The Persimmon-Haired Boy
A Bloody Fairytale
At the age of thirteen I was married in a sacred ceremony witnessed by an overcast sky and a sleeping tortoise spirit. If truth be told, my marriage was not the beginning nor was it the end of my story. Yet, I think perhaps it was the place of the ceremony where my fate was born and concluded; that accursed sanctuary of mist and gloom, where forgotten souls mourn in aimless travels and turn into malicious spirits. How apt that such a place should have been within reach of my home.
Deep within the woods which rested at the brink of my house, is a vast lake with a worn red bridge stretching over it. Long ago, pilgrims took this solitary pathway to pay homage to an ancient shrine, but small things are often the first to be abandoned. It was forgotten about for many years until its resurgence came with an unwanted notoriety. Afterall, if something is left alone for far too long, unholy things will take possession of it. Stories emerged of what lay hidden in the woods; waters that were home to filthy, lanky, fanged creatures with hollow yellow eyes. For it is well known that demons love lakes and will gladly eat your flesh should you meet their gaze, unless something equally delicious is offered.
What divine, glutinous feasts they must have had in our immaculate era, when peace and trepidation were barely discernible. We must have been so sweetly spiced with despondency. Make no mistake, it was a beautiful era. Lines were straight, angles crisp, ten toes, ten fingers, minds and bodies in impeccable capacity. Thanks to our Glorious Emperor all would live in a flawless world, a seamless kingdom, where inadequacies had no place. The rot must be cut out if the magnificent tree is to thrive.
Inspectors would arrive first to villages, quickly followed by imperial soldiers who dutifully destroyed the corruption. There was no room for sympathizers. Thankfully, my quaint, pathetic village had the good fortune of not being worthy of notice, although one day we knew they would come. This, I think, frightened my parents the most and we removed ourselves to the one place no one wanted to be, for whatever fear there was for the Emperor, it was almost matched by fear of the lake in the woods. But I did not fear the Emperor, not when a stifling childhood imposed upon me far worse things.
The outside pressures, walled my mother in, confining her with an illness that did not plague her body and kept my father far away until the long hours of the evening. Still, they imposed upon me a single rule: I was strictly forbidden to play in the woods. They knew of the lake, but not where it was or what it looked like. They knew of demons, but they could not tell me how they got there. I was not satisfied by this or my parents or the fate that could befall me should I be found out by the Emperor’s men. In the end, being eaten by demons seemed the better alternative to my current state, at least in my five-year-old mind. So, one day, after my father went on his long journey to collect firewood and my mother curled up in the corner as she did most days, I took my chance.
It was not courage, nor curiosity, just the desire to break away. So, wandering from my home I trekked upon the path all others avoided, aware the mist was greedily encompassing me each step of the way. Trees moaned while concealed creatures rustled and hissed. What might have been a warning to others appeared to me as a strange song of welcome. Perhaps they were curious to see how far I would get and since I felt no threat, it was not long until I came upon the red bridge.
I remember how loudly its bones ached under the strain of my misguided feet. Stopping in the middle of the ancient bridge, I decided to take in my dark surroundings. At the time I could not name it, but I suppose what I sensed quivering in the foggy shadows was life. And being so bold, though where I inherited the trait I will never know, I sat myself on the bridge; a beam between my legs, I dangled my feet above the somber water waiting to see what might happen.
I began to swing my legs to and fro, tempting what dwellers lurked below when my sandal slipped from my foot and fell into the depths. Demons were quickly forgotten as I let out a soundless cry, knowing I could never get it back or explain how I lost it. It must have been a pitiful sight, seeing my short, little arm stretching from the bridge for a shoe that would never be retrieved in the ghostly lake. Slumping back, with my face pinched and my mouth hanging open, there was nothing to be done except let the tears roll violently down my ruddy cheeks.
Then quite suddenly the undisturbed air was broken by a crisp, resonant, elegant note. Singular yet so much like a bell or a charm rattling in the breeze. Was it a flute? No. Someone plucking a tight string? Certainly not, no instrument sounded that clear. A voice? The wheels of my mind began rotating as the song reverberated against the arched walls of the bridge, slowly progressing into my sight.
Peering over the edge I saw protruding out of the water, a hand, pale as a corpse, holding my shoe. Barely breaking the stillness of the watery surface, it moved closer within my sight, creating a thick trail of foam. The hand stopped before me and from a ring of frothy bubbles, a bright, colorful head emerged from the murky lake. His glossy jet eyes were wide and round, his white mouth drooping, and his slick skin like uncooked iridescent rice. Yet, nothing was more transfixing than his beautiful hair. Even in the gloomy light it shimmered, reflecting gold veins in the thick red-orange strands.
The water appeared to propel him towards me whereupon he grabbed hold to one of the beams and placed my sandal at my side. Then bowing, he let go of the beam and slipped back into the water with a small splash. Seizing my shoe, I raced down the bridge hoping to find him amongst the grimy lotuses, but I heard my mother calling for me. Quickly, I bowed to the lake and ran back home, careful to sneak back into our house as though I had been there all along. Not a difficult task under my mother’s lethargic search.
