Chún's mouth opened and closed like a fish's as he watched Yijing make his way to a fallen log some distance away, under the trees rather than back to the boulder as he had expected. The choice made immediate sense: the warmest part of the day was fast approaching, and the exposed stone would soon be too hot beneath the Golden Crow. If not for the strange vitality of the old man's drink, he felt he might have fainted like one of those legendary imperial court beauties the village storyteller was always going on about. As it was, he certainly felt light-headed. His body still hummed faintly from the drink, and his limbs felt light as he turned towards the pasture.
That made him realise how long he had been distracted from his duties. His thoughts still swirled like a whirlpool, but ingrained routine took over as he drew a deep breath of the wildflower-scented mountain air. It seemed sharper, cooler than it ought to be beneath the Golden Crow. Shading his eyes, he checked its position, then went back to the boulder for his herding staff.
He moved slowly into the pasture, checking that the geese were heading for the shade closer to the stream at the north end of the meadow as the heat increased. A few seemed intent on roosting in the middle of the field; he chivvied them towards the trees, prodding them along with his staff, and nodded in satisfaction as several others walked into the water. They drifted about with busy honks, probing the streambed for juicy tidbits. These were tasks he had done countless times, and as he worked, the swirl of thoughts in his mind gradually settled into something steadier and more practical.
Once all the flock were out of the direct light, he trotted back to collect the roughly wrapped buns and skin of watered wine he had left on the boulder, then joined Yijing on the log beside the water.
The old man seemed absorbed in watching shafts of golden light filter through the leaves and dance over the shifting surface of the stream, chased by the occasional iridescent dragonfly. Fish leapt from the water to catch them, splashing jewelled droplets through the air.
Chún was hesitant to interrupt Yijing's thoughts, so he busied himself with unwrapping his meagre fare. The scent of water and wild greenery softened the staleness of the buns, though not enough to hide it entirely, and he threw a silent curse at Fatty Nie, the village baker, who would only trade him yesterday's leftovers.
Normally he would not have cared about the buns, but having someone with him made him conscious of how little he had to share.
"Forgive me, Senior, I have little to offer a guest," he said quietly, suddenly aware of his bare feet and the cast-off shirt and trousers held at the waist by a grass rope he had twisted together himself.
"If you will share yours, I will gladly share mine," Yijing replied, offering sticks of dried meat and fruit in return. "Many times I have wished for as much of a feast as you hold in your hands." Seeing the trepidation on Chún's face, he smiled. "It is ordinary food."
They divided the meal equally and ate slowly, watching the flock resting among the trees and paddling in the stream. Chún's watered wine was ignored as they passed Yijing's gourd between them. The water was no longer nearly as shocking as the first drink; it was pleasantly refreshing, leaving him comfortable all over. When Yijing sprinkled a few drops over the buns with a sly wink, the buns seemed soft and warm again, as though freshly baked.
For a time, neither spoke.
"Those mists and lights—I have seen them for as long as I can remember, Senior," Chún said quietly when the food was finished and they sat digesting and drinking the water. "Never much, and usually here on the mountain more than anywhere else, but…"
Yijing stayed silent, a listening presence. Chún leaned back on his arms and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the forest and mountain, feeling the warmth of a shaft of golden light upon his face. The cry of some Essence Beast deeper in the mountain forest echoed, startling the wild animals to silence and sending the flock into a flurry of warning honks.
"I had almost convinced myself I was imagining things," he eventually whispered bitterly. Shaking his head, Chún sat up and looked into the forest unseeing. "When I was smaller, I asked the villagers what the mists and lights were. They either called me a crow-struck fool, ill or cursed. Even the Storyteller and the Village Head only spoke of nonsense and childish imaginings."
He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and spoke in a hoarse voice. "After that, the villagers kept their distance—and only let me do the work no one else wanted. Lately, I have heard a few of them say it would be best if I found somewhere else to live." He let out a long breath, then turned towards Yijing with some confusion. "I even spoke to a man the villagers said was a wandering cultivator once," he added tentatively. "He laughed at me and said fireside tales were not a good way to try to impress him into taking a disciple. He told me I had no ability to gather Essence at all."
Yijing snorted and spat to one side, a sneer on his face and his beard bristling with indignation. His voice was harsh with anger. "Bah, cultivators are trash—they think they stride the Heavens and Earth, but all they do is consume. Cultivators! That is an insult to the Heavens—what do they know? Nothing but the collecting, consuming and hoarding of Essence—ravenous gluttons—a plague of locusts."
Chún's mouth dropped open, his bitter recollections washed away in surprise. "But…"
Yijing laughed, mischief returning to his face in an instant. "Yes, you are supposed to think I am one of them—and if you were not special, you would never have known otherwise."
