1
Tomás woke up with a phrase in his head.
Estoy cagado de frío.
He laughed at himself. Chilean Spanish, even in another world. The mornings here were cold, sure, but not cagado de frío cold. That was an exaggeration, a habit. He sat up, rubbed his arms, and looked around the small room.
His notebook was under the bed, safe. He took it out and reviewed yesterday's entries. Mushrooms. The deer-thing with glowing antlers. The new words: jīn'ergū, báidùgū, língshòu.
He wrote a small note in the margin, in Spanish: "Preguntar a Wei Chen si hay más bestias así."
Then he heard a knock.
Tomás?
Wei Chen's voice. Tomás opened the door. The scholar stood there with a small bundle under his arm and an expression of determination.
Today - Wei Chen said - we do... lesson. Big lesson.
Tomás smiled. "Sounds good. Come in."
2
They sat on the floor, facing each other. Wei Chen unrolled his bundle: several blank scrolls, a brush, ink, and a small pot of water.
I teach you characters - he said - You teach me... letters.
Deal - Tomás replied.
Wei Chen dipped his brush in ink and, on a fresh scroll, painted a character. It was simple: three horizontal lines, one on top, one in the middle, one at the bottom.
This is "sān" - Wei Chen said - Means three.
Tomás looked at it. Three lines. Three. It made sense.
He took his own brush. His hand trembled slightly. He tried to copy the character. It came out crooked, the lines uneven, the spacing wrong.
Wei Chen looked at it and said nothing. But his eyebrow twitched.
Tomás laughed. "Horrible, right?"
Wei Chen considered the word. "Horrible?" He had not learned that one yet.
Bad. Very bad - Tomás explained.
Ah. Yes. Horrible - Wei Chen repeated, tasting the word - Your character is... horrible.
They both laughed.
3
Wei Chen taught him five characters that morning: sān (three), shān (mountain), shuǐ (water), huǒ (fire), and rén (person). By the end, Tomás could sort of write them. They looked like a child's drawings, but they were recognizable.
Now you - Tomás said.
He took a fresh scroll and wrote the English alphabet. A B C D E F G. Twenty-six letters, simple and small.
Wei Chen stared at them with intense concentration.
This is... all? - he asked - Only twenty-six?
Yes. With these, we write everything.
Wei Chen shook his head slowly. He pointed to the character for "rén" (person) and then to the letters.
This - he said, tapping the character - means person. One picture, one idea. But this - he tapped the letters - ... I do not understand. How twenty-six pictures make all words?
Tomás thought for a moment. How to explain an alphabet to someone who had only ever used logograms?
They are not pictures - he said slowly - They are... sounds. This one - he pointed to 'A' - makes the sound "ah." This one - 'B' - makes "buh." You put them together, you make words.
Wei Chen frowned. "Sounds? But... how do you know which sound? The same sound can mean many things."
That's the problem - Tomás admitted - In my language, the same sound can have different meanings. You have to know from context.
Wei Chen looked at the alphabet again. Then he looked at his own characters. Then back at the alphabet.
Your language is strange - he said.
Your language is strange too - Tomás replied.
They looked at each other and, for no particular reason, laughed again.
4
Wei Chen wanted to practice writing his name in English. Tomás wrote it for him: W E I C H E N.
Wei Chen copied it carefully. The letters were huge, uneven, some of them backwards. His 'W' looked like two mountains. His 'N' was a zigzag.
Good - Tomás lied.
Wei Chen knew he was lying, but smiled anyway. Then he pointed to Tomás and said:
Now you. Your name. In Chinese.
Tomás hesitated. His name, in Chinese characters? He had never thought about it.
Wei Chen took the brush and, after a moment's thought, painted two characters.
This is "Tuō" - he said, pointing to the first - It sounds like "To." And this is "mǎsī" - the second - It sounds like "más." Tuōmǎsī.
Tomás looked at his new name. Tuōmǎsī. It looked foreign and familiar at the same time.
What do they mean? - he asked.
Wei Chen pointed to the first character. "Tuō" means "to support" or "to hold." He pointed to the second. "Mǎsī" is just sounds. Together, they mean nothing. They just... sound like your name.
Tomás nodded. It was like writing "Tomás" in katakana, if he thought about it. Just sounds, no meaning.
