Morning sunlight filters through the ancient chestnut canopy as Liyen kneels in the damp soil, tearing weeds from the earth. Her fingers are black with loam, yet she smiles as the scent of jasmine and freshly cut grass rises to meet her.
"You have to pull at the base of the stem, not at the leaves," calls Mother Lan from the far end of the garden. "Otherwise it'll grow back twice as thick next week."
Liyen sighs theatrically. "I'm twenty-two, Ma. I know how to weed."
"Then show me." Her mother smiles—that sly, knowing smile Liyen has known since childhood. The smile that means: I have something up my sleeve.
They work in silence for a while. In the distance, Liyen hears the artificial pond murmuring—the one the villagers diverted from the riverbed three generations ago. Children's shrieks mingle with their mothers' laughter. An ordinary day in Yulong.
"Is Yaoming not coming today?" Mother Lan plucks at a lavender bush without looking up.
Liyen shrugs. "Don't know. Don't care."
"Don't care?" A dry laugh. "Little Li, you can't fool your old mother. I brought you into this world. I know your 'don't care' from your 'damn-it-come-already'."
"Ma!"
"What? I'm old, not dead." Lan releases the lavender and wipes her hands on her apron. "I see how you've been glancing toward the road since we came out here. I see how you recognize his footsteps before he even reaches the fence. Qi-flow, we call it. When two people belong together, their energy moves in harmony."
Liyen feels the heat in her cheeks and digs deeper into the earth. "He should have his own life," she mutters. "Friends. Activities. Otherwise he'll seem antisocial."
"Antisocial." Her mother snorts. "That boy has brought you something every day since you were children. Yesterday it was those sweet bean cakes, before that fragrant orange cakes, before that—what was it?—that strange cake supposedly shaped like a dragon."
"He has a good heart. That's all."
"A good heart, beautiful eyes, broad shoulders..."
But before Lan can continue, her daughter interrupts:
"Ma!"
Mother Lan laughs—that warm, round sound that reminds Liyen of sunny afternoons in her childhood. Then it cuts off abruptly. "When will you confess your love to him?"
Liyen's hands freeze in the soil. "Me? You say that? You, who always says a man should make the first move?"
"Age changes how one sees things, my little Li." Lan steps closer and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. "I want to see you happy, little swallow. I want to know someone will be there for you when I am not. Someone to protect you, as your father protected me."
"Don't say that." Liyen's voice cracks. She turns her face away, but too late—a tear falls into the churned earth.
"Hey." Her mother embraces her from behind, tight, as she has done ever since her father's death. "We still have time. Much time. But time is like water in the pond—it runs away if you don't pay attention. And I don't want to leave you alone."
Liyen turns and buries her face in her mother's shoulder. She smells of lavender and home. "I promise you," she whispers, "that you will hold your grandchildren. I promise."
"Since when did I speak of angel-children?"
"I know you just as well, Ma," she smiles and holds her mother just as tight.
"A promise should not be broken."
"Then perhaps you should start snapping at Yaoming less when he confesses his feelings to you."
"But that's just it—he hasn't confessed anything to me!"
"Because you push him away every time before he can open his mouth."
A sound at the fence. Liyen whirls around, hands still full of earth.
Yaoming leans against the wooden post, a basket in his hand, his characteristic bashful smile on his face. How long has he been standing there? How much has he heard?
"Matcha cakes," he stammers, lifting the basket a little too hastily. "Fresh. This morning. From my aunt."
Mother Lan detaches from the embrace and grins like a cat that has already swallowed the canary. "Ah, the Qi-flame himself. We were just speaking of you, Yaoming."
"Ma!"
"Really?" He steps closer, then hesitates. "Am I interrupting? You were crying, I saw—I can go, if—"
"You're late," Mother Lan interrupts with a look that might intimidate another man. In Yaoming, it only triggers nervous stammering.
"I was—um—the oven at the bakery—"
"My mother's teasing you," Liyen says, throwing her mother a look that means we'll talk later. "Just ignore her."
"As I see it," Lan continues as if she hasn't heard, "you've brought our little Liyen something delicious again. One day she'll be as round as the pond, and then you'll have to take responsibility."
"Ma! How can you—"
"Marry her, I mean," Lan says innocently. "What did you think?"
Yaoming turns crimson. "Oh, no, not at all, I would never—that's not—"
Liyen feels anger rising, hot and unexpected. Not because of her mother. Because of his embarrassment. Because of that not at all that feels like a rejection.
"Don't you mean it?" Her voice is sharper than intended.
Yaoming blinks. "Um, what?"
"Us. Me." She takes a step toward him, the dirty weed clump still in her fist. "Aren't you serious?"
"I—I don't understand—"
"Isn't it serious to you?" She takes another step toward him, the dirty weed clump still in her fist. "Take your stupid matcha cakes and leave me alone!"
He opens his mouth, closes it again, and something in his face—embarrassment, hurt, perhaps anger—makes Liyen even angrier. But he goes. Turns and leaves, shoulders slumped, the basket still in his hand.
"Why did you snap at Yaoming again?" Mother Lan's voice is gentle, not accusatory.
"You haven't even confessed your love to him."
"I'm angry because he won't stand by us!" Liyen throws the weeds to the ground, her hands trembling. "Do I mean so little to him that he won't even try to reveal his feelings to me?"
Mother Lan sighs—that quiet, tired sigh Liyen knows. The sigh of a mother who understands that words will help nothing now.
Then: sounds. Not the village's usual murmur, not the children playing at the pond. Footsteps. Many footsteps. Running footsteps.
Liyen and Lan turn simultaneously. Through the garden, past the bitter melon vines, rush neighbors, friends, strangers—all moving in the same direction. Westward. Toward the gate.
"What happened?" Liyen grabs the arm of a woman hurrying past.
"Don't know exactly!" Panting. Excited. "A rider. Or something terrible. They say the forest spirit—"
"In daylight?" Liyen's heart hammers against her ribs.
"I said the same thing!" The woman tears free and runs on.
"That can't be," Liyen whispers. "It's still day."
"Besides, who would be stupid enough to enter the forest at night?" Mother Lan's voice trembles slightly, but she tries to maintain her sarcasm. "We've been taught that since childhood."
They follow the crowd, against the current of concern, through lanes suddenly emptied, past closed shops and silenced conversations. The drums begin to beat—three deep strikes, pause, three strikes. Guest. Stranger. Possible danger.
Before the West Gate, where the forest stands thickest and the shadows stretch longest, the crowd has formed a semicircle. Liyen pushes forward, her mother close behind.
Then Liyen hears it. Hoofbeats. Fast. Too fast for peaceful riding. A horse that has run until its lungs burn and its eyes are white with terror.
It crashes through the gate. A white mare, foaming, with flared nostrils. And upon her—a woman whose reddish-brown hair falls wild around a face marked by dust and tears. Blue garment, foreign, torn at the hem, fluttering in the wind like a warning banner.
She is young, perhaps not much older than Liyen herself. But her face—that face has already seen what no young woman should see. Her hands, still gripping the reins, are covered in blood and blisters. Her garment smells of smoke and a cloying sweetness Liyen cannot place.
The horse stops, or rather—it gives up. The woman lets herself fall, not gracefully, not controlled. She rolls off, crashes to the ground, yet rises again, though one can see it costs her dearly.
And as she straightens, her voice is raw but cuts like ice water in the sudden silence:
"Flee. All of you. Now."
"She will come. She will..."
She breaks off, gasping and coughing.
"She will take you all," she whispers. "If you don't run."