Seventy-five: Pear Blossoms as a Token

Everything before his eyes seemed as though it belonged within a painting, all the liveliness and bustle confined to its frame, with only himself standing outside, a solitary observer. A sigh welled up in his heart. The people at the foot of the mountain truly lived in comfort. If all those under the rule of other sects enjoyed lives such as this, if blessed lands blossomed everywhere in the world, then to be born human would indeed be a blessed thing. Pity about Crooked Jujube Village…

He lingered on this thought, then shook his head with a bitter smile. His musings, like leaves at his lips caught by the wind, fluttered away. In the busy marketplace, he saw a peasant woman rummage through her bosom for a long time before producing a single copper coin, which she used to buy a candied gourd and hand it to a child who barely reached her waist, causing the little one to cheer with delight.

Taverns, tailor shops, pawnshops, restaurants, street performers, fortune-tellers, couriers—life surged around him in all its myriad forms. A thousand faces, a hundred trades, a thousand states of being. Unaware, he found himself pausing for a moment, unable to resist the pull of these scenes.

It felt as though something was missing from his mind, something forgotten. The path has no question; the question has no answer. Immersed in the throng, he tried to comprehend the secular world in all its colors. The cries of street vendors, the enticing calls of courtesans, the clangs and drums of performers, mingled with the scents of food and powder, and the tang of sweat.

Standing quietly amid the crowd, he sought to feel the ‘Way’ belonging to these common folk, to officials, farmers, scholars, and merchants alike. To seek the Way? Without the Way, how could one seek it?

Suddenly, Qin Chuan felt as though exquisite sounds from all directions rushed upon him. The myriad marks of self, of others, of all living beings, of longevity—all imprinted themselves upon his mind. He could not describe the sensation; it was as if, in that moment, he forgot how to speak or express himself.

The more he pondered, the more he became ensnared. His head spun, his breath grew ragged and hot, until bright red blood dripped onto the blue stone beneath his feet, shockingly vivid. Yet those around him noticed nothing strange, as if he truly were a figure outside the world’s painting.

Suddenly, crisis struck. Without intervention, Qin Chuan would perish for the Way—this seed of the Dao was more than he could bear! In that instant, a cool current broke off from the dust pellet within him, flowing along his meridians up to his head, instantly devouring all those wondrous sounds and forms.

His body jolted violently, like a drowning man suddenly gasping awake, panic from near suffocation still lingering. He gasped for breath, and everything that had just happened was clearly etched into his mind. Without the dust pellet within, he would surely have been crushed by the Great Dao, reduced to dust—so completely, even the world would recall him no longer.

The dust pellet seemed to burp contentedly, swallowing the remnants, then fell silent once more, as if nothing had happened. A cold shiver ran up his spine, making his hair stand on end. He hurried on, accidentally bumping someone, drawing looks and muttered curses.

He dared not linger nor think further upon the Way or enlightenment. He had not merely set one foot upon a precipice—his whole body now hung from a single hair over the abyss.

Leaving the bustling streets behind, he reached a quieter horse market, chose a Lion Night-White steed, and paid the price. Only once he’d left the small town did he finally breathe easy.

Though no expert in horseflesh, he understood well enough the principle of grasping the essence and forgetting the dross, seeing the inner over the outer. The horse’s mane was as smooth as silk, its eyes clear as copper bells, its body jet black with a patch of white upon its brow—a perfect embodiment of night and white.

He had never eaten pork, but he’d surely seen a pig run.

With a twist of his waist, agile as a hawk, he mounted cleanly. Night-White bore a dark brown leather and cork saddle, but no stirrups. Settling his weight, he stroked the thick, glossy mane and gave a gentle tug on the reins. The horse walked forward obediently.

Its strength was remarkable. Once he’d found its rhythm, Qin Chuan moved in sync, swaying gently as the horse ran faster and faster. The powerful hoofbeats echoed, kicking up a trail of dust as they sped away. Trees and shrubs zipped by, a forest and then a narrow stream crossed in a flash. The tall trees thinned to low bushes and hemp grass.

In the distance, he spied a pear tree by the roadside, lush with leaves and dotted with white blossoms. As Qin Chuan glanced over, a crooked wind swept through and made the branches tremble—not a leaf fell, only a shower of white petals.

Beneath the tree slumped a disheveled Daoist, dozing in a filthy robe, hair matted, a dusty yellow gourd at his waist. A pear blossom landed on his nose, its fragrance rousing him. He opened his eyes to the carpet of petals. “Heaven and earth bear witness, the pear blossom sign—yet this omen is the worst of the worst,” he sighed, gazing at the bright sky. “Heaven and earth are about to change…”

Just then, Qin Chuan thundered past on his horse, the wind of his passing scattering the blossoms further, and in the blink of an eye he’d vanished down the path. The slovenly old Daoist looked down, then suddenly leapt up, half surprised, half delighted.

“Marvelous! In all my years of divining, never have I seen an omen shift so wondrously.” The pear blossoms, once scattered by Night-White’s wind, had transformed the worst of signs into the very best.

Qin Chuan, already far away, remained puzzled—how could pear blossoms bloom in early autumn? No one could answer him.

Butcher Fort was neither too far nor too close to Azure Mountain Sect. On foot, it would take a day and a night, but with this horse, far less. If it came to an instant burst of speed, the horse could not match him; for long journeys, though, two Qin Chuans together could not outpace a horse. To recover his own strength or spirit would take much longer; with Night-White, he needed only to bring some common fodder.

After just an hour’s ride, he reached a place distant from both village and town. The Ten Thousand Mountains of the Azure Mountain Realm were riddled with bandits and raiders—the farther from the sect, the more chaotic. Common folk typically stayed close to minor mountain dojos or within city walls; there were no small villages in the wild.

“Hm?”

Qin Chuan’s keen eyes spotted movement ahead. A wide river cut across his path, churning with muddy waves. A stone bridge spanned it, just wide enough for a cart. On the far side, a wagon lay crooked, blocking the only way forward.

He slowed his horse, dismounted neatly, and tied the reins to a nearby tree.

“Elder, do you need help?”

Up close, he saw an old man and a youth, both struggling to lever the left wheel out of a rut. Despite their sweat and effort, they’d accomplished nothing, only noticing him once he was near.

The old man, at least sixty, wore fine clothes and had a gaunt scholar’s face.