Yin Yang Diviner

The peach wood sword lay suspended above the mirror of Zhenyuan, its tip pointing east.

The sword was hand-carved by my second grandfather, using the straightest branch of the peach tree in the old house courtyard that faced southeast.

After it was shaved, it wasn't sanded; instead, it was polished inch by inch with the palm of the hand. The sword body still bears the texture of the fingertips rubbing against it, flowing along the wood grain from the guard to the tip, like a solidified stream.

A small, faded red tassel was tied to the hilt of the sword; it was the tassel that used to hang on the headdress of a bride in the old days, and it was part of the second mistress's dowry.

"Peach wood belongs to Yang, and is the metal among woods." Second Grandfather held the sword guard, keeping the peach wood sword steadily suspended above Zhenyuan.

"The peach is the essence of the five woods. The east belongs to wood, and the peach is the essence of wood. Therefore, peach wood can overcome yin, not because it is hard—but because it is 'upright'. When righteous energy gathers, evil cannot invade."

He slowly spun the peach wood sword around Zhenyuan once.

Golden light spread upwards, and the peach wood sword shone above the mirror—not with the grayish-white mist of a copper bell, nor with the layered, worldly aura of five-emperor coins, but with a clean, pure blue, without a trace of impurity. Blue like the first willow buds of spring, blue like the wind in a bamboo forest after rain.

A bluish light emanated from the depths of the wood grain, flowing slowly along the texture of the sword, from the guard to the tip, and then back again, in a continuous cycle, like a tireless stream flowing in its own channel.

"What did you see?"

"A bluish light. Very clean," I replied.

"Anything else?"

I stared at that patch of blue light.

The blue color is not uniform—the blue light is strongest at the spine of the sword, as intense as a small strip of jade soaked in light.

At the blade's edge, the blue light thinned, becoming almost transparent, and trembled slightly.

There was no bluish light at the hilt of the sword, only a very faint warm yellow, as if it had been washed many times.

"The blue light is strongest along the spine of the sword. The blue light on the blade is very thin. The hilt has no blue light, but a layer of warm, pale yellow light."

Second Grandfather nodded.

"The spine of the sword is its bone. The blue light shines through the bone, which means that the 'correctness' of this sword is rooted in its bones. The blade is for cutting. The blue light is thin, not weak—it is restrained. When it is time to cut, a thin layer of blue light can shine through the blade and transform into sword energy."

The pale yellow of the hilt is a testament to my own luck. Having held it for decades, the warmth of my palm seeps into the wood grain, becoming its outermost layer.

He put the peach wood sword away and placed it horizontally on his lap.

Morning light filtered through the bamboo leaves and fell on the sword, causing the bluish light in the wood grain to recede, like a half-closed eye.

"The peach wood sword is not for 'suppressing,' but for 'cutting.'"

Second Grandfather's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.

"The Bagua seal is for suppression, to suppress evil spirits and prevent them from moving. The copper bell is for guidance, to bring lost things home."

The Five Emperor Coins are for replenishment, stabilizing the little things in life. The peach wood sword is for cutting—not cutting the evil itself, but cutting the 'connection' between it and the living.

"Tie?"

"Evil spirits entangle people not with strength, but with an invisible thread."

Resentment, obsession, unfulfilled wishes, and lingering hatred—these things are like threads, extending from the evil spirit and binding the neck, wrists, and ankles of the living. As long as the threads remain unbroken, the evil spirit will forever follow you. Even if you hide at the ends of the earth, it will find you along the threads.

He raised the peach wood sword, tip pointing upwards towards the morning light, "The peach wood sword cuts through this thread."

The tip of the sword gleamed faintly in the morning light.

It wasn't reflected sunlight—it was the hidden blue light deep within the wood grain that had now surfaced on the blade, a thin layer, like an invisible frost.

"I've used this sword to cut many lines. Some I cut for others, some I cut for myself." The second grandfather's voice lowered.

"The hardest thing to cut is the one you cut for yourself."

