The youth trod a path scattered with fine starlight, out beyond the town and toward the little creek, running no slower through the night than he would in daylight. Chen Ping'an deliberately gave a wide berth to the spot beneath the gallery bridge where the water ran deepest, for there the creek stood far higher than anywhere else; instead he chose a stretch where the water scarcely reached his knees. He took the great woven bamboo basket from his back, bent down to lift out the small fish-basket stowed within, and bound it tight to his waist. He kicked off his straw sandals, rolled his trousers up past the knee, and only then waded in to feel among the stones.
The gash on his left hand, cut open by shards of broken porcelain, still ached with a needle-stab of pain; naturally he dared not wet it. So the youth could only grope and pick through the creek bed with his right hand alone. In truth, the stones of a dried riverbed were the easiest to harvest, but just as Liu Xianyang had said, their color faded badly. Now that Chen Ping'an had learned the secret of them in rough measure from the black-clad girl, he found it no hard thing to understand. These stones, he thought, were very much like the soil of the mountains he had once tasted, scrambling over ridge after ridge at Old Man Yao's heels. Common-looking dirt — yet some patches, even across the divide of a whole mountain, yielded a wholly different savor on the tongue.
Old Man Yao called it thus: "move a tree and it dies, move a man and he thrives; move the earth and it grows holy." A fistful of soil, once lifted from its native ground, would soon go stale in flavor.
The little creek had no name. The stones in it, some as big as a fist, some no larger than a thumb, came in every color. But the town folk, generation after generation, had grown used to seeing them lie quiet in the clear water, and none thought them any wonder. A man who carried such stones home would surely be taken for a fool — as though, stuffed full and bored, he had nothing better to do with his strength than slack over farm work. What else could he be but a fool?
Wading bent over, Chen Ping'an ceaselessly shifted and turned the great slabs of the creek bed, and had already gathered seven or eight stones into his fish-basket, great and small, of every hue. Some bore the skin of golden tangerines hanging high in autumn boughs; some were fair and delicate as an infant's flesh; some were black as soot, black and that gleaming black; some shone vivid as a great crimson peach blossom; and most plentiful of all was the green of a shrimp's back — a motley host, and not alike.
These stones, which the countryside folk called snake-gall stones by their common name, were for the most part no great size. Held in the hand they felt slippery and heavy. If raised on high beneath the noonday sun, or held before a candle's glow in the depth of night, the grain and vein of the stone within came out sharp to the eye, faint as silk thread — like the sinuous coil of a small snake — and viewed from a little distance, the skin shone like glittering fish-scales or the scales of a serpent.
Close to an hour passed before the fish-basket at Chen Ping'an's waist was nearly full. He made his way back along the same path to the creek bank where his basket and straw sandals lay, and first went to the shore to pull up a few great clumps of reed, wild celery, and dog's-tail grass. These he padded into the bottom of the basket, then set the stones in one by one. With his straw sandals in hand, his fish-basket at his waist, and the great basket on his back, he climbed the bank and went on his way, and when he reached the creek bank where he had turned before, he set down sandals and basket again and waded back into the stream to turn over yet more stones.
After gathering half a basket more, Chen Ping'an straightened his back, raised his head to gaze at the starry sky, and wished for the sight of a meteor streaking across the night. But tonight clearly his luck did not run so high. Coming back to himself, he continued, by faint starlight and the keenness of his own eyes, in the proper business of a money-grubber.
Each time he coaxed a stone out from the bed, a bloom of joy rose unbidden in him. To the youth, every stone was a little measure of hope.
Before he knew it, he had amassed the better part of a large basket of stones, eighty-odd in all, the greatest of them larger than his own fist. Its color was striking — like chicken-blood clotted whole — vivid and true, giving not the least offense to the eye, and for all its size it bore almost no flaw or crack. Chen Ping'an now walked along the bank toward the next stretch of stream, turning over in his hand a snake-gall stone of middling size: a pale green, far lighter than the plum-green glaze of the town's porcelain, round and polished and comely. He took a liking to it at first sight.
The youth made for the great green crag on the far bank, where on the heated days of summer the town's children loved to bathe. The water beneath the crag was especially deep; the deepest hollow ran to twice Chen Ping'an's height, the second deepest place in all the creek, after the pool beneath the gallery bridge. The better swimmers among the boys liked nothing better than to compete over who could stay longest at the bottom of that hollow.