Sadly, my hopes of returning to the lake were swiftly dashed when my aunt came to live with us. A brittle, stern woman, who constantly kept her fox eyes on me. She had left her village after soldiers swept through, killing a lame boy and my aunt’s blind neighbor. Though, according to my aunt, the neighbor’s affliction was the result of a tragic accident only a few years prior, not that it made a difference.
This news was about as welcomed as my aunt’s presence, both contributing greatly to agitate my parents’ already fragile dispositions. If there was a benefit, it was that my mother could leave me and work in the rice fields of a neighboring village, occasionally bringing home a small sack of rice. We made a pitiful living before, but with an extra mouth to feed, more had to be done. Still, my mother did not seem unhappy about it. Since my birth, she had never left the house, keeping me tucked away while my father went to the village to sell his firewood. She finally found some freedom whereas I found more restraints.
At least before, since we had no neighbors, I could go where I pleased at home as long as it was not to the woods. Now with my aunt governing our home, I was not to go anywhere, lest some traveler or villager discover little no-voice. I was no longer left to my own devices, not with my aunt being my caretaker and companion. Thankfully, my aunt was not a young woman and dealing with a child that could not speak, no matter how many times she tried to get me to utter a word, was exhausting for a woman of her age.
After a week, she found that in order to tolerate me, long naps were in order, despite how much I hated naps. Keeping me tight in her clutches, the old woman could sleep for hours. That said, she also slept deeply. Once during an afternoon storm, lightning struck a tree close to our home and she did not stir. Gradually, I learned to time her sleep cycle, biding my time until I found a way to wiggle myself free. It took close to a week before the opportunity arose, but the second it did I squirmed out of her iron grip, crept out of the house and bolted for the woods.
A great exhale blew at my back, causing the mist to part along the pathway. My feet flew, my ears twitching with delight at an echoing song that ascended high and gentle as temple bells. I was there before I knew it, in the throes of that clear beautiful melody. The thick fog was entranced by the song, dancing and shifting all around the water’s edge, making its way over the bridge so only half of it was visible. Only the source of this mystical music was nowhere in sight. As I could still hear him, I remained undeterred and slipped off my sandals.
I held onto the structure of the bridge before stepping carefully into the lake. It was deeper than I originally thought, but the bank was near enough to the arch that it only came up to my waist. Peering under the bridge, I spotted the persimmon-haired boy. His head was submerged save for his face, allowing his wide mouth to grace the air with his wondrous waiflike tune. Seeing the illuminating hair which crowned him float in the water like orange tentacles caused my mouth to form a giggle.
He ceased singing, plunging half his face in the water so only his eyes were seen, staring at me. Pursing my lips, I buried the giggle. I had somewhat prepared for this, procuring half a rice cake before my escape, in case I had to entice him. Reaching in my pocket, I offered it to him with a solemn bow, peeking up just enough to watch him observe the contents in my hand. He rose just a little then slipped beneath the lake.
Rejection always leaves one a little heartbroken, even if they had expected nothing less. However, the moment I pulled back my outstretched arm, an orange figure leapt out of the water, snatching the cakes from my hand and popping it into his wide pale mouth. Letting out an empty squeal, I scrambled out of the water. Grabbing my sandals, I ran home. By the time my aunt awoke from her nap, she found me still in her grasp and not at all curious as to why I had changed my clothes.
Despite the disastrous encounter, the urge to visit the lake riled up in me with each lonely day. When the wind drew up, I could hear the soft echoes of his angelic voice. My dreams took the shape of misty trees while my waking thoughts were filled with the warmth of the water and the way his hair flowed beneath it. It was becoming unbearable to resist and, inevitably, I once again stole away to the worn red bridge while my aunt took her daily nap.
The mist appeared to part for me, revealing more willingly the pathway. Even the trees were less vocal in their groaning, instead festively rustling their leaves. My step grew lighter the moment the worn red bridge came into view. I raced onto its aching bones and, lying belly flat at the top of the bridge, I peered over the edge. For a while I saw nothing except the dark, ominous waters, but my patience was rewarded when two eyes emerged from the lake’s surface.
We stared at each other for what felt like hours when he vanished again. Sighing through my nose, I berated myself for not having any rice cakes. Yet, before I could rise, the lake began to bubble beneath the bridge and a mighty force shook the ancient red frames. I held onto the railing, ready to let out a silent scream when a rising aria burst from the water with golden crimson splendor. A shower of gilded stars rained down upon me, clinking melodiously on the bridge. Releasing the railing I bravely stretched out my arms and whirled around the magic rain until song, and shower, ended.
I applauded the melodist who bowed from his watery stage and seeing the pleased look on his shiny face encouraged me to clap more vigorously. In the midst of my accolades, the sun spliced through the moody sky, parting the clouds, dispersing the mist to reveal the hidden beauties surrounding the lake. I suddenly beheld canopies of cherry blossoms, purple magnolias, and luscious maples. I smelled the heady aroma of the pines while nightingales warmed the air with their gentle lullabies.
