Chapter 36 — Escape from Death (Part I)

　　On the fifth day Qiwú had no strength left even to speak. He still sat cross-legged, letting Ruoshui rest comfortably with her head on his lap.

　　The snake-girl had cultivated for ten thousand years; after Qiwú taught her the essentials, she could endure several days without food or drink without complaint.

　　After sleeping for several days, Ruoshui finally woke. Her whole body ached. When she opened her eyes and saw how haggard Qiwú looked, she scrambled up and anxiously asked, “Sūmù, what happened to you?”

　　Qiwú opened his eyes slightly. Seeing her awake, he smiled with relief and tried to speak, but nothing came out. He only shook his head faintly to tell her not to worry.

　　How could Ruoshui not worry? Her brows knotted as she looked at the snake-girl and asked, “What’s going on? Where are we?”

　　The snake-girl thought a moment and said, “The poison-spider’s toxin makes people dizzy and weak; my venom can briefly restore someone only for their organs to fail afterward. I bit him to revive him. The vine-demon craved your blood and hence formed that sealed ring. You couldn’t see anything because the vine wrapped the ward round and round.”

　　“And how is he now?” Ruoshui asked.

　　“With the spider’s poison and my bite, he should be utterly drained—his organs damaged,” the snake-girl replied.

　　Ruoshui’s heart ached. She sat beside Qiwú and let him lean back on her lap, like the way she had once rested against Su Liushi’s legs counting stars. He truly was exhausted.

　　Ruoshui looked at the lifeless Qiwú. To her he had always been full of spirit and vigor; now he lay like this because of her. She felt pain, shame, and guilt. Resolute, she bit her index finger and fed her blood into Qiwú’s mouth.

　　After a long while he looked a touch better; some color returned to his eyes. When he realized Ruoshui was feeding him, he frowned and turned his head away.

　　“Sūmù, I don’t want you to die. Maybe my blood can cure the poison,” Ruoshui said.

　　Qiwú turned to look at her. Anger creased his brow. “You knew all along? You always knew your blood had special effects?”

　　His tone was accusing; Ruoshui was at a loss.

　　“Did you remember everything?” Qiwú asked again.

　　Ruoshui shook her head and explained, “In the Sleepless City there was a plague—someone in a dream told me my blood could nourish all living things. Tang Di was infected and about to die; on a whim I fed him my blood, and the next day he lived.”

　　Qiwú was angry that she had not told him such crucial facts.

　　Ruoshui continued, “I didn’t mean to hide it. I put my blood into the moat and then fell into a long sleep. Later Gǔyì told me those who drank from the moat were cured of the plague. Gǔyì said my blood was a panacea. If people learn about it, many would harm me—so…”

　　Gǔyì’s actions had been right, but Qiwú felt stung: the woman he had formally married was keeping secrets from him with other men. Any man might burn with jealousy. Yet, thinking further, it was fortunate Gǔyì looked after Ruoshui.

　　Ruoshui squeezed her already-clotted index finger again and reached with it toward Qiwú’s lips.

　　Qiwú still could not bear the idea of drinking her blood and turned his face away. Ruoshui hesitated; the snake-girl watched quietly.

　　Suddenly they sensed movement. The snake-girl focused, eyes sweeping the cave. Qiwú sat up, alert, and even usually slow-witted Ruoshui felt that something familiar was approaching.

　　Something unknown shot up from the water and, passing through the vines and breaking the ward, landed before Ruoshui. For a second they thought it a weapon—a translucent horizontal flute about two feet long, its body clear as crystal and engraved with two characters: “Wú Shāng” — “No Sorrow.”

　　The flute’s sudden appearance tore a hole through Qiwú’s ward. The vine-demon seized the chance and pressed in; the snake-girl scrambled to duel the vine while Qiwú began mending the ward. He was already near the end of his strength; even the life Ruoshui’s blood had granted him was only a thin thread.

　　Ruoshui stared at the flute, as if a memory hovered on the edge of recall but would not settle. She picked up the flute; it felt icy in her hand as her fingers traced the inscription.

　　“Wú Shāng,” she murmured. The name sounded so familiar.

　　She searched her mind for memories of the Wú Shāng flute, but nothing came clearly. Around them the vine-demon’s assault intensified. The repaired hole in the ward widened and more tendrils poured through. The snake-girl began to run out of breath. Qiwú, sweating and devoting himself to protecting Ruoshui, could no longer continue much longer. He looked back at Ruoshui—this might be the last glance he ever gave her.

　　Ruoshui did not hesitate. She placed the flute to her lips, closed her eyes, and played by instinct. The sound burst out like the thunder of a charging army, like a torrential wave—an unstoppable force.

　　Strangely, the vines appeared to fear the music. They hesitated and hung back, circling but no longer advancing. The sound oppressed and daunted even the snake-girl, who found, without reason, a sudden respect and dread for the note.

　　Ruoshui watched the vine-demon stop. Her tone shifted from urgent to calm; the melody softened and became clear and gentle—like pines swaying in wind, like thousands of ravines singing, like the trill of a rare bird. The music soothed and cleansed the mind.

　　One by one the vines retreated and clung to the stone walls, leaves folding as if bowing in submission.

　　When the final note ended, the once-rampant vines lay wilted and docile, flattened against the rock.

　　The snake-girl marveled inwardly: what a strange, strange girl—what power must she be from?

　　Qiwú’s expression was complicated as he looked at Ruoshui. What kind of person was she? What secrets did she hold?

　　Seeing Qiwú nearly collapse, Ruoshui supported him and said, “Sūmù, hang on. We’ll get out of here now.”

　　Qiwú shook his head slightly. Ruoshui still didn’t know that the cave mouth was warded and that they could not easily leave.

　　She helped Qiwú to the cave entrance; Qiwú, taller by a head, leaned against the stone and needed effort even for her to support him. The snake-girl walked beside them and took the other side to help.

　　When they were about a zhang (roughly ten feet) from the mouth, the vines on the rock suddenly pulled back three paces, clearing a space a little more than a zhang wide.