Volume One: New Rain Chapter Twenty-Six: Locust Tree Serenity

Winter in the small town always carried a sense of stifling gloom. There were no beautiful snowflakes as depicted in the books, nor the clear blue skies of autumn—only cold, damp winds that seeped into one’s bones, and a sky perpetually draped with heavy clouds.

Ye Mingke walked alone along the town’s streets, still turning over the conversation he’d had that morning with his uncle. His uncle had told him very little: a person, a piece of jade, a goal, and finally, a strange remark.

The person was someone who knew clues about his father, nicknamed the Sage of Nine Spirits. In the mortal world, it was said this man had once been his father’s mentor.

The piece of jade—at this thought, Ye Mingke grasped the dull, grayish jade pendant at his chest, which always carried a faint warmth throughout the years.

Sword Uncle had said it was the last gift left by his father, capable of suppressing his peculiar “overflow.” “Never take off this jade, no matter the circumstances. And this jade is also a symbol of your identity; when you meet Nine Spirits, it will prove who you are.” Those were Sword Uncle’s exact words.

A goal—the third answer. The third answer would reveal the origin and truth of his strange illness.

Ye Mingke always felt that when Sword Uncle told him this goal, there was an air of farewell, as though this would be the final answer he’d ever receive.

And then there was that odd remark. “That person called Nine Spirits knows clues about my father, but… what about my mother?” When he finally voiced the question that had long lingered in his heart, Sword Uncle was silent for a long time. At last, he said, “You have no mother, and you absolutely do not need to seek her.”

But did not all children in this world have mothers? Even if his mother no longer existed in this world, even if… she had once done something deeply hurtful to him, she was still his mother, was she not?

Lost in thought, Ye Mingke walked on, and when he looked up, he realized he had arrived at the great banyan tree where Da Bai resided.

Having finished his firewood training, Ye Mingke had, for the first time in years, given himself a day off, and tonight he had arranged for Qiao Qiao and Tao Yao to join him under the banyan tree for a gathering.

When he reached the tree, Da Bai was curled up inside the hollow, wrapped in a blanket, reading. Winter was Da Bai’s laziest season, with few willing to brave the wind to listen to his tales, so he scarcely left his hole.

“Yezi, why are you here so early today? Aren’t they coming after dark?” Da Bai glanced at the pale, waning winter sunlight that had not yet set, somewhat surprised to see Ye Mingke.

“I came early to chat with you first,” Ye Mingke said with a smile as he walked beneath the tree.

A leaf drifted lazily down from above. He looked up, through the now sparse foliage of the banyan, and gazed at the overcast winter sky before suddenly asking, “Da Bai, you’ve lived in this tree hollow for so long. Have you ever climbed to the top to take a look?”

“Eh!” Da Bai, ever the mischievous old child, snapped his book shut and poked his head out excitedly. “With my legs, I’ve never gone up to see.”

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“Let me take you up to see it,” Ye Mingke said, lowering his head to Da Bai.

“Alright!” Da Bai, already itching with curiosity, immediately nodded.

With Da Bai missing his legs, it was a bit troublesome; Ye Mingke tied them together with a rope before beginning to climb.

The banyan was immense, sometimes making Ye Mingke feel as though it were a complete world unto itself. For Da Bai, it truly was his entire world.

Ye Mingke climbed slowly, layer by layer, along the thick branches. He could have climbed much faster, but he did not, knowing Da Bai loved his home dearly and would want to take in every detail of the tree.

Da Bai laughed in delight behind him; for him, a climb up the tree was the greatest expedition and adventure imaginable.

Happiness, it seemed, did not depend on the richness of the material world one inhabited.

Soon, the treetop drew near. Ye Mingke, nimble as a monkey, skillfully climbed onto the highest branch, then carefully stood and emerged above the uppermost leaves.

The vast sky, heavy with clouds, pressed down on their vision, but behind the dense clouds, pale rays of sunlight leaked through.

