Chapter Text
Huang-mèi,
Blessed spring.
Look upon these words as you do myself.
It has been some time since we said our farewells - in the blink of an eye the month of apricots will be half-past. This will be a warm year - it rains in Jinling City.
My illness made a little mischief for two days, but it has since subsided. Fret not.
All is well here. I have visited the Empress Dowager, Uncle Yan, His Majesty, Yujin, Jingrui, and xiăo-Qing.
The Marquis is steadfast- the harmony of his household has been unchanged since the year began. It seems we need not be over-concerned. The Yan residence has acquired fresh mandarins, which are sweeter than ever.
The palace has sent sweets too, and I fear I’ve had half of them already. Hazelnut cookies were not amongst them. Do watch the children’s treats as well— heaven forbid that the pair of them scrunch up their little faces again complaining of misadventure.
Take care at home. Mind that none of you catch another cold. Winter is just now stepping into spring, and the wardrobe need not be changed over yet.
I have not asked after the children’s studies in some time. I will appraise their progress when we meet again.
I look forward to coming home soon.
Is Rong-er well recovered?
Elder brother,
What a relief that you are well.
When the news reached Langzhou, Mu Nihuang had just lifted her brush to pen her reply.
The one who came was Zhenping. As he stepped in and slid directly to his knees before her desk, Nihuang’s hand tremored. She held her brush still. When the last stroke of the word ‘well’ was laid down, she lifted her eyes to him.
On the face of this strong and stalwart man ran tracks of tears both dried and freshly traced. As their eyes met, the scant three sentences he had been rehearsing fell to pieces. Two great tears splashed to the ground before his knees.
Your servant has failed you.
We could not keep the Chief safe.
Li Gang’s contingent will reach Jiangzuo shortly.
But the person before him sat erect, pen in hand, as if unmoved. Her gaze simply fell upon him steadily, somewhat ethereal, somehow transcendent.
Several moments later, Zhen Ping raised his sleeve and wiped his eyes, then mustered his thoughts, and delivered his message in whole. At the end he would have added, “My condolences, Madam”, but the words stuck in his throat like a spine.
And so for a long time, in the central room of a house saturated with the early spring, not a sound could be heard.
Beyond bright, open halls, the summery scent of a long and sunlit afternoon drifted on the humid air. It swam through the courtyards, through their adjoining doorways, heedless.
Nihuang has often thought- should that day truly arrive in this manner, she fully intended to meet the messenger with an open smile. This is how fate will have it— it’s not as if any of you was at fault; besides, why grieve so for a good thing?
Zhen Ping couldn’t have said if he had spoken the condolence aloud in the end. But he thought he heard her voice, adrift, make a faint murmur of reply.
The full midday sun lay across the writing desk, slanting over an apposed pair of paperweights. In the still-wet lines of ink still lingered a clear, cloudless afternoon.
On a distant day some eternity ago, as they made promises to each other, they had already forseen their ending. Step by inevitable step they had journeyed toward it. But it was today— did it really have to be today, arriving silently and all of a sudden? Twelve years had passed so languidly that only upon looking back does one realise— indeed, by the indulgence of fate, such a number of years have been seized from its hands. Why do each of you falter in speech? Haven’t we been good to him, given him some respite—
She saw vaguely that the words on her paper were blotching in damp spots. Unsteadily she lifted her pen to fix them.
The world before Nihuang seemed out of focus. For the moment she could not retrieve her voice.
All about her, spring’s gentle colours bloomed.
The chronically infirm will often possess an uncanny intuition about their own condition. To be alight with good spirit one day and succumb to an avalanche of illness the next, and then to be less surprised about it than the physician himself— this was not at all uncommon.
In the new year, Mei Changsu’s spirit for adventure rose to an unprecedented high. As if on the spur of the moment, he was sketching out an itinerary. Just after the fifteenth they were packed and travelling north, sprightly as anything.
By his experience as a physician and his understanding of Mei Changsu as a person, Lin Chen felt compelled to come along on this trip. Consequently, he found himself in the front hall of their villa, at the end of a long corridor where Mei Changsu was making short farewell with Nihuang. The uninvited guest put on a face that said “you obviously owe me money”, flicked open his fan, and ambled forth.
