A-Jiao decided she would die today.
After all, living was truly dull.
After breakfast, A-Jiao picked up a shovel and headed up the mountain as usual. Just as she closed the door, someone called out to her.
“A-Jiao!”
Auntie Li, who was just driving her donkey cart out, raised the whip in her hand and called out loudly, “Going down the mountain or up? If you’re heading down, I’ll give you a ride.”
A-Jiao lived alone halfway up Qingyun Mountain, where cooking smoke was sparse and only a few poor households were scattered about. Among them, Auntie Li’s family was closest to A-Jiao.
The spring sun was growing stronger by the day. Holding her bamboo hat steady, A-Jiao waved at Auntie Li. “Good morning, Auntie Li. I’m heading up.”
Auntie Li had watched A-Jiao grow up, from a little sprout into the graceful young woman she was now. She was extremely fond of her. A-Jiao usually went up the mountain to gather herbs and down to set up a stall for consultations—diligent and clever as she was. If Auntie Li had a son, she would have married A-Jiao into the family long ago, and none of this wretched business would have happened.
“Stay with Xiaohao for the next few days,” Auntie Li said. “Better than having Wang Shun come knocking at your door in the middle of the night again.”
Auntie Li’s family were all good, honest people. A-Jiao’s eyes reddened slightly, her lips parted, and she hesitated. In the end, she said nothing, only smiling, “Thank you, Auntie Li. I revised Xiaohao’s prescription a bit last night. The herbs are all ready—I’ll just take them from home.”
Auntie Li felt warmth in her heart. Her daughter Xiaohao had always suffered from a chronic illness, and all these years A-Jiao had been the one looking after her. She truly was the finest young woman under heaven.
“Come to my place for dinner tonight. I’ll make you steamed buns, alright?”
A-Jiao’s nose tingled with emotion. Auntie’s steamed buns were the most delicious in the world—it was just a pity she wouldn’t live to see the evening.
She waved vigorously at Auntie Li, then turned and headed up Qingyun Mountain.
Qingyun Mountain was divided into yin and yang sides. The yang side served the nobles, the wealthy, and the gentry, with paved roads that wouldn’t let a speck of dust touch the distinguished guests.
The yin side was for poor folk like them, who made a living by hunting or gathering herbs on the mountain. Naturally, they walked wild paths and muddy trails, with dust flying everywhere.
This was the second time she was digging a hole for herself. The first time was about three or four years ago.
Back then, she had carefully scouted the mountain, deliberated over and over, and finally chosen that prime spot beneath the tangerine tree. She picked up her shovel and started digging away.
A young scholar passing by saw her and asked if he could borrow her shovel.
The young man was handsome, wearing a blue scholar’s cap and a loose, washed-out long robe, with a scroll of books in his arms. Behind him hung a huge orange-red setting sun, as if he stood inside the sun itself, bathed in crimson light.
A-Jiao had lived alone for a long time. She gripped her shovel tightly, her expression wary, and said nothing.
Seeing this, the young man smiled and introduced himself. “This humble one is lodging at Qingyun Temple atop the mountain, studying for the imperial examinations. The mountain scenery is serene and elegant, and when I grow weary of reading, I come out for a stroll. What luck to run into you, miss—it must be fate.”
A-Jiao: …
When she had free time, she loved reading storybooks. This kind of opening, this kind of line—it was utterly cliché.
Seeing that she remained silent, the young man thought she was shy. He suddenly hopped up, stretched out his arm, and plucked a red tangerine from a branch.
He split the tangerine in half, revealing plump, golden-orange flesh. The fresh citrus fragrance drifted through the wind as he offered half to A-Jiao.
“It’s delicious.”
A-Jiao knew very well just how delicious these tangerines were—seven parts sweet, three parts tart, bursting with juice that made the mouth water. That was also one of the reasons she had chosen this spot.
She had eaten the oranges from this tree for many years, burying her own flesh and blood here as nourishment—considering it repayment for all those years of oranges.
“Look, the oranges at the top of the tree look even better. Could I borrow your shovel? I’ll knock them down and we can each have one?”
A-Jiao said nothing. Eating one more before she died wouldn’t hurt.
