Yin Yang Diviner

The next morning, I took the first bus into the city.

The street behind the City God Temple was still not fully awake. The stall selling walnut bracelets was covered with plastic sheeting, and the bricks at the four corners were pressed down tightly. The stall selling old books and newspapers only opened half of its door. The owner was squatting on the threshold brushing his teeth. The white foam fell on the bluestone slabs and sparkled in the morning light.

At the end of the street, the side gate of the City God Temple was already open, and the scent of incense wafted out, mingling with the morning mist and enveloping the entire street in a thin layer of bluish-white.

Zhang the fortune teller's square table is still in the same old place—under the wall next to the side door.

The folding table was set up, an enamel teacup was placed on the corner of the table, and a small calligraphy brush rested on the stone inkstone. The ink on the brush tip had dried and formed a small, shiny ink bead.

He wasn't there. The canvas bag hung on the back of the chair, its opening open, revealing half a piece of rough-edged paper inside.

I sat down across the square table and waited.

The bells of the City God Temple rang out from inside, deep and resonant, striking the mist with each chime.

As they bumped into each other for the third time, footsteps came from the other side of the wall.

Zhang the fortune teller walked out from the depths of the alley, carrying a bowl of soy milk in his hand and a fried dough stick tucked under his arm.

The sleeves of the blue cloth jacket were rolled up to the forearms, revealing a string of prayer beads on the wrist—not sandalwood, not bodhi seeds, but grass beads, the kind that grow wild by the river, round and smooth from being rubbed.

He placed the soy milk on the corner of the table, broke the fried dough stick in half, and handed one piece to me. "Haven't eaten yet?" The fried dough stick was fresh out of the fryer, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. When I bit into it, the aroma of flour and oil mingled together, and the heat made my tongue tingle.

He broke off his own half, dipped it in the soy milk, and let it soften before putting it in his mouth.

We sat facing each other and finished our fried dough sticks.

He wiped the oil off his fingers on his blue cotton jacket and took out a rough-edged paper packet folded into a small square from his canvas bag.

The paper package was opened, and inside was the character "mirror" that I had written last time.

The strokes are cut into pieces by the folding marks, and when pieced together, "镜" is still "镜", with the metal radical on the left and the "竟" radical on the right, not a single stroke missing.

He spread the characters out on the table and used the end of a small calligraphy brush to dot the gold radical of the character "镜".

"When you wrote this character last time, the tip of your pen paused twice. Once at the 'gold' radical and once at the bottom of the 'surprising' radical. The pause at the 'gold' radical was because the copper coin on your wrist was dragging your pen."

"The bottom of the character '竟' is the mirror in your bag that's weighing you down. '坠' means weight, and '压' means responsibility." He picked up the small calligraphy brush from the inkstone, stirred the tip in the inkwell, smoothed it out, and handed it to me.

"Write it again today. The same word."

I took the pen.

The penholder was made of bamboo, polished smooth and shiny by hand. The small red string tied to the end was paler than the last time I saw it, as if it had been washed many times, fading into a very light color, somewhere between pink and white.

I held the pen tip suspended and wrote another character, "mirror," on the rough-edged paper. Once the stroke was complete, Zhang the fortune teller looked down at the character for a long time.

The bell of the City God Temple rang again, and the mist was dispersed by the sound. Sunlight shone through the gaps in the mist and onto the paper, making the strokes of the character "mirror" appear clear.

"It's different now." He looked up at me.

"Last time, the 'gold' radical was heavy because the copper coin was weighing you down. This time, the 'gold' radical isn't heavy anymore, not because the copper coin has become lighter, but because you've gotten used to its weight. It's been weighing you down for two months, and you've moved its weight from your wrist into your heart."

"When the wrist is light and the mind is focused, the pen will not falter."

His fingertip moved to the bottom of the character "竟".

"Last time, the word '竟' was suppressed by the bronze mirror at the well's mouth. It suppressed your will over the well, took away a person's last glance, and suppressed it for fifty years."

"When you took it back from Old Sun's stall, its weight was all on the outside. Now its weight is inside. It's not that it's become lighter, it's that you put it in your bag and stick it to you every day, so it recognizes you. Once it recognizes you, it won't weigh you down anymore."

He placed the newly written character "mirror" on the rough-edged paper side by side with the one from before. Both "mirror" characters were written by the same person with the same hand.

Last time, the strokes were taut, like a string that hadn't been released. This time, the strokes fall, land on the paper, and stop bouncing.

"Take these two characters back with you and put them in your 'Yin Yang Summary.' Every time you use Zhenyuan, come back and write the character 'mirror.' Write ten or eight of them, then put them side by side on the table and look at them yourself. The characters will tell you how far you've gone." He folded the two "mirror" characters together into a small square and pushed it in front of me.

"What are you writing about today?" I asked.

Zhang the Divine Calculator picked up his enamel mug and took a sip.

The tea leaves floated up and sank down in the jar. He chewed on a tea leaf for a long time before swallowing it.