And so it was that they set off to the lively rumble of carriage wheels — though Chief Mei’s spirits seemed livelier even than that metre. With no regard for the late winter chill, he raised the curtains on all four sides of his carriage.
“I say, is Chief Mei out to sharpen his spine in this freezing weather?”
“The weather is pleasant, and we’re still in the south. Why should I curb myself from a breath of fresh air?”
Mei Changsu’s blithe tone ignited something in Lin Chen. It was as if the image of that maddening, pestilential, disobedient patient from twelve years ago had rematerialised before him in an instant. But back then, he had at least retained a sense of guilt, and could be persuaded with reason. The face that peered around now held an incredibly smug smile.
From the wayside reached branches yet untouched by green, with only the faintest hints of soft yellow buds. The ground here did not freeze over, but hardened a little in the cold. Birds, bugs, and little beasts still slept in the depths of winter. Within the gently swaying carriage, its occupant sat with narrowed eyes and a shadow of a smile on his lips, avidly taking the world in. Physician Lin rode along on a fine horse, unabashedly soaking in the fine light under an open sky. The looks he cast Mei Changsu were a fraction exasperated and a fraction gloating.
“Well, where are we heading first?”
“The first stop is your Langya Hall. We must catch the Old Master while he still lives there in the first month of the year.”
“Ha! I say don’t bother with the climb. The old man just sent a pigeon not long ago to say all’s well.” Lin Chen gave a shrug and two waves of his fan. Turning his head he saw no frustration, only dropped eyes and a smile, as if certain that he would get his way.
Probably he did feel the cold, for Mei Changsu tugged his cloak about him a little tighter. Then he skipped straight over Lin Chen’s last sentence.
“I brought a jar of those Star-of-Bethlehem seeds that the Old Master favours.” He turned to look at Lin Chen. “Though they’re ones that Nihuang brought home last year to cultivate— perhaps they’ve grown too delicate for the exotic climate on Langya Mountain.”
He was dismissed with a snort. The pair of them fell into a familiar banter.
As he squabbled with Mei Changsu, Lin Chen nursed a black thought. If he only felt for it, he could turn it over and over. But all he wanted was to line up idle chatter for the road and occupy his mind with the itinerary— lest that queer notion fement.
Mei Changsu had never before set off in the early months of the year. It had always been in the summery, sun-baked months that he started out, perhaps alone, perhaps with Nihuang— or perhaps the entire family would choose a good place to stretch their legs. It would be a time neither too early nor too late, carefully nailed down by both his doctor and his other half.
At this time, in this day, speeding through the barren and bitter cold with a light behind his eyes— what was he pursuing?
To tell the truth, Lin Chen did know.
It took no effort and half a thought. It was why he added himself to the itinerary uninvited. This time, they had set off with an unspoken understanding between them, carefully sunken in silence.
Out of Langzhou and northward— to Langya, to Jinling. At the end of the year, both Jingrui and Yujin would have returned to their family residences, and Mu Qing would have yet to make his return trip south. They will be able to see all of his old friends and family in fell swoop.
Amongst the few items Lin Chen kept on his person was the full contingent of Hùxīn pills, Bīngxù pills, Xŭejì powder, and assorted contradictory medicines. Before his eyes, Mei Changsu’s countenance was absolutely unchanged. But his heart saw the swelling tidewaters and knew that there would be no turning them. There were to be no signs yet of the soundlessly approaching catastrophe.
Though a skeptic and a physician, he found that all he could hope for this time was that Mei Changsu would be able to sustain this normalcy until he’s said his farewells to the last of his friends.
The midday sun blazed down, and Lin Chen narrowed his eyes to avoid its glare. Mei Changsu’s intuitions have never proven unsound. Lin Chen was a little disconsolate— when had he become so easily placable like everyone else?
At first light on their morning of departure, the Mei household had roused itself and was beginning its daily chores. The measure of a day is set at dawn— something he taught the kids. As the family gathered at the doors, a daybreak of dazzling gold spread over the land.
