ended, and I wonder what has ended for me this day. Like one of the stars in the sky this morning, I am gone—gone, but there is something else now where that which I was used to be—something greater than I was. Just like the stars vanish into the morning, and the sun appears, and all is light.
“I didn’t think I’d find you here so early,” a soft voice interrupted her thoughts.
Tai’s head came up. It was Antian, her hair in two plain long plaits again, looking much younger than her fourteen years, smiling.
“I came because you told me mornings were beautiful here, too,” Tai said. “And … I could not sleep.”
“I was eager for the day, too,” said Antian. She inclined her head a fraction at the red book Tai held, her smile broadening. “I am glad to see it is useful.”
“It is beautiful,” Tai said, her fingers caressing the soft leather where they held the notebook. “I have never owned anything so precious.”
“Then I will have to see that you get another just like it when you finish it,” said Antian, sounding genuinely delighted. “And then another, every year, my gift. Perhaps you’ll share some of its contents with me some time.”
“Thank you,” whispered Tai. It was not a specific thanks she was expressing, not just for the notebook or the promise of its eternal replenishment; she was thanking Antian for opening the world to her a little, for sharing a wider sphere than Tai could ever have aspired to on her own.
Antian understood, and reached out a hand. “Walk with me,” she said.
Tai closed the journal notebook, folded the lid down firmly onto her inkpot, tucked everything into a pocket of her tunic, and reached out her own trembling fingers. Antian took her hand, tucked it under her arm, and led the way. Side by side like that, with the same dark hair braided in the same long plaits with Tai’s only a little more untidy than Antian’s, they really did look like sisters. Real sisters, sharing the same blood and kin.
But this is better,
thought Tai, her heart beating very fast.
We are jin-shei. We are sisters of the heart.
They left the balcony arm in arm and crossed over into the garden where the butterflies were waking, the flowers were beginning to open and the air was heady with scent. For the time being they did not talk; they exchanged a word here and there, when one of them would point to a hummingbird or a bumblebee as if neither had seen them before and whisper, “Look!” For the time being, that was enough. They had to learn to share time, to meld two different lives which had been running in two different streams until last night and had now merged into something bigger, deeper, stronger.
“Look,” said Tai, yet again, pointing to something that had caught her eye in the garden. But she was also pointing at the pillars of the shaded cloister where the garden merged into the first open pavilions of the Summer Palace, and as she pointed a thin, fox-faced girl maybe a year or so younger than Antian peeled her back off a pillar on which she had been leaning, gave the two walking girls in the garden a smouldering look, and turned away sharply as though she had been stung by the sight of them.
Tai snatched her arm back, embarrassed. The girl had been wearing turquoise silk, and her hair was dressed formally, with silk flowers and pearls.
“Who was that?” she asked, cowed. The look that had whipped her had not been friendly.
“That?” Antian said, smiling sadly. “That was my sister. My angry sister. That is Liudan.”
But the look on Liudan’s face had not been anger. It had been a recoil born of fear. And pain. And loss.
Lan
From mother’s arms to cradles
to cribs we grow, and rise
to our feet and walk; and when they
lay the first milk tooth
of Lan into a silk cloth where a fond mother
keeps it always
we are no longer babes.
Qiu-Lin, Year 5 of the Cloud Emperor
One
I t is very quiet out there
“I didn’t think I’d find you here so early,” a soft voice interrupted her thoughts.
Tai’s head came up. It was Antian, her hair in two plain long plaits again, looking much younger than her fourteen years, smiling.
“I came because you told me mornings were beautiful here, too,” Tai said. “And … I could not sleep.”
“I was eager for the day, too,” said Antian. She inclined her head a fraction at the red book Tai held, her smile broadening. “I am glad to see it is useful.”
“It is beautiful,” Tai said, her fingers caressing the soft leather where they held the notebook. “I have never owned anything so precious.”
“Then I will have to see that you get another just like it when you finish it,” said Antian, sounding genuinely delighted. “And then another, every year, my gift. Perhaps you’ll share some of its contents with me some time.”
“Thank you,” whispered Tai. It was not a specific thanks she was expressing, not just for the notebook or the promise of its eternal replenishment; she was thanking Antian for opening the world to her a little, for sharing a wider sphere than Tai could ever have aspired to on her own.
Antian understood, and reached out a hand. “Walk with me,” she said.
Tai closed the journal notebook, folded the lid down firmly onto her inkpot, tucked everything into a pocket of her tunic, and reached out her own trembling fingers. Antian took her hand, tucked it under her arm, and led the way. Side by side like that, with the same dark hair braided in the same long plaits with Tai’s only a little more untidy than Antian’s, they really did look like sisters. Real sisters, sharing the same blood and kin.
But this is better,
thought Tai, her heart beating very fast.
We are jin-shei. We are sisters of the heart.
They left the balcony arm in arm and crossed over into the garden where the butterflies were waking, the flowers were beginning to open and the air was heady with scent. For the time being they did not talk; they exchanged a word here and there, when one of them would point to a hummingbird or a bumblebee as if neither had seen them before and whisper, “Look!” For the time being, that was enough. They had to learn to share time, to meld two different lives which had been running in two different streams until last night and had now merged into something bigger, deeper, stronger.
“Look,” said Tai, yet again, pointing to something that had caught her eye in the garden. But she was also pointing at the pillars of the shaded cloister where the garden merged into the first open pavilions of the Summer Palace, and as she pointed a thin, fox-faced girl maybe a year or so younger than Antian peeled her back off a pillar on which she had been leaning, gave the two walking girls in the garden a smouldering look, and turned away sharply as though she had been stung by the sight of them.
Tai snatched her arm back, embarrassed. The girl had been wearing turquoise silk, and her hair was dressed formally, with silk flowers and pearls.
“Who was that?” she asked, cowed. The look that had whipped her had not been friendly.
“That?” Antian said, smiling sadly. “That was my sister. My angry sister. That is Liudan.”
But the look on Liudan’s face had not been anger. It had been a recoil born of fear. And pain. And loss.
Lan
From mother’s arms to cradles
to cribs we grow, and rise
to our feet and walk; and when they
lay the first milk tooth
of Lan into a silk cloth where a fond mother
keeps it always
we are no longer babes.
Qiu-Lin, Year 5 of the Cloud Emperor
One
I t is very quiet out there
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