by Jeff Wheeler
As Bingmei drifted to sleep, she felt as if she were walking in the narrows. Water lapped against her legs, and huge cavernous walls stretched high on each side. Looking up, she saw black thunderheads. Spikes of lightning flashed from them as thunder rippled across the sky. Fear struck her as she walked, struggling to reach the far end of the cavern. It started to rain, and in moments it became a torrent. She lumbered forward, the water slowing her speed. Panic filled her chest. She had to get out of the ravine. The storm drenched her, and she felt the water rising higher up her legs.
It is just a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
But it didn’t feel like a dream.
After walking a distance, she heard something strange. Turning, she saw a wall of water coming down the chasm. It was going to crush her against the rocks. She stared at it in horror, holding her hands out as if she could stop it by pushing.
It was then she felt the itching of the wings on her back. Invoking their magic, she soared above the flood and watched the waters smash into the rocks and boulders. The brutal force of it knocked loose several of the rocks, which joined the foam and surging current.
The wings lifted her higher and higher, the feeling both thrilling and frightening. She soared above the chasm and watched as the rainfall gathered in silver pools along the ravine. The storm winds buffeted her toward a mighty bank of clouds in the shape of an anvil, but her wings took her around it. She saw winter coming in its wake. She watched through the magic’s power as the storm whipped the seas and brought stinging ice into the faces of sailors and fishermen. She saw one boat capsize and watched in despair as the fisherman drowned trying and failing to get back inside.
She looked back toward the vicious storm, and there, atop the massive thunderheads, she saw the blazing glyphs controlling it. The glyphs that she had drawn with her hand. The awesome power of the phoenix controlled the storm.
She realized she was seeing the future, or perhaps the present. What had she done?
The magic continued to carry her as the earth became blanketed in snow. There was an old woman who froze to death during the season change because she hadn’t gathered enough firewood. She saw families suffering the ravages of hunger, having not prepared enough meat. And she realized, as she was carried from place to place, the terrible consequences of her choice. A little boy wandered in the snow, hopelessly lost, before growing so cold he sat down next to a tree and shut his eyes, the snowflakes gathering on his lashes.
Bingmei screamed in anguish. She’d never felt so small, so insignificant as in that moment. She was helpless to turn the tide. The Immortal Words had been written, and there was no erasing them now. She worried she’d destroyed the whole world in the hopes of saving it.
No, Daughter. In order for the season to come early, the storm had to be unusually large. You invoked it with the words. Now it must run its course.
Sadness gripped her heart. But so many have died! I didn’t know!
How could you know, Bingmei? If a harsh word spoken to an angry stranger can impact them for the rest of their life, what impact does a larger action have? Can you not see? Everything that we do ripples and touches everything else. We cannot see the infinite reach of our choices. You summoned a storm and many died. But Bingmei, many more would have died if you had not summoned it. Some of the people who died, and will die, in this storm might have prepared better for winter if given the time. Some would have died anyway because of their lack of preparation. Just as you did not know the future, neither did they. You must learn that the Immortal Words are not to be used on a whim. They always have consequences. And you lack the foresight of a phoenix to see what may come. As long as you do not use them against my will, I will teach you to use them properly.
Bingmei still felt awful, but the sting was lessening. I’m afraid to use them again.
Good. You must use them with reverence. You must always try to think of the consequences. I will help you learn them, but you must be willing to be taught. The past cannot be altered. You cannot undo your actions. But remember I chose you because I knew what you would do. And what you have yet to do. Because of your choice, the door separating the Grave Kingdom will one day be opened. And families who have been searching for each other for thousands of years will be reunited in Fusang. One choice can bring immeasurable good.
Bingmei felt a glimpse of that day, of that moment when the lost would be found. The feelings of gratitude and eagerness, of unfettered joy and redemption rose like a song in her heart. And the smell of it, the smell was stronger than anything she’d experienced. It was pure love, pure joy, pure gratitude.
It overpowered her, and she awoke to find it was snowing outside.
Coming events cast their shadows before them.
—Dawanjir proverb
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the Stillness, in the Snow
Seven months later
Bingmei awoke from a tenuous sleep to the sensation of water gushing from her body. It felt like a clay jug had burst, and in the delirium of her half-awake state, she imagined she was the jug. Blinking rapidly, she stared, her body and clothes glowing red in the light cast by the Immortal Word for “heat”—Re—which had been drawn on all four walls of the interior of the phoenix shrine. Without that simple word, drawn four times with her finger, they would have frozen to death that winter.
