I ended up stashing away my first draft in the bottom of my sock drawer. I could not do it. Playing it fully alerted me to the mistake I made, and it is not the instrument choice. It inflicts upon me the same amount of discomfort when I play it through a synthesiser.
It’s back to the drawing board.
I should not have been so hasty in drawing inspiration. Examining the Butterfly Lovers more closely, it is more a traditional tragedy, emphasis on the tragedy, than a love story. I do not want her life and death to be burdened by the implication of fate, rather than a path she took of her own free will.
I have asked the conductor for a full list of the pieces she intends to use for our performances. Interestingly, she notes that performances will likely slow down after the winter holidays. Not much point in it when most people are going to start prioritising their careers again. I must say, I am slightly disappointed, but that is understandable. There is the matter of expanding our audience options by performing outside of the harbour, but with the state of our funds, I do not think that is possible within a year.
Speaking of the winter, meteorology reports state that we can look forward to lower temperatures this year, with a high chance of snow. I will have to take all my plants inside again. I was honestly surprised to see them still alive after a full year of my absence, but I suppose it is testament to Shenhe’s sense of responsibility. I should pay her extra next time.
~~~
I had a dream last night after passing out atop my second draft. I probably would have remembered more details if I had not spilled tea over freshly penned notes. It will take some time before I can wash those ink stains out of my desk.
The details slipped out from between my fingers as I wiped away the stains, seeping into the oak. Like I was trying to hold on to sand. The only thing I can remember with any clarity is the heaviness behind my eyes. I do not think I can put a word to it.
There was a mountain, and there was an endless cacophony of frogs. Singing in the depth of the night. The grass is cold against my skin. The wind had not visited that night, and something terrible had happened. Or was going to happen.
The frogs’ calls sound more and more like a warning as I remember them.
Perhaps this is a sign of my exhaustion, yet again. I had sworn to never fall down that all-too-familiar trap, yet here I am, pacing in a nightmare of my own frayed psyche. I should go down to the docks, work out my thoughts yet again. I maintain faith in this method.
~~~
The sailors at the docks are way too eager to strike up conversation with passersby. A younger sailor, green from either his seafaring journey or the topic of his ramblings, has assembled quite an audience. His captain watches from a distance, perched on a crate with a wine bottle in hand, swinging her legs without a care in the world.
She waves at me, and I nod back, trying to focus on what the sailor is saying through the murmurings of the crowd. One of them has a phone camera out, and I make sure to stay out of its line of sight.
The sailor has cleared out a circle for himself, enough for him to gesticulate excitedly every time he gets to a part he deems interesting. I strain my ears just in time to hear, ‘—it’s been a month, and the doctors still don’t know what happened to him.’
A small girl, standing to the sailor’s right, pipes up. ‘My grandmama says Mr. Yang’s just in a coma.’
‘No!’ The sailor all but leaps into the air, trembling indignantly. ‘You think the doctors wouldn’t know that? They blocked off the entrance to his room, and every time I try to ask questions, this one nurse just coughs loudly until I give up. Captain? You remember Yang, right?’
The captain nods, her singular eye glittering with amusement. ‘Wouldn’t wake up for his important business trip a week ago.’
‘Not only that,’ says the sailor. ‘I have a friend whose cousin works in that hospital. She says she’s heard him muttering in his sleep. He wouldn’t be doing that if he were in a coma, would he?’
A wave of assent surges through the crowd as the sailor puffs up his chest. I tune out then and continue walking, having obtained all relevant information. A man that won’t wake up from a week-long sleep. Director Hu should know something about it.
As I leave the chattering of the crowd behind, a cold wind nips at my ankles, a herald of winter. My regular suit will be unable to withstand the cold in a day or two.
Then there is the other wind, the one that urges me to look up and across, past the rows upon rows of ships, returned for the winter. Atop the tallest mast of the largest galley, half-hidden in the crow’s nest, a pair of glowing yellow eyes surveys the crowd. Its wandering gaze stops upon me, and I know where it wants me to go.
I locate the nearest subway station and descend the steps, looking back only once at the shadow atop the mast. It nods in understanding and begins to move across the beams of the ships, heading in the direction of the city.