The morning breeze carried some heavy dew, dampening everyone’s collars. Nihuang stepped close to tug at the strings of Mei Changsu’s hood: “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine when the sun comes up.”
The carriage bells were already prompting. Lin Chen was too sleepy even to muster up a jibe.
Nihuang held the hands of her little girl and boy, one in each. Suddenly she came close on the tips of her toes and embraced Mei Changsu, layers and all. She smiled at him, her eyes shining. There were whole constellations held in those eyes.
As Lin Chen rode along he asked himself who it was, exactly, that had been the first to see through Mei Changsu’s intentions.
There are some people who, knowing that a farewell came by death, would make that farewell nonetheless. He’d learnt that many years ago. But this time, with the truth out and the dust long settled, obligation and necessity were no longer excuses. Yet this bastard was once again claiming that he was going to “take a little trip”. Even his damn tone was familiar.
Three strikes and you’re out, right? They’d been duped way more than thrice. When Mei Changsu said, young lady, take care, I’ll be back, Lin Chen turned up his face and covered his eyes— see no evil, hear no evil.
I’ll be back— a statement of indeterminable sincerity. For the moment even Lin Chen couldn’t be sure.
He thinks of summer flowers that blossom in the day and perish only at nightfall. He thinks of Lady Li of Han who turned away her king at her deathbed. He thinks of Lin Shu, who tends his reputation as a bird preens its feathers.
Aren’t you afraid he might not return. Why didn’t you hold him back.
By early February the situation was fraught. The bitter chill came like an avalanche, and not even the return of warm weather to Jinling could hold it back a fraction.
They didn’t dare hurry, but neither did they dare delay. The plan was to wait for his condition to stabilise a little, and immediately set off back home. Lin Chen did not ask Mei Changsu if he had really planned to leave home like a paragon of grace and dignity and then seek out some moutaintop to mummify himself like a monk. He simply resolved to thwart him.
Mei Changsu spent more and more of each day in a heavy slumber. His entire body emeanated chill. Whenever he woke, he struggled up to write his letters.
Dusk. The darkening skies reverberated with the call of jackdaws seeking their roosts.
Mei Changsu held a lamp in his hand. The faint yellow light illuminated his pallid face. Catching up with the children’s latest antics always brought a smile to his face.
The agreement with Nihuang was a note on every third or fourth day, and a letter every half-month. It would not do to wear out those delicate pigeon feet. In fact, when he could, he wrote every day— and so did she.
Lin Yan made a mistake with Pythagoras’ theorem yesterday, and received a flick on his forehead from the eccentric old professor. Lin Rong, recovering from her cold, was allowed a slice of melon— but ate too eagerly and cracked her tooth.
This note followed closely after her last. He imagined that she too had sat before a lamp not unlike his, measuring a sheet of paper by eye— three days were just enough to fill a page. And so, just like the way he annotated literature, he carefully dipped his brush in ink and made out a sketch in the margins— toothache, and a little face wrinkled like a bāo.
In closing Nihuang asked, offhand, if the wild peaches on the Lone Hill had blossomed.
Some time ago, it became a habit between them to end each correspondence with a question. Sometimes it was about the weather, sometimes an unrelated matter— it was like pinning a little tail to their words. Each one sent off fetched back its reply.
The cool tones of sunset swept over a desk that has seen, in the old days, its share of fire and storm. It was here, wasn’t it, that the strategist Su Zhe, with a momentuous feeling in his chest, took in his hands a letter passed on by Mu Qing. A letter that asked after him in her very own hand.
Oh, back then— he gazed hazily into the distance, sinking into bygone times— back then, after reading the letter, Mei Changsu would steel his heart and reply in a few curt lines. He had loathed himself so self-assuredly, but had never been able to quash that little bit of covetousness.
He remembered the many times his little girl had come— probably a little hesitantly, and yet quietly eager— to knock on his door. She would walk swiftly into the study, take down her cloak, and greet him neatly. Warm his hands in hers. Ask sincerely, is there something I can do?
His greatest failing, where Nihuang was concerned, was in having to put his vengeance first, in his concealment, and in his lies. Countless times he had watched her grapple with calm through her obvious concern, and felt infinitely reprehensible. His disquieted hands, compared to her warm, open palms, had always been so very hesitant to reach out.