Chen Ping'an had chosen the spot because, bathing there once with Liu Xianyang, he had found the snake-gall stones at the bottom to be exceedingly abundant. Once, to show off his skill in the water, Liu Xianyang had deliberately surfaced clutching a stone beneath his arm. That stone, Chen Ping'an remembered, was at the very least as big as Gu Can's head, faintly white and translucent, and within it ran fine dots of vivid red, like peach-blossom petals caught fast in ice.
Liu Xianyang, thinking the feat a fine one, had bidden Chen Ping'an to lug so large a stone home for him. But once they reached the town, that tall, fickle youth found the matter rather dull, and bade Chen Ping'an deal with the stone himself. This once, no sooner had Chen Ping'an stepped into Mud Vase Lane than he found Zhigui of the neighboring house inexplicably trailing behind him, saying not a word, her eyes fixed hard upon the stone in his arms — the very look Chen Ping'an cast each time he spied the meat buns for sale on Apricot Blossom Lane. Chen Ping'an could not withstand her yearning, and gave the stone to her; yet at first she could not so much as lift it, and came within a hair of dropping it on her own toes. In the end Chen Ping'an could only carry it over to the courtyard of Song Jixin's house, and what became of the stone after that, he never knew.
A stone white as clear water, with peach blossoms floating within.
Like the peach blossoms of Peach Leaf Lane after rain, their verdant color fresh and full.
Even before today, when Chen Ping'an had had no notion of the stone's hidden wonder, he had still thought in his inmost heart that great stone of his truly fair to look upon.
Chen Ping'an sighed, and came to a sudden halt.
Thirty paces away, on the green crag by the creek's edge, sat a maid in green, her cheeks stuffed to bursting — and still she kept shoving food into her mouth.
The first thought that rose in Chen Ping'an's mind was that the girl must have been a starving wraith in her past life, to be left so piteously hungry at this dead of night.
He thought it over and chose not to go nearer, lest he disturb her pleasure in a midnight snack. Yet neither did he turn and go, for he had set his heart on trying his luck in that hollow tonight: fetch a stone or two to shore each time, and by dint of many attempts, some would surely succeed. Besides, the snake-gall stones of that hollow were larger and seemed more richly colored than any elsewhere in the creek.
Chen Ping'an's skill in the water was not Liu Xianyang's match, but neither was he poor at it.
He had not expected that the strange girl, having finished one tidbit, would reach for another from beside her, and so continue without pause; her cheeks were never not full. Chen Ping'an, with a heavy basket half full of stones on his back, and thinking that the diving for stones would be no light labor, turned sideways and set down his basket on the ground.
Chen Ping'an had underestimated the green-clad girl's hearing. At that one light setting-down, she pricked up her ears on a sudden, and her gaze swept straight toward him.
Chen Ping'an could hardly tell her, "Miss, pray eat at your leisure," and could only smile his embarrassment.
The girl's expression was a little blank; she belched twice in a row, then seemed to choke, so she thrust out her chest and slapped at it hard with her hand.
Only then did Chen Ping'an note that she was not yet old in years, yet from the neck down the prospect was truly spectacular — utterly unyielding even to many a woman who had borne children.
The cloth of her bodice was drawn tight indeed.
Chen Ping'an hastily averted his eyes, yet no unchaste fancy had ever crossed his mind.
Only then did the green-clad girl recall that she had brought a water flask. Taking care to turn her back to Chen Ping'an, she tilted her head up and gulped a great draught, and only then did her breath come easy.
The youth, straw sandals in hand, had at that moment but one simple thought: the cloth of this young lady's dress must be no cheap stuff, or it could never have withstood such strain.
The green-clad girl went on eating, this time with more restraint — at least her cheeks were not so wildly stuffed — bowing her head to nibble in small bites, and from time to time slanting a glance at the odd, outlandish town boy. A pair of narrow, peach-blossom eyes, the outer corners tilting slightly upward, gave the girl the air of a young fox-faery by birth.
She seemed to be asking him with her eyes: What's the matter with you? Get on with your road.
Chen Ping'an, helpless, could only point at the stream beyond the green crag and call out: "I'm not just passing by! I mean to go into the creek over there by you."
