Chapter 3 — Leaving Without A Word

　　One morning, Ruoshui woke from a nightmare and called, “Su Mu!” Her voice faded and no one answered. She called again a few more times; when someone did come, she smiled, but the smile froze when she saw who it was.

　　“Auntie, where is Su Mu?”

　　“Master Su has already left,” the old woman answered.

　　Ruoshui had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud tightened something in her chest. “Don’t be sad,” the old woman said gently. “Master Su is an enlightened immortal with duties. He can’t stay forever. Immortals live forever; mortals are only passing guests in their lives. Whether it’s days, years, or decades, to them it’s a blink.”

　　Ruoshui protested, “If that’s so, why not stay for decades? For him it’s only a moment.”

　　“And then?” the old woman sighed. “Even the most cheerful banquet must end. Mortals turn to dust within a century, while the immortal is left with memory and pain. To spare himself an eternity of longing, he must leave rather than bind you to suffering.”

　　“But—” Ruoshui couldn’t explain it; she simply felt a deep attachment.

　　“The master treated you well. He bought you lots of tasty food and nice clothes, and raised chicks in the yard so I could cook them for you.” The old woman handed Ruoshui a piece of food — duck gizzard — though Ruoshui found she couldn’t taste it.

　　“Want to go out for a walk?” the old woman asked.

　　Ruoshui forced a smile and shook her head. The old woman left. Ruoshui sat all day; when the meal arrived she picked at it randomly. The old woman didn’t press the matter. After all, who wouldn’t be moved by the handsome, otherworldly master who saved her life? Anyone could fall for him.

　　No one could know what Ruoshui felt. On subsequent mornings she went on with routine: eating, sunlight, sleep. But nothing tasted quite as good as before; she was often drowsy, sometimes falling asleep suddenly and jolting awake. With Qiwu Jun gone, her immobile legs became a daily annoyance. Determined, she resolved to stand.

　　At first she simply moved her legs while sitting; it was hard. After repeated effort she could shift them slightly. Then she tried getting out of bed, then pulling herself along with supports. Bit by bit she relearned walking until she could trot about like a lively child.

　　It wasn’t as impossible as she’d feared. Her hands had been frozen before too, yet gradually regained movement. Perhaps they’d been unused for so long that they simply needed exercise to recover. The old woman watched Ruoshui’s progress and cried quietly; she sensed that this extraordinary girl did not belong here among ordinary folk.

　　At sunset the old woman prepared a feast: rich chicken soup, tender braised pork, and flavorful vinegar fish. There was a silent understanding between them. Ruoshui ate every last bite and praised the food, “You cook so well.”

　　“If you want more, come back and I’ll make it,” the old woman said.

　　“Okay!” Ruoshui replied cheerfully.

　　When Ruoshui woke, she found a bundle packed at her pillow: some silver coins, a few sets of clothing, and the crimson wedding attire. She searched the little hut for the old woman but found only empty space. She understood why Qiwu Jun had left without telling her.

　　She left the simple thatch house with the bundle. From a distance the old woman watched her go, and only when Ruoshui’s figure merged with the crowd did the old woman turn away.

　　Ruoshui arrived at the market town. People bustled past stalls and hawkers called their wares. The crowd felt oddly familiar, as if she’d once moved among such people long ago, but the when and where were blank spots in her memory.

　　She found a shop selling brushes, ink, paper and inkstones. She bought supplies and, on instinct, unrolled a sheet of rice paper. Trusting her hand, she sketched the outline, a few stray strokes for hair, then refined the nose, the thin mouth, the strong brows, and the bright, star-like eyes. In the time it took for one incense stick to burn, the likeness of Qiwu Jun leapt vividly onto the page.

　　Ruoshui admired her work. People gathered around.

　　“What a talent! Where did you learn?” one called.

　　“Who is this painting of? Anyone know?” asked another.

　　“No idea, never seen him,” someone else added.

　　“Is there really such a stunning man in the world?” they wondered.

　　“No, it’s probably their sweetheart — people only see beauty through love,” another replied.

　　“If such a man existed, wouldn’t he already be famous?” someone scoffed.

　　Of course the crowd was ignorant. Qiwu Jun had rarely shown himself to the world since ascending to Zhaoyao Mountain thousands of years ago. When he did go out, he concealed his appearance. Ordinary people had no reason to know him.

　　Ruoshui listened to the chattering, hoping to glean some clue, but no one knew him. When the ink dried, she carefully rolled up the painting, treating it like a treasure.

　　The shop owner noticed and suggested, “You could have it mounted — it’ll last longer.”

　　“Oh!” Ruoshui brightened. “Thank you!”

　　She carried the painting away as the crowd dispersed. She felt eyes on her and turned quickly, but saw no one suspicious. She took the painting to be mounted — a process that would take a few days — and stayed at a local inn.

　　A few days later she came back to collect the mounted scroll and unrolled it to admire her handiwork. Suddenly a voice behind her asked, “Who is the man in the painting to you?”

　　She jumped and turned. A figure in a black cloak stood there, hood pulled low so only the jaw was visible — a man not looking to be a good fellow. He stared at the painting.

　　“Do you know him?” she asked.

　　“Of course,” the cloaked man said. “He is Qiwu Jun, leader of the three top masters of Zhaoyao.”

　　Qiwu Jun? But she had known him as Su Mu. Was that an alias? She asked, “Do you know how I could meet him?”

　　“Why do you want to see him? Do you love him?” the man asked, his jaw moving while his face remained unreadable.

　　“Love him?” Ruoshui shook her head. “I just want to stay near him.”

　　The cloaked man sneered inwardly at her blunt honesty, but said aloud, “I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay near him.”

　　“Why not?” she asked, puzzled.

　　“Because he’s about to marry,” he said flatly.

　　“Marry? Really?” Ruoshui was both surprised and skeptical.

　　“It’s true. Why would I lie?” he scoffed. “You didn’t know?”

　　It was true: Qiwu Jun was to be married.