The courtyard fell silent. The bamboo leaves rustled in the wind.

The shadow of the old locust tree peeked over the wall and landed on the peach wood sword on his lap, casting a layer of shade over its bluish light.

"More than 20 years ago, after I brought back Brother Chen's travel plans from western Hunan, I couldn't sleep at night for a long time."

He placed the peach wood sword horizontally on his lap, his thumb stroking the warm, pale yellow sheen on the hilt.

"It's not that I'm physically unwell, it's that there's a thread in my heart that hasn't been broken. Brother Chen has dispersed his soul, but he's still my old brother."

Decades of friendship cannot be dissolved in my heart just because he says so. That thread is tied at one end to his intentions left in the bell, and at the other end to my thoughts.

It's alright during the day, but once it gets quiet at night, the tension builds up—I'm thinking of him on this side, and he knows I'm thinking of him on the other.

His mind couldn't stay inside the bell; he kept trying to break free. The bell would ring by itself in the middle of the night.

He paused.

"Later I used this sword to cut the thread."

I stared at the peach wood sword on his lap. The bluish light along the spine of the sword flowed slowly in the morning light, from the guard to the tip, and then back again.

It severed so many lines, breaking the ties between so many people and evil spirits.

But my second grandfather said the hardest thing to cut was cutting it for himself. What was severed was the thread, but what remained was the memory—the warm, pale yellow light on the hilt, the warmth he had accumulated from holding it for decades. The thread was broken, but the warmth remained.

"Cutting the thread doesn't mean forgetting." My second grandfather seemed to see right through my thoughts.

"The thread is an obsession, a knot woven from things you can't let go of. Cutting it doesn't mean forgetting that person; it means untying the knot."

Even after it's untied, it's still inside this sword—in the bell, in the box, in the time it takes me to have a cup of tea in the morning and a pipe of tobacco in the evening.

We just don't have to hold each other back anymore. He can stay quietly where he is, and I can live my life in peace.

He put the peach wood sword back into the box, arranging it alongside the Bagua seal, the copper bell, and the five emperor coins.

Of the seven old items, I photographed four today.

The peach wood sword taught me to "cut"—not to sever, but to untie.

"When you use the peach wood sword from now on, remember one thing." Second Grandfather stood up and patted off non-existent dust from his clothes.

"Think carefully before cutting the threads. Which threads should be cut, and which should not? Some threads are obsessions that entangle people and drag them down; these should be cut."

Some threads are longings, proof that a person is alive, and should not be severed. Only those who can distinguish between obsession and mere longing are worthy of wielding this sword.

He took two steps into the house, stopped, and turned his head away.

"That copper coin of yours is like a thread that should never have been cut."

The door closed. The courtyard fell silent again. I looked down at the copper coin on my wrist, round on the outside and square on the inside.

The four characters "Tian Yuan Tong Bao" have two cracks along their edges. My second grandfather wore it for thirty years, and it protected him from seven disasters.

It's in my hands now, and it saved me twice. It's a thread connecting my great-uncle and me. Not an obsession, but a longing. A thread that shouldn't have been severed.

I held Zhenyuan in my palm. The mirror-like surface faced upwards, and the golden light deep within the Yang membrane shone steadily.

It reflected the indigo of the Bagua seal, the gray-white of the copper bell, the earthy yellow and reddish gold of the Five Emperors coins and the blue fluff, and the blue light of the peach wood sword.

Four old objects, four stories. Each story is stored deep within the mirror, layered into the rings of the sun's membrane, becoming Zhenyuan's own record.

There are three items left in the box.

Ink line, lightning-struck wood, that thin booklet.

They lay quietly on the dark red velvet, waiting for me to take pictures of them tomorrow.

The bamboo leaves rustled. The shadow of the old locust tree moved from the stone table to the base of the west wall.

The light in the courtyard changed from golden yellow to pale gold, and then from pale gold to bluish-gray.

it's getting dark.

I closed the box, and the aroma of camphor wood wafted out from the cracks, bittersweet.