"Write a character that you've been thinking about for a long time today. It's not a character divination; it's a character you choose for yourself. Write whatever you want; you don't need to tell me." He handed me the small calligraphy brush.

I took the pen and held it above the rough-edged paper. The ink at the tip gathered into a single drop, about to fall.

I wrote the word "wait".

Zhang the fortune teller looked down at the word "wait".

The bells of the City God Temple stopped ringing, the fog dissipated, and sunlight slid down from the upturned eaves, falling on the paper and making the strokes of the character "等" (wait) appear sharp and distinct.

He pressed the character "等" (wait) with his fingertip and slowly rotated it on the paper.

"The character 'wait' is composed of bamboo above and temple below. Bamboo represents humility, and temple represents perseverance. The 'wait' you're thinking about isn't waiting for others, but waiting for yourself. Waiting for yourself to move the weight of the copper coin from your wrist into your heart, waiting for yourself to draw the pressure of the bronze mirror at the wellhead from the outside into your inside, waiting for yourself to finish the path you're meant to walk, waiting for yourself to return."

He folded the character "等" (děng, meaning "wait") into a small square and placed it together with the two characters "镜" (jìng, meaning "mirror"). "I'll keep this '等' character for you too."

Come back to me when you've waited for everything that needs to be waited for. I've placed these three characters side by side on the table for you to see. When you see them, you'll know that the character for "wait" doesn't have the bamboo radical, but the "smile" radical. And the character for "temple" doesn't have the temple radical, but the "servant" radical.

Smilingly serving the little thing in your heart that hasn't yet reached its time.

He placed the small regular script brush back on the stone inkstone, and the ink at the tip of the brush was absorbed by the inkstone, causing the brush tip to shrink into a single point.

He took the canvas bag off the back of the chair, put the enamel teacup, inkstone, and small calligraphy brush into it one by one, tied the bag tightly, and slung it over his shoulder.

"Will you come again tomorrow?" I asked.

"I come every day. I come even in wind and rain." He folded up the legs of the folding table, turning the square table into a plastic board, which he tucked under his arm.

Walking west along the base of the City God Temple wall, the figure in the blue cloth jacket faded further and further in the sunlight.

When it faded to almost invisible, he turned around. "Tell your second grandfather that in the second 'mirror' character you wrote, the metal radical didn't pause, and the bottom part of the character wasn't pressed down. The 'falling' and 'pressing' parts have both disappeared."

"For the third character, you wrote 'wait.' The character 'wait' has bamboo above and temple below. Bamboo represents growing taller section by section, and temple represents guarding every inch. When you wait, every section grows and every inch is guarded. He understood immediately."

The figure disappeared at the end of the alley.

I put the three rough-edged paper packets, folded into small squares, into my handbag, placing them alongside Zhenyuan and the bronze mirror at the wellhead.

It was quiet inside the handbag.

Deep within the yang membrane of Zhenyuan, golden light shone steadily. The grayish-white vapor gathered on the surface of the bronze mirror at the wellhead, like a curled-up sleeping cat.

Three rough-edged paper packets were stacked together, with the characters "mirror," "mirror," and "etc." hidden in the creases, like three seeds that had not yet sprouted.

Back in Liuhe Town, my second grandfather sat at the stone table with the rough pottery tea set in front of him.

Steam rose from the spout, and the color of the tea soup was lighter than yesterday—not amber, but clearer and paler, like the green of bamboo leaves soaked in well water.

He poured two glasses, pushing one towards me. "What did Zhang Huaijing ask you to write?"

"wait."

He picked up the teacup, took a sip, and the tea flowed down the thick rim into his mouth.

"The character 'wait' is composed of 'bamboo' above and 'temple' below. 'Bamboo' represents humility, and 'temple' represents perseverance. He's asking you to wait, not for someone else, but for yourself. Have you waited?" Second Grandfather asked.

He put down his teacup, stood up from the stone bench, went into the room, and after a while, brought out the camphor wood box.

When the box was opened, eight old items—a Bagua seal, a copper bell, five-emperor coins, a peach wood sword, an ink line, a piece of wood struck by lightning, a fetal induction bell, and a bronze mirror from the wellhead—lay quietly on a dark red velvet cloth.

He pushed the box in front of me.

"You've examined these old items, used them, and understand their nature. Starting tomorrow, every time you use one, make a note in the 'Summary of Yin and Yang.' Don't record how to use it, but what you were thinking when you used it."

"Once you've used all eight methods once and memorized them, then open the 'Yin Yang Summary' and look at the characters you wrote. At that time, you'll know that the character '等' (děng) doesn't have the bamboo radical, but the '笑' (xiào) radical. The character '寺' (sì) doesn't have the temple radical, but the '侍' (shì) radical. It means that you haven't reached the point of smilingly serving the little thing in your heart yet."

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

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

Inside the handbag, three rough-edged paper packets were stacked together, like three seeds that had not yet sprouted, waiting for their time to come.