It was an enchanting sight, but one I witnessed alone. My persimmon-haired boy had vanished again, replaced by white water lilies stretching out from the murky waters. Their jade pads glinted in the sunlight, nearly blinding me until I realized each pad was carrying precious coins. With their stalks bending in the shifting currents, the water lilies seemed to push the pads towards the bank, enticing me to collect the coins. Seeing no harm, I did exactly that.
Sneaking back home —rather cumbersomely given the weight I was carrying—I hid the coins in safe spots, waiting till my weary father returned home exhausted. When no one noticed, I placed them in his purse where people dropped their money in exchange for firewood. I did this gradually and always before he counted them. He was none the wiser, instead counting it as good fortune. Thus, we were rewarded with food and little sweets.
It was not often, at least not as often as I should have liked, in which I could visit the lake. For the first trips, I made sure to bring a rice cake to lure him out, but it soon became unnecessary. Overtime, we grew comfortable in each other’s company, even finding ways to play games. He would push the lily pads over to me at the bank and watch me shape them into floating creatures. Other times I would run back and forth on the bridge to catch sight of him before he ducked under and swam to the other side. Off the bridge, we raced each other to see who would reach the end of the lake first, me on land or him in the water. He always won of course, his slick, opaline body barely disturbed the water. I would always make a face in my defeat which he would struggle to mimic, causing me to roll with soundless laughter. I was glad that he did not hold it against me, though I often wondered if he missed my company as much as I missed him during those times I was unable to visit.
One such unfortunate time came when my aunt fell ill, making it impossible for me to leave her side. Weeks, to my dismay, turned to months and by the time she fully recovered, her energy appeared to have revitalized. It took a long, suffering month of enduring each other’s miserable company to finally exhaust her spirit. I was never so elated, and the first chance I got, I slipped away.
Sprinting into the woods, I leapt and twirled my way towards the bridge, basking in the warm air. Spring had arrived and all was blossoming with fervent vigor. Colors and fragrances intoxicated my soul and I felt nothing in the world could blanket it with gray. But the gloom happily slapped me when I arrived at the lake. It seemed Spring had kept itself away from this part of the world. The cold winter mist clung to land and water, holding them tightly in their slumber.
There was no music, not even a stirring in the water. Frantically, I ran up and down the bridge, hearing it groan sharply under my insolent hard pace. When I finally grew tired of crossing the bridge and circling the large lake, I plopped down beside a large boulder. I continued to wait, rubbing the wayward tears off my cheeks. It seemed no one was coming and I feared my long absence had offended him. Blessedly, this pitiful wallowing was disrupted by a ray of sunshine slipping past the clouds to highlight the only thing alive with Spring.
In the distance, just a few feet from the edge of the lake, was a peach tree brimming with blossoms and plump, ripe fruit. The very sight of it had my stomach growling, urging me to gather a juicy snack from the beautiful tree. Never one to ignore my hungry nature, I approached the peach tree, finding it a little taller than I expected. However, it grew near a giant, moss covered boulder, perfect for me to climb.
Nimbly, I conquered the rock, and stretching, I plucked the fragrant peach from the lowest limb. The air was instantly consumed with the fruit’s tantalizing scent causing the rock beneath to shake, breaking from the earth. Dropping my snack, I braced myself as peaches fell to the ground. A large, long, boxy head sprang up from the soil, stretching its neck, so its sharp mouth could gobble up all the fruit in one bite.
Terrified as I was sitting atop a giant tortoise, I quickly realized the sun had spread its warmth, awakening the trees. Green leaves sprouted with outstretched fingers, buds erupted into full luscious bloom and from the lake came an unmistakable euphonious sound. My gaze, and the tortoise’s, turned to the persimmon-haired boy who was half way onto the bank. Sliding down the shell of the gentle beast I rushed over to him, yet when I reached him, he jettisoned himself to the middle of the lake. I had not had a chance to be hurt when he released a song so lovely, so soft and elegant it almost made me cry.
Amidst his graceful singing, I heard a sharp trill that turned my gaze towards the sky. Cranes circled high above the lake. The boy let out a long note and suddenly they swooped in, creating a whirlwind of snow and ink. I was captivated by their beautiful wings soaring around me and could have been swept off the ground by sheer force alone, only their destination was amongst the trees. At the end of the song, they had landed on the green carpet standing perfectly composed with their wings spread out and their long agile necks craned upwards towards the sun.
Beguiled, I was caught unawares by the persimmon-haired boy who scooped me up and swam me out to the middle of the lake. I had never ventured to where my legs could not touch the bottom; now, I was in the mouth of the lake. A gaping endless throat was beneath me and yet, I knew the persimmon-haired boy would never let go, not with his arm locked firmly around my waist.
