shatter this thin layer of image.

My second grandfather looked at me. There was a very faint smile in his eyes, like the stroke on the blue stone tablet under the old locust tree illuminated by the morning light.

"I've got the hang of it," he said.

The jujube leaves fluttered in the wind, each edged with a bluish sheen. On the surface of the Willow River, silvery mist rippled along the waves. In the distance, the town of Willow River was shrouded in a three-tiered dome of color—blue, dark blue, and gold—interwoven into an invisible canopy.

I remember that scene. From that moment on, the world I saw was different from before.