Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

Yang Hui closed the windows and bolted the door. The afternoon in Zilan Pavilion was quiet, save for the occasional clinking of cups downstairs—Zi Nu was setting the table for tonight's guests. He sat at the table, the bamboo scroll of celestial secrets lying flat on it, the vermilion characters gleaming faintly red in the afternoon light. He looked at the scroll for a while, the word "past" lingering in his mind.

The art of divination allows one to glimpse the future, but no one had ever told him whether he could see the past. He only knew that the bamboo slip didn't say "only see the future"—it only said "those who peek into divination will have their lifespan shortened," without specifying a direction. The past is also a divination, locked on the other side of time, and not necessarily easier to glimpse than the future. He placed his palm on the bamboo slip and closed his eyes. This time, he didn't "search" for anything. He simply let his mind sink down, falling into the "light" he had seen once before. He thought of "ten years ago," of the "Baiyue border," of that dilapidated temple.

Light appeared.

The same thin thread rose from the bamboo slips as before, wrapping around his fingertips. But this time the light didn't extend forward—it flowed backward. Like a river suddenly changing direction, rushing from its estuary back to its source. Images appeared piece by piece in his consciousness:

A dilapidated temple. Rain. A red skirt. A hand holding out half a piece of dry rations.

He saw himself—himself at eight years old, crouching in a corner, thin as a withered branch, covered in mud. Then he saw Yan Lingji's back, walking towards the temple exit in the rain. Her steps were slow, but she didn't look back. She stepped out of the temple and disappeared into the rain. Then the image shattered. Like a piece of ice crushed underfoot, it broke into countless fragments—fragments piecing together another scene:

She walked along the muddy mountain path. Behind her followed several soldiers dressed in tattered Baiyue armor, one of whom carried a charred flag. She was in the ranks, silent, clutching something in her hand—Yang Hui couldn't see what it was, only that it was gripped tightly.

Then came the fire. The Baiyue camp was burned, the thatched huts billowed black smoke in the rain, and corpses lay strewn on the ground. She stood among the corpses, her head bowed. The soldier carrying the charred flag fell at her feet, an arrow wound to the chest. She knelt down and wiped the rain from his face.

Then came the chains. A new iron chain was fastened around her wrist—not the dark, icy chains of the dungeons, but ordinary, rusty iron shackles. She was pushed into a prison cart, which headed west along the muddy road. She sat behind the cart's bars, her face turned outwards, her eyes open, watching the ruins recede into the distance behind her.

How long had she been in that prison van? Yang Hui didn't know. He saw the scene jump—the prison van was stopped in front of a city gate. Xinzheng. The character "Han" on the city gate was the same as the one he had seen outside the city. She was dragged off the prison van, the iron shackles scraping her wrists, blood mingling with raindrops dripping onto the stone steps.

Then the scene shifted again. In Ji Wuye's main hall. Yang Hui saw Ji Wuye's face—thick eyebrows, a broad jaw, and eyes that, though not large, possessed a sharpness that seemed to come from "raising too many hawks." Ji Wuye stepped down from his seat, stood before her, and reached out to lift her chin. She tilted her head slightly, avoiding his touch. Ji Wuye's hand froze in mid-air, not following. He withdrew his hand, turned to the person beside him, and said, "Move her somewhere else. Don't let her spoil."

Then the scene jumps one last time. A room, dimly lit by candlelight. Yan Lingji sits in a chair, facing a man in white robes—his back is to Yang Hui, so he can't see the man's face. But he sees the white-robed man's hands, long and pale, with a faint blue glow at the fingertips. Those hands slowly rise and land on Yan Lingji's head.

A chill seeped from the fingertips of her hand. First, frost formed on the ends of her hair, then on her shoulders, arms, and chest. Her eyes were open—open, unclosed. As the ice crept over her chin, she moved her lips. Yang Hui couldn't hear a sound, but he saw her lips move. She was saying three words.

Then the ice closed up, and the scene went dark.

Yang Hui's fingers clenched suddenly on the table—not digging into his palm, but his knuckles bulged, then relaxed. His consciousness was pulled away from the light. He opened his eyes; the bamboo scroll on the table was still the same scroll, the afternoon light still seeped through the window cracks, and downstairs, Zi Nu was still setting the table, the occasional clinking of porcelain cups. He glanced down at the back of his hand; a faint streak of water had slid down from the corner of his eye, down to his chin, and hung in the air.