Wading in those warm, embracing waters, I bashfully gripped his hand which held me so close. His skin was smooth, tepid, and a bit slick with a thin layer of slime. With his free hand, he directed my attention to the cranes who waited with prepared poise. A soft noise began to slowly slither out of his mouth. The birds vibrated on their thin legs, their feathers quivering and puffing as if to burst. The pitch hit a jovial high and the cranes leapt gracefully into the air.
They fluttered, twirled, spreading their wings like fans which tilted and rose in paired duets of languid motion. The vibrancy and merriment were enough to entice me to dance, except I was too enthralled by the cranes’ tranquil cadence harmonizing with the song that glided off the persimmon-haired boy’s tongue.
As the rhythm picked up, petals from the peach tree, cherry blossoms, and purple magnolias took flight, swirling around the cranes in delicate patterns. The sage-eyed tortoise observed the spectacle quietly, reminding me of an old man who consistently enjoys a festival he’s seen a hundred times. How I envied him. What I would not give to relive such a wonderful day. Leaning against the slippery body of the strange boy, I thought, what I would not give to relive this moment.
Springtime was not always like this, but it was nearly equal to it. I knew once the tortoise started his stirring, the whole lake would wake in bright youthful vitality. Around summertime the pines released their energizing scent and the tortoise roamed around the grand lake, his huge weight never disturbing the earth. I never took from his peach tree again, instead finding delight with my little games with the persimmon-haired boy. When Autumn approached, and the maples glistened with pigments of fire, their veins outlined in gold, the tortoise would travel less often from his peach tree.
Autumn, though beautiful, was so compatible with my aunt’s health that she no longer felt drained. Forced to stay home, I only had to look forward to my parents returning home with their meager wages and a new terrifying story. In one village a deaf girl was killed by imperial soldiers along with her sister who suffered from a fox demon. I often wondered if it was a fox who snuck into my crib and swallowed up my voice so it could trick humans. Either way, it was obvious fox demons did not frighten the Emperor.
Wintertime did not hinder my visits as I feared it would. There was a brief window where I could enjoy winter at the lake before the snow. While the tortoise spirit slept with the rest of the trees, the plum trees thrived and it was their blossoms I enjoyed the most. With the whole lake frozen, I could conquer it without the worry of drowning. Crawling on the ice I could peer through that cloudy window at a red-orange shadow that playfully followed me. When I stopped, he stopped, when I whirled around, he did the same, circling around me like orange ribbons.
Where the water was still thawed, the persimmon-haired boy would surface, melodiously gathering all the plum blossoms to flurry around me. Dancing on the icy surface, I twirled in the flying petals until I was dressed in their fragile, fragrant skin. When the song finished the blossoms floated back to their trees. Then after gathering the plums, we silently feasted together knowing we had to wait after the snow died down before we could see each other again.
In truth my joyful indulgence lasted longer than it should have as all things come to an end—whether or not I was prepared.
I had reached the age of ten, and Summer was just beginning, when word came that the Emperor’s inspectors were seen at a village not too far from our own. My parents were at a loss of what to do should the soldiers come to our home, but my aunt had already prepared a solution. She would take me away to a fishing village scarcely heard of in the Emperor’s court and if that was not far enough then we would keep on traveling.
Leaving behind the lake, the red bridge, the blossoms and all the spirits there, was too unfathomable for even my darkest imagination. Not to be cold to my mother and father, but there was scarcely a bond between us. I think they were afraid to love me, knowing any moment the imperial soldiers would cut me out with the rot. After all, you cannot mourn for something you were never attached to in the first place. Only, I had not adopted their theology, not with the tortoise or my persimmon-haired boy. So, I came up with a solution of my own.
Far into the night I escaped into the woods with only a sickle moon for guidance. The mist hovered low, creating a path of pale light stolen from the moon. The still trees stood like black beams observing my every move. My breath reverberated in the hallowed darkness, until, to my great relief, it was interrupted by the echoing of his voice.
An unnecessary lure, I willingly ran towards it, hearing his song growing stronger the closer I came to my destination. And there he was, a firefly in the night, his illuminating orange figure waiting at the lake’s edge. Stretching out his ghostly hand, he beckoned me to the shallow edges. I could not fly fast enough, greedily my fingers curled around the outstretched hand. He seized my arm and with an impetuous yank, he tossed me onto his back. Tying my hands around his neck, he projected himself high into the air. I had only just enough time to swallow my breath before we plunged deep into the murky depths.
Piercing through the water, the persimmon-haired boy jetted into the unknown, my looped arms tight around his neck. We delved further and further into the warm vast belly of the lake, my courage and my breath straining to hold true. As swift as he cut through the water, the darkness seemed never ending. My chest began to hurt, my grip tightened, still I held on, my faith rewarded when I caught sight of a speck of clear blue light breaking against the pitch-black abyss.
We drove towards it, his speed gaining until, like glass shattering, we burst through the surface. Coughing and gagging, I was placed on a smooth bank, the persimmon-haired boy resting his head on my lap, holding my hand until I became acclimated. The sweet, bright air tended to my lungs, easing them in a settled rhythm. My eyes adjusted; my mind soaked in the disbelief of my wonderous surroundings.