On that winter afternoon, the town nestled among the mountains was laid out at their feet, smoke from families’ evening meals curling up in the cold air. The sunlight, filtered through the smoke, gilded the town with a warm golden edge.

It was the highest place in town.

Ye Mingke sat down with Da Bai on his back, and together they gazed out in silence.

“The town is bigger than I thought,” Da Bai remarked.

“But also rather small. Look, the mountains over there block our view,” Ye Mingke said, pointing to the range encircling the town.

“Da Bai, why are you content living in a tree hollow? The world is so vast—have you never wanted to go see it? Climb this tree, scale that mountain, leave the town, or even… leave the island?”

“That’s not how you measure the size of the world,” Da Bai replied. “The world’s size depends on the world, and on you. If your heart is abundant, the world is abundant.”

“So my home is actually very big,” Da Bai declared grandly. “Ah, sunsets over long rivers, stars hanging above wide plains, jade palaces, golden armor and warhorses, scholars and beauties, golden boys and jade girls, graceful ladies, delicate maidens, proper ladies… Eh, I might have let slip something, but my home is big, it has it all.”

Ye Mingke added, “You still owe me a portrait of that fairy sister.”

“No, no, my home has nothing at all,” Da Bai quickly retorted.

“But that won’t do for me. I want to go out and see,” Ye Mingke said softly, not arguing, as he gazed at the mountains that blocked his view.

As darkness fell quickly in winter, Qiao Qiao and Tao Yao arrived one after another beneath the banyan. In the cold, windy night, the group built a warm fire in the lee of the tree, set up food for roasting, and gathered around. The chill of the winter night seemed to melt away.

“It’s been so long since we gathered. When was the last time?” someone asked.

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“It must have been the summer before last, or even earlier.”

“Because someone’s always busy!”

“Pfft!”

The other three simultaneously reproached the busy one.

“My fault, my fault,” the busy one conceded, forced by the others’ mock indignation to devote himself even more to tending the barbecue, though each batch of finished food was immediately snatched away, leaving almost nothing.

It couldn’t be helped—Ye Mingke, with the best culinary skills and the smallest appetite, was the perfect barbecue partner. Especially today, when he hadn’t done any strenuous training, and could eat nothing.

“Barbecue, barbecue—barbecue’s what matters! Tsk, you bunch of tasteless gluttons,” Ye Mingke protested, though he cared for each morsel with the same meticulous attention.

He was always the one who ate the least but cooked with the greatest care.

After a round of food, as was their custom, everyone clamored for Da Bai to tell a story. Having gone so long without storytelling, Da Bai did not refuse this time. He leaned upright against the banyan, waved his big hand for silence.

The laughter faded, and in the tranquil winter night, only the faint crackling of burning branches remained.

“Tonight, I’ll tell you a story called ‘A Dream of Locust Peace.’ It’s more widely known as ‘The Dream of Nanke.’”

“Once, in Leping, there was a wanderer who drank beneath an ancient locust tree. Drunk, he fell asleep and dreamed of a city, inscribed ‘The Great Locust Peace Kingdom’…”

Da Bai’s voice, imbued with captivating magic, drew all by the fire into that strange and beautiful tale.

Ye Mingke had already read the story. He listened to the tale of the wanderer who, after a nap beneath the locust tree, became governor of the Nanke District in Locust Peace, living an entire lifetime of glory and tumult within the dream, as he sipped wine.

He felt a bit tipsy.

It was his first time drinking, the wine brought by Tao Yao, stolen from his father, a notorious drunkard.

By the firelight, Ye Mingke wrote “Locust Peace” in the sand by the fire. He always preferred the lesser-known name of the story.

He liked the characters for “Locust Peace”—“wood,” “spirit,” “peace”: a spirit at peace within the wood.

A wandering spirit at peace in a solitary tree.

If, one day, the spirit wished to leave the small but safe wood, would it soon be slain by the fierce winds and righteous heroes of the stories? Yet the spirit simply wished to see the world.

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