~~~
He does not wish to be seen, so I locate a discreet enough corner before telling him to show himself. He looks the same as always, perhaps somewhat paler, but that could be due to the weather.
‘How are you’ seems too impersonal, so I say I am glad he’s found the time to visit me. Xiao doesn’t answer, not even meeting my eyes. It takes me a moment to realise that he is looking at my suit.
‘Ah, I wear this on the regular.’ I tug at the collar appreciatively, thinking of all the finely woven threads and detailed embroidery that has served me for over two years now. ‘Times are simpler now, after all.’
He still can’t look me in the eye, but he does nod, which is an improvement. ‘It is good to see you, my l—Mr. Zhongli.’
‘Likewise.’ I find myself a seat against a bamboo plant. Xiao hesitates, then follows suit, though he keeps a respectful distance. I notice he is holding a backpack that bulges at the seams, too small to hold its contents. ‘Did you seek me for any particular matter?’
I hope for him to say no, but as always, he nods. ‘I had neglected to offer you a gift the last time you visited.’
‘Oh?’
He hands me the backpack. I unzip it to be hit with the smell of dried tea leaves. Tea bricks, fresh from Qiaoying Village. ‘It will take me some time to make a dent in all of this,’ I say, but to be encouraging, I add, ‘Thank you, regardless.’
Xiao looks away. I take some time to go over the bricks, making mental notes on their different colours and smells. These must have cost a fortune.
In my peripheral vision, Xiao looks on surreptitiously, as if he is afraid of being caught. I turn to look directly at him. There’s something else he’s not telling me.
I ask. ‘Is something bothering you?’
Xiao inhales, sighs deeply. ‘I came across three different rifts over the past week. All evidence points to the same source.’
‘Do you wish for me to assist you?’
‘That would be—it is more of an annoyance than an actual problem. The biggest danger it could pose is to entrap unwitting dreamers, though I did not come across any when I closed them. It seems…’ Xiao’s gaze becomes distant, staring past my shoulder. ‘Someone is trying to dream.’
“Someone”. A word that does not carry the full weight of his statement. Anybody who has the will to dream as we do is not something to be overlooked. ‘I will keep an eye out,’ I say.
‘You do not need to handle it yourself,’ says Xiao quickly. ‘You can contact me any time.’
I nod. Xiao is nothing if not extremely efficient. ‘I trust that you are able to.’
He is beginning to fidget, and I fully expect to see him disappear in a flash of teal when I turn around. He stays, however, and I search for the right words. He knew her almost as well as I did, after all.
‘Xiao,’ I say softly, as if I am afraid of frightening him. But knowing him, it was probably necessary. ‘Do you remember Guizhong’s final piece?’
I can feel his surprise in the afternoon air. Sharp, but not painful. ‘I do not have as good a memory as our other companions, especially in the realm of music.’
‘What is something that you do remember about her?’
He licks his lips, as if tasting the air. ‘She was… kind. Always. Even when I did not deserve it.’
‘You always deserve it.’ It sounds harsh, but I needed him to hear that. ‘You do. You don’t need a reason to visit me. This is my home and it will always welcome you.’
Xiao doesn’t answer. I let myself lean back, listening to the heartbeat of the city: the calling of street vendors, the shuffling of a group of teenagers attempting to make the most of the holidays. I turn around to suggest we do the same, but Xiao is gone, leaving behind nothing but a slight breeze and the faint scent of mint.
I sigh and step out of the corner and back onto the city’s streets. I draw some glances when I zip up my backpack and sling it over my arm, but I am too immersed in my thoughts to care.
If I had a penchant for philosophising, perhaps I would be able to make a blanket statement about immortality through your actions. But I am here to finish a composition, and the whole of a person is difficult to sum up with a single word. I try to add my own.
If her mercy lives on through Xiao, then her affinity towards change that lives on through me, I think. I barely remember who I was before I met her, only that I was deeply unpleasant. Block-headed, as that drunken musician would say.
That is far too abstract a concept, so I suppose I should keep looking for inspiration. There are three more pieces I need to go through for the orchestra; I should start suggesting names for it. Referring to it as ‘the orchestra’ feels too impersonal.
yippee!!