He never imagined, holding on to that pair of hands, that they were going to lead him all the way into the fourth decade of his life. The age of conviction, as they say. He has certainly found his conviction.
A monsoonal draft swept across the room. Running through the order in his head, he recognised the breath of the twenty-fourth and final flower of spring— ever-punctual mahogany.
Right now, in his faraway home, jackdaws there too must be coming to rest. Nihuang must have her baby girl in her arms, lounging somewhere out of the wind, cheerfully composing her commentary on the day’s happenings.
As if he had travelled a thousand miles to be there in person, he heard the jingle of door drapes lifted by little hands. It was a crisp sound, like a handful of beans tossed into a silver bowl. Under those ever-familiar eaves, the mother got up to tug at her son’s rumpled clothing— planted him on the stone bench, and answered his various and sundry questions about daddy. The mountain ranges in their backyard turned green year after year; in the blink of an eye his Yan-er too had become a little person all of his own.
Mei Changsu wrote frankly of his illness, keeping little back. Wholeheartedly looked forward to returning home. He asked after the health of the little ones.
His script was softening from its etching-like constancy. He laughed to himself – that girl would probably mock his queer writing.
His wrists ached as he sealed the letter. The cold was wearing away at him again.
He put down the pen lightly, yielding. Curled up, as on her lap.
As consciousness ebbed, he made out before him the faint image of Nihuang, snow-white pigeon in her arm, unfolding his letter to read. By the latticed windows, silhouetted in lamplight – that was a face he could never bear to part with.
There was a wind whispering in the courtyards. Spring has deepened. A small Star-of-Bethlehem peeked from its grey jade vase, diminuitive but well-formed. Vaguely, Mu Nihuang could see a quivering ring of petals— five of them, slender, a fresh yellow. She didn’t know when the tears had started.
She was writing the letter to let him know that all is well. She will finish it. Nihuang stood for a long time, leaning at the door. Her body was aching and tired, reluctant to do anything. She settled herself on the bed, thinking, it’ll be good to take a nap first. When she wakes she will put her mind to composing the reply letter. Pay no mind for now to the pillow dampening under her cheek.
What a relief that you are well.
Her draft.
The children are in good health.
She’ll set it out in her heart, and start a new copy when she rises.
Twilight was fading. On the hill, the shadows cast by children coming home from school stretched into eternity. There seemed to be adolescent fingertips at her brow, lightly caressing. Indistinctly, the sensation of more tears trailing.
She knew this was a dream, but didn’t pray for it to linger. There was a letter waiting to be written. There were two children who will come in through those doors before long.
Fortune is fickle.
Nihuang has no regrets. I know that Brother feels as I do.
The mountains have been so steep, the journey so long. It must have been painful to endure, so have a rest.
Don’t apologise; I know you meant to come home. You didn’t do it on purpose, so why torment yourself.
I was thinking about how good it is that we had another twelve years, to make up for the time we spent absent from each other. Today, the Lin family tree bears leaves enough for shade, so we have not let our families down. When we were children we yearned for the wide world, and by the caprice of fate we have stumbled upon it.
These few years I have never allowed you to live too long in the past. Now it appears that I am the one who can’t seem to stop looking back. Ever since we lost each other in our youth, yours was the standard I dared not fail. As we grew, our achievements have not been for nothing. You would not be able to find a second person who could manage a fraction of your profound manouvres in Jinling City. Here— we will speak of it no more.
It’s all in the past.
As it is, the minutiae at home are not worth concerning yourself over. The children are old enough now, and they know to share my burden. I will only be returning to the days when I held you in my heart. Apart as Orion and Antares— but sentiment persists. Cold and hurt will never torment you again. Nihuang should be happy for that.
For my remaining life I will never again see you living and breathing before me— that is a wound I will carry.
But since it's me - oh, since it's me, it will only take a little while, just a little while to catch my breath.
Lin Shu-gēge, this is farewell.
Do you hear the sound of flowers blooming— is it magnolias or Callery pears this time?