Her back ached, and her legs felt as if worms were writhing beneath her skin. She’d been lying on her side, the swollen hump of her abdomen keeping her in place. But her clothes were wet, soaked with hot fluid that had erupted from inside her. And then the first pang hit. Or maybe it wasn’t the first. Maybe she’d been dreaming about it half the long, never-ending night. When the sharp pang subsided, she tried sitting up. Her pants were totally soaked. Something had burst inside her. Was the fluid that protected the baby gone?
The baby squirmed and kicked inside her, as if the womb were a quonsuun, and she were in training.
“Patience, Daughter,” Bingmei grunted, rubbing the swollenness. “Is it time? The winter hasn’t ended yet. You are early—nnngghh!” Another gout of pain shot through her abdomen, making her moan.
Fear jolted through her as she struggled to sit up. Bingmei had experienced all sorts of physical pain before, but nothing compared to this. It made it worse that she didn’t know what to expect. She’d never seen a child born before. Didn’t know much about the process.
“Quion,” she said, calling out to him. He was fast asleep on his mat, breathing gently, a picture of relaxation. “Quion!”
He startled awake, lifting his head. The ink of night spread over the sky. There wasn’t even a blush of dawn. Outside the shrine, the trees were all laden with heavy snow. During the daylight hours, the valley was impossibly beautiful with its jagged pillars and snow-capped trees. Isolated from the rest of the world, they lived on food brought by stark black ravens or fish dropped down to them by eagles. She was hungry for real food, and even the thought of the spicy dishes of Sihui made her mouth water in anticipation.
“What’s wrong?” Quion said with a confused look. “Do you need me to rub your back? Can’t you sleep?”
“It’s time, Quion.” Another jab of pain made her gasp and hunch forward.
“Time for what?” he asked, looking at her with growing concern.
After the next round of pain subsided, she could think clearly again. It amazed her how much it hurt. “The baby is coming,” she said.
“Now?”
“Yes, now!”
Quion scrambled to his feet, looking confused and smelling of fear. He glanced around the shrine as if hoping to find something useful from his pack.
“My . . . my water broke,” she said, panting. “I think the pangs . . . have been going on for a while. I’m all wet, Quion.”
He stood before her, staring down at her helplessly. They’d both been dreading this moment. Each had known it was coming, and yet there was no way to prepare for it. Quion had been an only ch
ild, and as a fisherman’s son, he’d never been around domestic animals. The only births he’d witnessed were the spawning of fish. That was the extent of his knowledge on the subject. Bingmei knew even less. She stared out at the night. There was no moon, just a myriad of stars as silent witnesses to the event. Her heart longed for Rowen. She’d thought to check on him, many times, but most of the birds had gone to warmer climates. Those that remained were eagles, ravens, a few breeds of owl, as well as some tiny birds like pine siskins. But they did not venture very far in the storms, and so Bingmei felt she was blinded, unable to see beyond the Death Wall.
She felt the connection with Rowen, so at least she knew he was still alive. That he was in Fusang. How she wished he were here with her to see their child come into the world. Her loneliness and desperation made an ache that wouldn’t fade as the pangs of childbirth did.
She looked up at Quion and felt grateful that she wouldn’t be alone.
Suddenly Quion blanched, rushed to the doorframe of the shrine, and proceeded to vomit into the snow.
Bingmei stared at him in disbelief as another awful round of clenching pain gripped her. The young man gutted fish every day! He’d never shown squeamishness before.
He leaned against the edge of the doorway, sinking down to his knees.
Bingmei tried to stand to go over and help him, but then another pang struck her before she could reach him and made her knees knock. She had to prop herself up on the edge of the sarcophagus. Stabs went down her spine and her legs. This was horrible! She couldn’t understand why women endured such torture.
Knowing the baby would need to come out, she pulled off her fur-lined boots and undid her belt and removed the soaked pants. The smell was unpleasant but not disgusting. Not the same as fish guts. Her tunic covered her, but her legs became cold immediately, even with the heat glyphs burning steadily. She staggered around the sarcophagus, holding on to the lip of stone to keep herself upright. She was so thirsty. Another round of pain doubled her over.
It took a while before Quion could offer any help.
“I’m sorry, Bingmei!” he said with embarrassment.
She pressed her back with one hand and leaned against the sarcophagus with the other. “Get me some snow. I’m thirsty.”