Statues were everywhere, all lingering in their own pools of crystalline, sapphire waters. I saw giant, sanguine men made of glossy sandstone, lying in their azure lagoons filled with sacred flowers jingling with bells. There were upright dragon statues with gaping jaws; consecrated waters spilling from between their sharp teeth while lotuses floated down their tongues and danced in the reservoir. Other statues were of cross-legged holy men; their laps filled like a shallow pond where multicolored fish would leap out into the air and swim around the heads.
Taking my hands, the persimmon-haired boy lulled me into the water. With the currents directing my legs to paddle, I confidently moved with him, seeing him more clearly in the pristine lake. His pearly skin was decorated with large orange-red patches while translucent veils waved from his legs. I could not see his feet very well, but I do not think I saw any toes. Still, if this was his naked body, he was unashamed of it and honestly, it was of no concern to me.
With my trusting hand in his, he led me to a bronze statue of two cranes, where peonies surrounded a basin filled with pearls. Dipping his hand into the basin, the persimmon-haired boy drew out a red lotus bud and cupping my hands with his, placed it in my palms. Yet this was no ordinary gift, no reminder of where I had been. I knew what it meant should my fingers willingly curl around it. A heavy decision for a child who recently reached that tender age of ten, and I was small and weak boned for my age.
At home, my sunlight was covered, my roots snipped, my feathers plucked; my nourishment was isolation, loneliness and admonishments. At the lake, however, my soul grew, feeding off of joy, wonder, music and frivolity. Despair could not sink its teeth into me there. Winter’s snow was a blanket, Spring’s breeze an embrace, Summer’s sun a second chance and Autumn’s color a paintbrush of dreams. If home offered anything of purpose, it was the wisdom to make decisions.
Rising in the water I kissed his forehead, hearing a carillon ring like storms in the frail air. He released my hands, and slipping into the water, I fell from a dreamlike suspension as thunder bashed around the sky. The warbling of a tiger’s violent cry, morphed haggardly into shouting and stomping. My body was being shaken as though I were a ragdoll in a dog’s mouth. In my grogginess, I began to see the lake surrounded in the gloomy mist, while long-limbed shadows clawed at me, pulling me this way and that. The only thing I clearly saw was the red lotus bud in my grasp.
In an instant my hazy mind was shaken clear when I was ripped from the lake’s edge. Angered and frightened by my absence, my parents latched tightly to me, scolding me for endangering myself by wandering off. Their voices wavered, but I heard their frantic planning. Still, in that blur of chaos, I tried to hold on to my precious lotus, until my aunt ferociously snatched it from my hands.
Not wasting a moment, my aunt and I left home; left my village, left the lake and my beautiful boy. Summer’s breeze felt like hail as sunshine retreated into the clouds. Music vanished from existence, all in the name of my protection. My aunt tethered me close to her throughout our journey, always keeping her fox gaze on me. We took private roads in the woods, kept away from any villages, giving offerings to shrines for our safety, all the while my aunt blessing my steps with guilt.
It was because of me—according to her—that we had to travel, that I was mute, that I allowed the demons from the lake to prevent my voice from ever emerging. Most times when she berated me, I kept my face silent, but I could not help wincing whenever she mentioned the lake with her cruel voice.
After months of traveling, we finally made it to the remote fishing village. On the outskirts of this village, we took shelter in a hut nestled by a thankless, virulent sea. Everything thrived on the bleak gray; the sea, the sky, the sand, and even the fish we had to catch. Nothing bloomed, no animal settled near us, I neither saw nor heard a bird in the years we lived there. Silence enveloped the land and soon it enveloped my only companion.
Though her health had been strained by the journey, my aunt still pushed herself to ensure our survival. We had to learn how to fish so we would not starve, we had to learn how to endure the winters, how to patch up our shoes, our clothes with what little we had. But that first year living in the hut by the sea took a great toll on my aunt. She was burning too much of her spirit and I discovered that one could feel pity for miserable creatures.
By our third year, she was bedridden, stubbornly forbidding me to send for help. I understood it was too dangerous for me to go out, but it was more than that, apparently. Her boney fingers pulled me close to her withered lips so I could hear the truth. We did not leave just because the Emperor’s men were slowly approaching our village. No, the Emperor had decreed that not only should the rot be cut out, but so to the source of the corruption. It was his belief that the people who birthed the imperfections would only breed more.
Poor aunt, a slave to martyrdom to be certain. Still, she gave everything to protect not only me, but also my parents. I could love her for that, though I fear it came too late. How it ate at me to watch her waste away. What was I to do once she died? How was I to bury her? Was I doomed to be alone? I could not ask such questions any more than she could answer them.
On a cold miserable morning, when spring refused to budge, keeping dormant as it had for the last three years, my aunt’s suffering was nearing the end. Weakened and shrunken, she could not say a word. Instead, she touched my cheek and smiled. I had never seen her smile and the sight of it had me weeping. Then popping my sunken cheek, she dug her sharp finger into my fragile flesh.