This young scholar was indeed a bookish sort—utterly useless with his hands. Even with an iron shovel, he was nothing but an embroidered pillow. A-Jiao couldn’t stand watching him. She patted the stumbling scholar whose hat had gone askew, took the shovel from his hands and set it back in the pit, then nimbly climbed the tree herself and picked four big, round, rosy oranges.
The young man praised her repeatedly. He set his book down beneath the orange tree and gestured for A-Jiao to sit on it, inviting her to eat together.
“How can a scholar not treasure his books?” A-Jiao asked.
He handed her a peeled orange, the white pith stripped away completely clean, his eyes brimming with laughter—yet somehow, for reasons unknown, they seemed to hold a hint of tears.
“Books are lifeless things. Even tattered and torn, they can still be read. But you, miss, are alive, and ought to be cherished and treasured.”
Lonely A-Jiao found it hard to describe that moment’s feeling.
She had once read a storybook that told of Ananda, disciple of the Buddha, who before taking his vows encountered a young maiden and fell deeply in love. The Buddha asked him how much he loved her.
Ananda said he would transform into a stone bridge, enduring five hundred years of wind, five hundred years of sun, five hundred years of rain—all for the chance that the maiden might walk across him.
She was no Ananda, and she had no burning devotion for this young scholar.
But at this moment, she rather wished she could sit with him by her pit, basking in the sun, sharing a very, very sweet orange.
The young man was lively and talkative. He told her about the old monk at the mountain temple who secretly raised chicks, about the henpecked county magistrate who brought his wife to burn incense yet kept a beautiful mistress on the side, and about how his own essays were so fine that he was sure to pass the imperial examinations. He talked and talked, until the sky was painted with evening glow.
Before parting, the young man asked her,
“Did you dig this pit to catch the falling oranges?”
A-Jiao was silent, then nodded.
He let out a relieved breath, his features bright and animated. “My name is Xu Tianbai, from the verse ‘Dawn sky, moon-pale; ancient shore, boat adrift’ in the Hundred and Twenty-Three Gathas. You must remember my name.”
A-Jiao nodded.
“And what is the young lady’s name?”
“A-Jiao.”
Xu Tianbai murmured her name to himself. “Once there was Mulan, a maiden warrior; now a lass who outshines any man.” He gave her a respectful bow. “Miss A-Jiao, a pleasure to meet you.”
After that, the two crossed paths from time to time. Xu Tianbai learned that A-Jiao loved storybooks, so every visit he brought her one, along with trinkets bought at the town market. He also discovered that A-Jiao was well-versed in medicine, and often came seeking treatment, claiming his eyes were dizzy from reading too much.
Knowing she was no cook, Xu Tianbai would occasionally arrive with chickens or ducks in hand. For a scholar, he was remarkably skilled at slaughtering, bleeding, plucking, and cooking them.
Her courtyard wall and fence were too low, and one section had collapsed from years of neglect—useless against beasts and scoundrels alike. Xu Tianbai hired masons to repair it, making it neat and sturdy.
A-Jiao’s courtyard gradually grew livelier, often filled with voices and barking dogs.
Fresh wildflowers frequently appeared in the vase in her room. The windows were bright, the sills clean, and wind chimes tinkled in the breeze.
Spring passed, winter came—three years went by. Xu Tianbai was to travel to the capital for the imperial examinations, a journey of several months round trip, and he could not bear to leave A-Jiao behind with an easy heart.
Before departing, he came to find her and handed her a longevity lock—small and delicate, yet crafted from pure gold.
A-Jiao knew what he meant—he was afraid she might try to take her own life again. But she had hope now, and she was no longer alone. Things were different from before.
She shook her head and did not take the longevity lock.
Xu Tianbai realized his gesture had been too forward, and added, “I—I’ll be taking a boat north from Qinghe Ferry the day after tomorrow. Would you… would you come see me off?”
Under the setting sun, amid the brilliant blaze of evening clouds, the young man and young woman gazed at each other, both blushing deeply.
After a long moment, A-Jiao turned and went back inside.
