Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

The next morning when Yang Hui went downstairs, one of the persimmons on the kitchen windowsill was missing.

He glanced at the kitchen doorway—three persimmons had become two, their placement unchanged, the spacing the same, only now there was an empty space in the middle. He turned and walked into the courtyard. The morning mist hadn't completely dissipated, a pale white layer floating between the treetops and roof tiles. The fallen leaves under the locust tree were thicker now, rustling underfoot. Yan Lingji sat on a stone stool. She wore that gray-blue coarse cloth robe, the sleeves rolled up slightly, revealing a slender wrist. She held the persimmon in her hand—four on the windowsill yesterday, he ate one, she ate one, and the remaining two sat there. Now one was in her hand, being peeled very slowly.

Her movements were careful. Not the slowness of "clumsy," but like peeling something she couldn't bear to finish. She started peeling the persimmon from the top, spiraling it down in circles without breaking. The peel landed on the lotus leaf on her knees, a long, orange-red strip like a thin ribbon. She peeled with complete focus, without looking up. Only when she peeled off the last piece, revealing the whole orange-red flesh underneath, did she raise her eyes and see Yang Hui standing at the gate of the courtyard watching her.

"I heard noises in the alley last night."

Yang Hui walked over and sat down on the stone steps next to her. "It's alright."

Yan Lingji didn't press him about "what the sound was." She handed him a peeled persimmon. "Here, have some."

Yang Hui looked down at the persimmon in her hand. The flesh was intact, clean, and carefully peeled. He stared at it for a moment, then took it. The persimmon was warm—not the warmth of one just exposed to the sun, but the warmth of one held in her hands. He took a bite. Sweet. Just as sweet as the one from yesterday. He chewed twice, swallowed, and said, "You peeled it better than I did."

Yan Lingji withdrew her hand and placed it on her knees, watching the mist in the courtyard dissipate. "I've peeled many persimmons before," she said. "The persimmons from Baiyue are different from those here. They're smaller, and the skin is thinner. You have to be very gentle when peeling them, or you'll crush them."

She didn't look at him as she spoke; her gaze was fixed on the direction of the locust tree. But she wasn't looking at the locust tree; she was looking at a scene she was slowly dredging up from the depths of her memory. "You've learned how to peel persimmons?" Yang Hui asked, biting into a persimmon.

"I learned it. I ruined so many persimmons." Her lips twitched—that "not-a-smile but like a smile" movement reappeared. "Someone taught me. He said, 'You have to peel the persimmons along the grain, you can't pull them off.' It took me a long time to learn."

Who is that person?

Yan Lingji thought for a moment. Her brows furrowed slightly for a second, as if rummaging through a long-forgotten drawer. "I don't remember his face," she said, "but I remember his hands. Very big hands. Thick knuckles. When he taught me how to peel persimmons, he gestured with his hands beside me."

Yang Hui didn't press the matter. He finished the last bite of the persimmon, placing the pit on the stone steps. Then he said, "Remember your hand."

"Yes. Remember your hand."

A breeze blew from the direction of the locust tree, dispersing some of the morning mist. Yan Lingji looked down at the lotus leaf on her knee, upon which lay a long, intact strip of persimmon peel. She carefully rolled it up, holding it between her fingers. Suddenly, she spoke very softly: "When you came back last night, what did you do to those two people in the alley?"

Yang Hui glanced at her. "You heard something."

"I didn't hear anything. But I woke up once in the middle of the night and felt like someone had been near Zilan Pavilion—not Zi Nu, not Han Fei. It was like... the footsteps disappeared very quickly."

Yang Hui paused for a moment. "How do you know the footsteps disappeared quickly?"

Yan Lingji raised her eyes, looking directly at him for the first time. "Because I lay in the ice for ten years, my ears became incredibly sensitive. I can discern distance and direction from the sound of wind and water."

Yang Hui thought for a moment, then said, "Those two were scouting ahead. I knocked them down, but not seriously."

"Why didn't you use more force?"

"Send them back with a message."

Yan Lingji nodded. She didn't ask "What message did you want to convey?" She sat quietly for a while, then tucked the persimmon peels from the lotus leaf into her pocket, stood up, and brushed the bits of grass and leaves off her robe. She turned and walked towards the side room, but stopped after a few steps, turning her head to ask, "Are you going out again tomorrow morning?"

"It's not decided yet."

"If you're going out," she said, "bring back a persimmon. Not too many, one is enough."

Yang Hui sat on the stone steps, the morning light shining from behind him. "Okay."

Yan Lingji entered the room, the door ajar. Yang Hui sat there, a persimmon pit lying on the stone steps—the one he had just eaten; the one from yesterday was gone. The pits from the two days, in different locations, had all fallen onto this patch of blue brick floor. He reached out and picked it up, glancing at it.

A single seed contains a whole tree that may grow from it.

Yang Hui stood up, threw the kernel into the soil at the base of the courtyard wall, and patted the dust off his hands.