Chún shook his head in complete confusion. "Senior, I saw…"
Yijing rolled his eyes and poked him with his staff. "That is because you are not a Locust, xiǎo yǒu, just as this old one is not a Locust."
"But you move… and you are strong…" Yijing ignored Chún's babble and turned to fix a serious eye on him. "Xiǎo yǒu, the sages say silence is a great treasure."
His words stopping midstream, Chún bowed his head in embarrassment. Yijing ruffled his hair and asked slowly, "How often do you come up the mountain?"
"Most days, Senior… no, Honoured Yijing," he stammered, realising he had been using the address he reserved for cultivators. The bald old man shook his head gently. "Senior will suffice—for now, xiǎo yǒu. Now, do you always sing when you come up the mountain?"
"Not always, Senior, but mostly. It is a long walk and the air is much cleaner here. I feel happier away from the villagers."
"En. Some of that comes from what you are doing with your song, my young friend. This place likely held more Essence than most—mountains often do—but your songs have strengthened it. It is raw and unfocused, but in time you would have turned this mountain into a low-ranked treasure ground."
Chún blinked. "I… Senior, how could…" He broke off as a thought occurred. "You said I was not a Cultivator… but was that not cultivation?"
The mist still drifted at the edge of his vision, faint and insistent. He watched Yijing more carefully now. The things he had seen all his life no longer seemed like tricks of the light or the imaginings of a lonely mind, but neither did they fit with what he had been told.
"You are not listening, xiǎo yǒu," said the old man, cocking his head to one side and peering at him thoughtfully. "Those things from your song—like the Cry of the Stream—can you see any around here?"
Chún furrowed his brow and looked around. "There, Senior, in that hollow beside the stream, in that patch of golden light—this one sees green, yellow and blue mists… some green motes, not many." He pointed hesitantly as Yijing raised his eyebrows and hopped off the log, gesturing for Chún to follow as he moved towards the spot indicated.
"Xiǎo yǒu, you are talented. It took me many years of honing my Essence sense to perceive what you can sense naturally. Now," Yijing said as they reached the small fold in the ground, "stretch out your staff hand. Put it into the mists as you see them—that is right." He nodded encouragingly as Chún stretched his hand out. "Concentrate on what you sense. Focus."
Yijing gripped Chún's outstretched arm, and suddenly Chún heard the sound of a large drum echoing through him. "That is me you sense, xiǎo yǒu. Now pay attention as I push my perception out into the Essence."
Chún heard the drumbeats slow and echo, then a counterpoint bell-like sound, like the chimes from Yijing's staff. Slowly the drumbeats sped up again, then faded as Yijing released his arm. The bells remained, sharper now without the drums. "Follow the Essence, xiǎo yǒu. You can give it more energy or slow it, gather it or thin it."
"This one heard your drums, honoured elder… but now hears chimes. What is to be done?"
Yijing stroked his beard. "Increase the beat, add notes, make it louder or softer… follow the song that is there, but give it more, show it more."
Chún thought about the bells swelling, and the chimes sang like the big bells the cow-herders used, motes of verdant green springing like a fountain as the mists coalesced and pooled in the hollow with a joyful peal.
With a suddenness that stole his breath, the Essence—for surely it could be nothing else—blazed opal green. A wave of energy spread outward like ripples from a stone dropped in a pond, splashing and rebounding from the trees, plants and stone around them. It crashed into his body, washing away his tiredness and clearing his head. His body hummed as a gentle warmth spread through every part of him, stronger even than when drinking Yijing's water.
Chún stared in shock at the hollow. Before, there had been just ordinary grass there. Now, half-foot-tall strands of silver-green grass swayed in the breeze, a much thicker opal mist swirling out from it. Glittering opal motes scattered in all directions, and he heard crisp-clear chimes as the leaves shook.
"What… Senior?"
"En. Good. Good. Thousand Year Grass on your first attempt."
Chún gasped. Thousand Year Grass was prized by cultivators for its rich Essence, but was difficult to find, as very few grasses lasted long enough to develop the characteristics.
"This one could sell this, honoured elder, and never need return to the village again!"
Yijing frowned. "A cultivator would think that way, Rén Chún. Do you think this a wise use of your talent?"
Chún stopped and looked around. All around, he could see more mists and motes than he had ever seen in one place before, rising from dips and rises, trees and plants around the Thousand Year Grass. And he felt…
Chún frowned. All the stories told of cultivators said they would be drained of Essence after performing great feats—or that the Essence around them was drained. But he felt stronger, and there was clearly more Essence present than before.
"Senior, what are we?"