Can you... give me a name with meaning? - he asked.
Wei Chen considered this. He looked at Tomás for a long moment, then slowly shook his head.
A name with meaning is given. Not chosen. When you do something important, maybe you earn a name. But now... you are Tuōmǎsī. The foreigner who writes about plants.
Tomás accepted this. It made sense, in a way. Names were earned, not taken.
He looked at the two characters again. Tuōmǎsī. It would do. For now.
5
That afternoon, Tomás went to the fields alone.
He wanted to see the plants again, but this time with the new words in his head. Shān, mountain. Shuǐ, water. Rén, person. Simple words, but they helped him think about the landscape differently.
He walked past the báicài patches, past the dìguā vines, past the small gardens where women worked and children played. He waved at Xiao Wang, who was chasing a chicken. The boy waved back but did not interrupt his chase.
Near the edge of the cultivated area, where the fields gave way to wild grass, he found something interesting.
A patch of plants that looked familiar. The blue-flowered lánhuā, which he had documented his first week. But here, at the edge, they were different. Smaller. The leaves were narrower, the flowers paler.
He crouched to examine them. The soil here was different too: sandier, less dark, with small rocks mixed in.
He took out his notebook and wrote, in Spanish:
"Lánhuā, pero variedad distinta. Misma especie? Condiciones diferentes? Suelo más arenoso, menos materia orgánica. Flores más pálidas. Hipótesis: la intensidad del color está relacionada con nutrientes del suelo. Necesito comparar muestras."
Then, in English, for the scientific record:
"Lánhuā variant observed at field edge. Paler flowers, narrower leaves. Soil sandy, low organic content. Hypothesis: flower color intensity correlates with soil nutrients. Plan: collect soil samples, compare with darker specimens near water source."
He looked around for something to carry soil in. Nothing. He would have to come back with a pot.
But as he stood to leave, he noticed something else. A small insect, crawling on one of the pale flowers. It was beetle-like, with a shiny green shell, but its antennae glowed faintly, the same blue as the deer's antlers.
He froze, watching.
The insect crawled slowly across the flower, then stopped and seemed to... drink? It was hard to see. It stayed there for a long moment, then flew away.
Tomás wrote furiously in his notebook:
"Insect observed on lánhuā variant. Green shell, glowing blue antennae. Behavior: stopped on flower, seemed to feed? Possibly collecting nectar? Glow similar to língshòu antlers. Connection? Need to observe more."
He looked at the pale flower, then at the distant forest, then at his notebook.
This world kept giving him questions. And he kept writing them down.
6
That evening, by the fire, he told Wei Chen about the insect.
Insect? - Wei Chen asked - What kind?
Tomás tried to describe it. Green shell, glowing antennae. He drew it in the dirt with a stick.
Wei Chen looked at the drawing, then nodded slowly.
Língchóng - he said - Spiritual insect. Rare. They eat... - he searched for the word - ...the power of plants. The líng.
Tomás frowned. "The power? You mean... energy?"
Wei Chen nodded, though he did not fully understand the word "energy." He touched the flower drawing and made a motion of something flowing from the plant to the insect.
The plant has líng. The insect eats líng. Then the insect has líng too.
Tomás thought about this. It sounded like... what? A food chain? Energy transfer? But "líng" was not a scientific concept. It was mystical. Spiritual.
Unless...
Unless "líng" was just the local name for something measurable. Something like... nutrients? Chemical compounds? Energy in a form he did not yet understand?
He looked at Wei Chen and asked:
Can I see more? More insects, more beasts, more plants with líng?
Wei Chen considered this. Then he pointed to the forest, dark beyond the firelight.
In there. But dangerous. Not for you. Not yet.
Tomás nodded. He understood. He was not a fighter. He had no spirit roots, no martial talent. If he went into the deep forest alone, he would die.
But he could wait. He had patience.
One day - he said, more to himself than to Wei Chen.
Wei Chen heard him anyway.
Yes - the scholar said - One day. But first, you learn. You write. You understand the small things. Then, maybe, the big things.
Tomás looked at his notebook, full of small things. Plants, mushrooms, insects, soil.
Small things. But they added up.
Deal - he said.
Wei Chen smiled. "Deal," he repeated, and went back to his scroll.