Urgently, her gaze darted towards a sack she had kept at her side from our journey to this bitter moment. Going to the sack, I plundered through the contents, until I came upon the red lotus bud. A torrent of emotions surged within me: disbelief, relief, hurt, anger. My body shaking from the hurricane inside me, I whirled around to my aunt, but she was dead.
Clutching the lotus, I ran outside to the grey shores and, falling on my knees, I pounded my fists into the merciless, salty sea. Spray and sand spat at my face, until, sobbing, I realized that amidst the typhoon of rage and grief, a stronger emotion prevailed. Sitting back, I etched the words of forgiveness, painting them with the name of my aunt.
A loud, splintering crack dispelled the quiet murmurings of the tide. Fearful, I raced back to the hut, finding in its place a persimmon tree. I approached it, awestruck by the glowing fruit pulsing with their very own heartbeat. Pressing my hand to its trunk, I found it warm, smooth and soft like a body. I wrapped my arms around it, my heart aching with memories of the red bridge, the peach tree, the tortoise, and all that grew with such passionate life. Most of all I missed my melodist, my beautiful boy. With all my soul, with all my heart I would give up the world and everything in it to live in that realm of happiness.
The skies grew dark, growling with reverence, as a fog devoured everything in front of my eyes. Blinded by the wet curtain, I felt around aimlessly to find my bearings. A fruitless attempt. Not only could I see nothing in the fog, but the ground rhythmically shook beneath me, causing my balance to falter. The vibrations were growing stronger, closer, and before I knew it there was a looming, dark shadow, tall as a mountain, ambling in swaying motion towards me.
The long appendage of its enormous body lowered and stretched towards my petrified direction. A great gale was inhaled, dragging me closer to the lumbering shadow, my poor fingers raking into the ground. It stopped for only a second before its hot, wet breath exhaled, planting my body to the earth as the mist parted. Smearing the caked soil off my face, I looked up at the shadow and saw to my great happiness the ancient tortoise, his soft beady eyes tenderly gazing on me.
I pulled myself out of the ground and wrapped my arms as far as they could go around its head. It let out a hollow sound, lowering its head, before bumping me over its neck, tumbling my small frame onto its back. Dizzily, I felt the ancient tortoise’s feet begin to move, quaking the world with each slow step. I clung to what I could on its back, nuzzling my face against its hard shell.
A great cry came from above, drawing my eyes to cranes and swallows circling above us. The cranes descended upon me, overwhelming me with a multitude of bright feathers being viciously, yet carefully woven together. While I was caught in the cranes’ frenzied attack, the swallows had their chance with me, pulling and twisting my hair in tight directions. It was not until the fluttering of wings cleared from my vision that I saw the mist had waned, revealing to me sights and smells long believed lost.
There was the red bridge, the blossoms, the maples, the pines, the lake; all fresh and new as it must have looked in Spring a hundred years ago. Unable to contain myself, I slid off the tortoise, landing with unfamiliar weight. Dumbfounded, I lifted up a fattened arm draped in a feathery fabric too rich and beautiful for an unworthy soul. I rushed to the lake, its spotless surface like an awaiting mirror.
I gasped. Standing in my reflection was a bride painted in colors of snow and ink, her hair adorned with twigs of peach blossoms and jade dragonflies. Her face plump and fresh with barely a trace of the child she once had been. I was unaware how stunted my progression into womanhood had been in the last three years, but in that gust of bridal preparation I flourished with vehemence.
As I gaped at my reflection, the lotus bud stirred in my loose grip. Catching a wayward breeze, it flew onto the lake. It whirled delicately in the windy current, spiraling out its red petals wide enough and sturdy enough for me to step upon it. Taking my place on it, the red lotus floated me out to the arch of the red bridge. The currents shifted softly, playfully bumping against the lotus without displacing it.
When I looked upon the reflective water, I saw it dimming with the shadow of dragons dancing below the depths, while high in the heavens I heard their passionate roar. Pearls began to rain down, brushing against the skin as softly as magnolia petals. I held my hand out to catch one. Instead, a hand caught mine.
There, dressed divinely in shades of fire, was my persimmon-haired boy standing with me on the lotus. My gaze delved deep into his ebony eyes, I felt his cold fingers outlining my jaw, pushing my face upwards. Parting my lips wide, he sealed his gaping mouth tightly over my own. Silver storms, golden rays, alabaster moons, and bejeweled planets all flowed past my tongue, sweetly crackling like fireworks. Four seasons and four elements puffed up my cheeks, expelling gently into a tender inhale down my windpipe. So many wonders were collecting in my throat, building into a new manifestation, I was sure I could not contain it in a small unused space. Yet, one by one, they kept piling, each one more brilliant than the last until, overwhelmed, I collapsed.