She looked at the thin, clear-featured youth, and still said nothing.
Chen Ping'an hurriedly took a stone from the basket and pressed on with his explanation: "I mean to go into the creek and gather these stones."
On a sudden the girl seemed to remember a matter of some importance. She raised a finger to her lips to bid Chen Ping'an be silent, then shuffled her place a little — plainly making room for him to pass, that she might not hinder his going down to gather stones.
Chen Ping'an had no choice but to shoulder his basket and go over with his heart in his throat. Happily the green crag was broad enough to hold a dozen people, and the girl had of her own accord moved to its very edge. Unlike before, when she had stretched her legs out straight, now she sat composed with her legs folded, a cloth bundle open upon her knees, stacked full of every manner of cake and dainty, piled like a little mountain — of which the girl had as yet devoured no more than one small hilltop.
Chen Ping'an set down his straw sandals, his basket, and his fish-basket, thinking how at this dead of night he might have stripped to the waist to go in; that hope he now shelved, for there beside him sat a strange and unwedded young lady. Let alone whether she would scream, if her elders were to see or hear of it, he reckoned he would have both legs broken and no injustice done.
Chen Ping'an came to the edge of the crag and dove in with a splash, straight to the bottom of the hollow.
Quickly he brought up a stone the size of a palm, but no snake-gall stone was it; he wiped his face and dove again. On the third dive he at last brought up a snake-gall stone of green-black. Soaking and dripping, Chen Ping'an climbed back onto the crag, put it in the basket, and plunged back into the water.
From first to last, the girl kept her back turned, busy with her eating.
In less than half an hour Chen Ping'an had brought up seven or eight stones; save the first, whose color ran dark, the rest were all large and fresh-bright.
On the last dive he brought up no stone at all, but caught a live fish a palm's length long. The town folks called it a slate fish; a fish that, on meeting a person, liked to hide beneath the stones of the bed, and whose flesh was of the finest savor. Common slate fish were little longer than a finger, and rarely did one run so large as the fish now in Chen Ping'an's hand. He had before this, it was true, groped out a few such from the hollows and crevices of the creek bed, but for the sake of stones he had let them go. This time a flash of a thought caught him: if tonight he could trap a dozen fish or so, then tomorrow he could stew them into a pot of fish soup for Miss Ning — and that would be no small thing.
Climbing ashore, he flung the fish carelessly into the fish-basket.
The second time he brought a fish to shore, he found the girl on a sudden crouched beside the basket, gazing at the single fish lying there solitary within it, and her whole face was bright with spent radiance — much the same look Zhigui had worn when she spied that stone in the lane.
Chen Ping'an flung the second slate fish into the fish-basket.
The girl slowly raised her head.
The barefoot youth had already turned and gone quickly, wading down into the creek again.
The girl heard the youth's splash, then in one swift motion snatched up a fish from the basket with one hand, looked down at the still-struggling bodies of them, her face grave, and nodded: "Admirable! Admirable!"
The green-clad girl knew that this little town harbored many a strange sight. The well of Apricot Blossom Lane, called Iron Lock Well, had a chain of iron whose length none could measure. The gallery bridge not far off had, in its former life, been a stone arch spanning the creek these three thousand years, and beneath its arch hung a rusty old iron sword whose point aimed down into a bottomless green pool. There was the crab sedan-porters' arch with its twelve feet; in the grass without the ancestral hall, heaps of broken and tumbled clay idols; and to the north a mountain of porcelain, piled thick with all the wares that dynasties of imperial overseers had by their own hands condemned as flawed, every one shattered and dashed to pieces. And more besides.
She knew, too, the larger share of the reasons for them.
From a young age she had followed her father through the south country and the north, and so counted as one who had, in good conscience, seen much of the wide world.
But when Chen Ping'an came ashore with his third slate fish, the girl, both hands now empty, still crouched by the fish-basket, only rubbing her fingers furtively against her robe's hem, and she looked up at the barefoot youth drawing near as a commoner gazes on an immortal.
Chen Ping'an was made most uneasy by her odd look, and asked, tentatively: "Is it these fish you want?"
The girl, without thinking, nodded hard.
Chen Ping'an smiled. "Then all three are yours. I'll catch more after this."
The girl blinked. Then she smiled, and it was bright with joy. A fox-faery — and a fox-enchanting one.