He wiped the water stain away with the back of his hand. The movement was very light and quick, like wiping away a drop of water that had been accidentally splashed.

Then he sat there without moving. The image kept replaying in his mind—the three words Yan Lingji uttered before the ice closed. He wasn't an expert at lip reading, but he saw it clearly. She didn't say "Save me," not "It hurts," not "Why." The three words she said were:

"...No regrets."

Yang Hui stared at the bamboo slips on the table for a long time. Then he rolled them up and tucked them into his robes, stood up, unlocked the door, and went out. He walked down the corridor and down the stairs. Zi Nu was setting out cups and saucers in the main hall. Seeing him come down, she glanced at him, then her gaze lingered on his face for a moment. She didn't ask anything. She simply said, "The porridge in the backyard is still warm. Take it there."

Yang Hui paused for a moment, then nodded. He went to the kitchen in the backyard, ladled out a bowl of porridge, and brought it to the door of Yan Lingji's room. He didn't knock. He stood at the door for a moment, then heard a very soft voice from inside:

"Come in."

He pushed open the door and went inside. Yan Lingji was sitting by the window, holding an old bronze mirror, looking at her own face. When she saw him bring in the porridge, she put the mirror down.

"You weren't here," she said.

"Upstairs."

"What are you doing upstairs?"

"I saw a little bit."

Yan Lingji didn't ask him what he had seen. She took the porridge and held it in her hands—her hands were steadyer than before, less shaky than when she held the bowl a few days ago. She lowered her head and took a sip, then looked up and asked, as if casually:

Why are your eyes red?

Yang Hui reached up and pressed his hand to the corner of his eye; it was a little sore. "From the wind."

There's no wind today.

"The upstairs window is open."

Yan Lingji glanced at him. She didn't press the matter. She lowered her head and continued drinking her porridge. After a few sips, she suddenly said, "I had a dream last night."

Yang Hui stood opposite her, waiting.

"There was rain in my dream." She turned the bowl of porridge around, as if finding a more comfortable angle to hold it. "There was a temple. And a child. Very thin. Squatting in the corner."

Yang Hui's hand twitched slightly. He looked at her but didn't say anything.

"That child didn't leave," Yan Lingji said softly, looking down at the porridge in her bowl. "He's squatting there, just sitting there. Like he's waiting for something."

She looked up at him. "Is that child you?"

Yang Hui was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes."

Yan Lingji looked into his eyes. Her gaze lingered for a moment on those slightly reddened eyes, then she lowered her head and continued drinking her porridge. After finishing the last sip, she placed the bowl on the table and said something very softly:

"I don't know why I dreamt about it. But I remember the way that child was crouching in the corner."

She didn't say, "I remember." She just said, "I remember." Yang Hui stood there, silent. He felt something stuck in his throat—not painful, but like an unfermented thought stuck at the exit. He stood there for a moment, swallowing the words back. Then he reached out and picked up her empty bowl.

I'll bring it to you tomorrow.

Yan Lingji didn't nod or agree. She simply leaned back in her chair, looking out the window. As Yang Hui carried the bowl to the door, her voice came from behind him: "How long have you been here?"

He stopped and turned to the side. "Half a month."

How long do you plan to stay?

He thought for a moment. "When you no longer need me to bring you porridge."

Yan Lingji leaned back in her chair, not turning to look at him. But her lips twitched—not a smile, but an expression that didn't open her mouth, like "I understand." Yang Hui carried the empty bowl out. When he reached the kitchen, he realized that the bowl of porridge had been full when he took it there, but empty when he brought it back. She had finished it. All of it.

He stood in front of the stove for a while. Zi Nu came from the main hall to fetch hot water and glanced at him as she passed by the kitchen—she saw him standing there, holding an empty bowl, staring blankly at the little bit of rice water left at the bottom of the bowl.

Zi Nu didn't stop, nor did she ask. She walked over, carrying the hot water bucket, and as she passed behind him, she said:

"The gray shirt in the corner is dry. Take it, fold it neatly, and put it back."

Yang Hui snapped out of his daze and hummed in response.

Zi Nu has already gone far away.