The darkness was not cold or slow, it was like having Summer’s garden roving over me, coaxing my consciousness into waking up. However, when my eyes fluttered open I was not greeted by Summer or his garden. I was awakening in the heart of a black winter; my body framed in an icy sheet which had coated the ancient bridge. Pushing myself up I found the snow and ice retreated from my touch, aversely shifting and shivering around me. Deep within my neck I felt the heat of a small sun, pulsing without burning. The tortoise was gone and worse so was my persimmon-haired boy. Even my bridal gown was gone, replaced by a garb too elegant to be wrapped around me. Still, I admired how the crimson silk flowed along my skin like water and how the embroidered amber chrysanthemums glinted like sunlight.
It was strange, but suddenly the urge to go home snuck upon my heart and I was unable to refuse it. The biting winds split around me as I traveled through the hardened, thick snowdrift. Trees had been stripped bare. The ground buried under feet of snow; the air silenced except for the howling. Yet I remained unaffected, feeling nothing while I made my way to my home.
All was hidden in the white, clearing only when I came closer. I would not have found my house otherwise for it was suffocated under the snow with barely a path to the door. It appeared under my warm presence, yet when I knocked no one answered. Not even a pair of curious eyes peeked out. There is no explaining how I could, but my ears were drumming from the sound of my parent’s pounding hearts, their breaths huddling together for security. Some part of me was glad to sense their living presence, so in the end I just opened the door.
Unsurprisingly, they shrieked at the sight of me. After all, how could they recognize their daughter? I had changed greatly, not in the last three years, but in the last three moments. Still, I was their daughter and, after some timid examinations, they could not deny this. Thus, they fell to their knees weeping hysterically.
My return, it seemed, was a celebration of grief.
The Glorious Emperor’s soldiers now occupied our village and if they should come here, they would kill us all. Such misfortune would have anyone wailing and gnashing, but this is all I knew of my parents, the constant lamenting of their ill luck. They would not change, no matter what, and my tolerance for their worrisome blathering was finally reaching its breaking point.
The throbbing in my throat became inflamed, the more my frustration grew. Balling up my fists, I was ready to scream when a seal seemed to crack, freeing the force within. Instead of a scream, I let out a string of notes, smooth and perfect as a pearl necklace.
My parents went silent; a look of disbelief etched on their faces. Perhaps I should have been too, only a sacred magic had fused to me: mind, body and spirit. It began snipping away any strings that held my place in the world, detaching me from my parents, from people, from problems. What mortal fear remained was severed without fray. Nevertheless, while my place was no longer in that world, I knew somehow, it was not time for me to leave it all behind.
Walking out to the snow-covered ground, I opened my mouth, freeing from the confines of my throat a song of sunshine and new birth. From beneath the white, emerald grass emerged as thick as fur. Trees sprouted leaves and produced fruit well past the season. A plum tree burst from the ground with bright, full blossoms while peony trees formed a crescent around the ornate tree. It was there I sheltered and there I sang. Outside our home winter ravaged the place, but as long as the music flowed from my mouth, not a flake of snow touched us.
Word spread and soon villagers came giving my family gifts to hear me. I refused all offerings, being more than happy to sing for them. Those who visited me flourished, whether it was in trade, in love, in happiness, or in family. It was astonishing how much power could be in a song.
Then one day from my flowery shelter, I saw a weary, half-dead soldier struggling to reach the summery warmth of my home. Though ragged and covered in frost I could tell he was a general from the Emperor’s palace. I admired such strength to weather out the storm and if he was that desperate then I would oblige him. My chiming, celestial chorus melted off the snow and thawed him. While my parents hid in their home, I invited him into my shelter.
He was in awe of me, of my song, which brought tears to his eyes as he recovered in my music. He explained that for a year a strange blizzard plagued my country and the Emperor’s kingdom was suffering greatly from the snowy blight. When a soldier from my village sent word about me to the Glorious Emperor, he became intrigued and sent his best general out into the raging snowstorm to spy on me. A deadly task. For all those who traveled in it did not fare well. Not that the Emperor cared. He could always get another general. The mission was simple: if I was a lie, I was to be expunged; lying was offensive in dire circumstances. However, if it was true about me, the Emperor demanded that I come to his palace to dispel the harsh winter.
Adamantly, I refused to leave and even the general did not have the heart to make me budge. I knew there would be consequences for refusing the Emperor, yet still I allowed the general to return to the palace, aware of the black clouds that were rolling towards me.
From my warm, safe sanctuary of flowers, I waited for the storm to strike.
Then one day, a neighbor frantically rushed to my summery circle with terrible news. Soldiers had seized my father while he was selling his firewood to neighboring villages who were not as fortunate in the wintertime. Where they took him or what they did to him, no one knew, but weeks later frostbitten imperial soldiers arrived. They told my mother and I that my father was brought before the Emperor who demanded that I be brought to his palace to drive out the winter.