Xu Tianbai scratched the back of his head, somewhat regretful. Matters of marriage ought to be asked solemnly, after he passed the imperial examinations.
Before long, A-Jiao emerged from the house, holding something in her hand.
She walked up to him and opened her palm. In it lay an unfinished embroidered sachet—a turmeric-yellow base with a long-legged creature stitched on it. Xu Tianbai squinted at it, not entirely certain what it was, but he tried his best to say something complimentary.
“Is that a white crane?”
A-Jiao pressed her lips together, turned her head away, and murmured, “Mandarin ducks.”
Xu Tianbai caught on, let out a “ha-ha,” and quickly said, “Mandarin ducks—lovely, lovely. It’s clearly a pair of mandarin ducks.”
Joy danced at the corners of his eyes and brows. “Once I pass the examinations, I’ll take you to the biggest teahouse in the capital to watch opera, and buy you the newest storybooks!”
Then he grew quiet again, stealing a glance at A-Jiao’s expression, and spoke in a low, tentative voice. “A-Jiao, if you agree to me, come see me off at Qingfeng Ferry, alright?”
Nearly half a year had passed since then, and in all that time, she often dreamed of that moment.
In her dreams, she sometimes nodded, sometimes didn’t. But even when awake, she couldn’t remember whether she had nodded that day.
Ah, all things change, and nothing remains the same.
Now Qingyun Mountain was still lush and green, the Qingyun Temple at its peak still echoed with faint Buddhist chants, and the young woman still carried her shovel caked with yellow mud up the mountain. A-Jiao was superstitious about fate—even after all the twists and turns, she thought that dirt pit was still her destination. Her only destination.
She huffed and puffed her way up the mountain, pushing aside the branches that jutted into her path, and saw her destination from afar.
“Hm?”
There was something in it?
She lifted her skirt and hurried over, only to find a man in black martial robes lying inside the pit.
A-Jiao: …
The man wore a mask. His right hand clutched his abdomen, blood staining his palm crimson. Looking further down, a wild-animal trap was clamped around his calf, piercing through his clothes and biting into the flesh, blood seeping out and soaking into the soil—a vivid patch of red.
A-Jiao’s vision went dark.
He had likely been fleeing in panic after being wounded, and with rotten luck, stepped right into her trap and tumbled into the pit.
She crouched by the edge of the pit and stretched out her arm to feel for a pulse at his neck.
It was moving. He was still alive.
She ran her hand down along his chest and abdomen. Fairly sturdy. Badly wounded. Might not survive.
Half-dead was a tricky situation.
To save him, she’d have to bring him down the mountain, which would seriously delay what she’d come to do today. But if she didn’t save him, the man was occupying her pit.
When luck turned against a person, even dying was so troublesome.
Either way, she’d have to drag him out first.
With her mind made up, A-Jiao rolled up her sleeves, stood by his head, and reached her hands under his armpits to pull out the man who had stolen her nest.
She strained with all her might, trembling as she dragged him halfway out, when suddenly his eyes snapped open—a fierce, sharp glare—and in an instant, a cold, sharp blade pressed against her throat.
“Save me, or I’ll kill you.”
The man’s voice was rough as gravel, the tendons on his knife-wielding wrist taut with full force.
A-Jiao’s eyes lit up. This, this, this!
This was perfect—exactly what she wanted. She craned her neck forward, trembling. “Come… come on then.”
The man in black flew into a rage. A tiger fallen to the plains is bullied by dogs—how dare a mere village girl provoke him!
His blood rushed to his head, and the wound on his waist split open from the strain. Seized by searing pain, he blacked out once more, the sharp blade clattering to the ground with a loud clang.
A-Jiao touched her intact neck, then looked at the unconscious man, disappointed enough to purse her lips. Sure enough, she wasn’t blessed with such clean, easy luck.
She continued dragging him out. As she pulled, the black cloth covering his face loosened and slipped off. Panting for breath, A-Jiao’s legs gave way, and she collapsed to the ground.
She stared at his face, dumbfounded.
Before leaving the house today, she had consulted the almanac. The almanac had said: today is auspicious for sacrifices and burials, and fitting for reunions with old acquaintances.