Unfortunately, my father must have been too frightened to speak, for apparently, he gave nothing to the Glorious Emperor. I think a great many things caused him to quake and shiver in silence. Would the winter return to his village? Would we all be killed when the Emperor found out that I was born mute? Would the spirits who gave me this gift be enraged? Whether he actually thought these things or not made no difference. He had displeased the Emperor.
When the soldiers threw my father’s head at my mother’s feet, she suffered a stroke on the spot. From under the plum tree, I watched her collapse dead on the ground as the soldiers roared angrily the Emperor’s warning. I paid no attention to what it was. My eyes were too fixed on what remained of my parents. As a little tear rolled down my cheek, I parted my lips, letting out a low, gentle noise that rose quietly like a leaf in a small whirlwind. The soldiers grew quiet, watching as my mother’s body and my father’s head shriveled and stretched into the soil forming into azalea bushes.
Since it was clear I should not be moved, the Emperor finally decided he would come to me. A rare honor.
Battling the vicious snowstorm, he arrived with his dazzling court. They set up large banners, tents dyed in rich colors that opposed the crushing white. Rugs with intricate designs were laid out while plump embroidered cushions were set out for his wives, concubines and chosen heirs. More splendid than this was the opulent, gilded throne, pieced carefully together by frostbitten servants and placed on the cusp of my sanctuary. It was a beautiful makeshift court, flawless and seamless, from advisers to personal guards to his children and women. They were, without a doubt, an example of human perfection, albeit a rather small one.
Each one took turns bringing their tribute of only the finest silks, vases, hairpins and necklaces, setting them beside the azalea bushes I kept close to me. After his youngest heir placed their tribute and took their place far behind the throne, the Emperor made his appearance. With guards, generals and soldiers in attendance, the Glorious Emperor approached me, his fine face groomed, his clothes immaculate. Although, he had a very peculiar walk.
It was very subtle, almost inconspicuous, but my attention was drawn to his shoes. They were masterfully cobbled; one would hardly notice that one platform was somewhat higher than the other. My eyes lingered on this for only a moment, before turning to the Emperor who seated himself on a golden throne which encroached upon my circle. With a wave of his hands, his men stood on the banks of the green sanctuary, unworthy to enter.
Observing me, he spoke softly, telling me of the stories he heard and asking if they were true. I did not answer. Leaning forward, he ordered that if this was true then he wanted me to sing for him a song. A perfect melody catered to him, no one else, for whenever and however long he desired to hear it. If I could accomplish this, I would remain undisturbed, my village untouched and shrines erected in honor of my family’s memory.
Graciously, I bowed to him and softly released an aria that came like a secret, for as he demanded, it was for his ears only. It started low then it rose serenely, pleasing the Glorious Emperor. He smiled, waving his hand, demanding I continue, while his court exchanged the same confused, frightened look. But no one dared disrupt, not when he seemed so enraptured. And his song was beautiful, heavenly even. The more I sang for him, the more he smiled, nearly childlike, grubby and greedy.
Tears poured forth, coating his cheeks, blinding him to the darkening sky and withering branches. Falling from his throne, he pleaded for more, his tears soaking the brown grass beneath his knees. Indulging him, I parted my mouth wider, holding a long pearly note, making it rise higher and sharper. I could almost hear him laughing euphorically, practically choking on his bloated gaiety.
He sputtered and smiled, his face contorting, lips twisting, eyes twitching. He pounded and clawed at the rotted soil, anguish gushing from the rims of his tightly squeezed eyelids. But his song continued, unwavering, unmoved as blood secreted from his ears he desperately tried to cover. His soldiers seeing him in great torment attempted to aid him, only to stagger back, blocking their ears from the sharp, painful sound which surrounded their Emperor. There was nothing to be done. They could only watch helplessly as their Emperor writhed in agony until at last, he fell dead at the end of his song.
Enraged, the soldiers took up arms and charged towards me. Leaping to my feet, I ran, knowing my way through the woods better than they. But they were persistent and caught on to my trail easily in the snow. With the dead Emperor’s soldiers nipping at my heels, I headed for the lake, now frozen solid from the merciless winter. The red bridge was slippery with black ice, but I managed to clamber on the railing of the highest part of the bridge. They were coming closer, I could hear them, time slipping. There was no questioning what to do next.
I jumped, high. The wind would not catch me, no one would mourn me, only the lake would have me. In the white storm I could see red silk washing over me as I crashed through the icy surface with a great force.
For weeks soldiers searched everywhere in the woods, from the red bridge to the old abandoned shrine. They searched for traces of me on the icy bridge and on the frozen lake, slipping and scraping on the undisturbed, solid surface with no luck. They hunted every village in close proximity to my home, sent scouts through the woods, and advertised a tantalizing reward for my capture. Eventually, spring broke through winter, and after scouring the thawed lake, the soldiers concluded it was a lost cause. One by one they all left the lake, never noticing the two fish, as vibrant as persimmons, dancing in harmony under the red bridge.
© 2025 E.R. Dyal/ Escape by the Fireside
Dedication: To CB, Happy Birthday!
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Well, she didn't have to be so coy.