He hurried and scooped some up in a pot, stopping first to kick some snow over the mess he’d made in the entrance. Then he took the pot near the glyph to melt it.
“Just bring it to me,” she gasped, feeling the torment grow worse. He did, and she took some snow on her fingers and shoveled it into her mouth. It tasted heavenly. She crunched on the ice and swallowed it. Her body felt like she was running up a mountain, exhausted and pained but unable to stop the race. She had no idea how long it would take for the baby to come. Sweat streaked down her ribs, yet she trembled with hot and cold at the same time. The constant clenching and unclenching of her abdomen seemed to accelerate.
And the torment was only just beginning.
Time passed with excruciating slowness. Bingmei was exhausted. It felt like it would never end. She lay on her back, propped against a blanket and Quion’s pack. Never had she felt so exhausted, so utterly drained of energy and willpower. She would have quit long ago if she could have. But there was no quitting this ordeal. The painful clenching increased in rhythm and pace, but she had nothing left to give until the final moments of each burst when she felt the strange urge to push. Again and again, yet nothing changed. Nothing happened. There was no baby.
Quion knelt in front of her, sweat dripping from his brow. He had done everything he could to help her. There wasn’t anything more he could do except grip her hand when the unbearable pangs came rushing back.
“It’s dawn,” he said, looking into her eyes.
She blinked the stinging sweat from her eyes. Yes, the sunrise had come on so gradually, so stealthily, that she hadn’t noticed she could see the snow-laden trees now. They were facing east, and the first gleams of sunlight pricked her eyes, making the reddish glare of the glyphs less noticeable.
Tears coursed down her face again. She’d thought it would be over now, by the time the sun rose. Before now, she hadn’t realized what unspeakable agony she’d caused her mother. Yet her mother had never once complained of it. Had her father been there, as dutiful as Quion, or had a midwife been present instead? What had Grandfather Jiao done? She pictured the old man’s face, feeling deep throbs of love and gratitude fill her.
And then the next pang came with breathtaking intensity. Bingmei bunched up, trying to endure it, not sure if she could. She saw the scorpion pendant dangling from Quion’s shirt. How appropriate. It felt like a scorpion’s sting. Once again, for what had to be the thousandth time, she wished Rowen were there and not imprisoned in the Hall of Unity.
The urge to push came strongly again, and she did—biting her lip, tasting blood.
“I see her head!” Quion said with excitement.
Not soon enough. When the pain subsided, Bingmei slumped back against the pack in utter weariness.
“You have to keep trying,” Quion said, squeezing her hand. “It’s almost done. Come on, Bingmei. Push!”
She didn’t want to. If she could have reached the meiwood staff they’d made together, she would have struck him with it for even suggesting such a thing.
“Please, Bingmei! You have to!”
She struggled to find the motivation. Weariness wrapped her up. Death was so pleasant in comparison to its opposite. She knew she could die. She had the ability to slough off her body, and it was tempting to do so. But she wouldn’t put her child at risk. Not after everything she’d endured to bring the baby into the world.
She squeezed Quion’s hand, hoping it would hurt him, and tried to push again. Something shifted within her. Quion jerked his hand away, and Bingmei screamed as the pain became sun-bright with its intensity. It eased, passed, and she felt as if her skin were stretched too tight across her bones. She did not have the strength to move after that, and she lay still, quivering in gentle spasms.
It was done.
And that’s when she heard the birds singing. She could hear the tiny warbling voices of siskins, thrushes, the throaty chuckles of jays and ravens, the scree of a gyrfalcon. The chorus of birdsong filled the air, and she felt the sunlight on her face, the morning piercing the sky to greet her. A new dawn. A change that affected the rest of the world.
She heard a little hiccup. The tiniest of sounds. It was a noise that touched the deepest part of her heart, the innermost depths of her twin souls. It was the birth sound of a living being, a new person, a result of the joining of her and Rowen.
Bingmei struggled to open her eyes. Her vision was blurry, but she saw Quion holding the babe in one of his spare shirts. He wiped some goop from the face and neck as he smiled tenderly. Then she smelled concern. His eyes widened with surprise.
What was wrong? Bingmei closed her eyes, tried to open them again but failed. Another ripple of pain went through her, but much less intense.
“What is it?” she gasped, her voice a little whisper. The chorus of birds grew louder and louder. Could he hear her over the noise?
“Good morning, little one,” Quion cooed. “Here you are.”
“Quion,” she said, trying to sit higher. She lacked the strength to do so. “Let me . . . let me hold her. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. It’s . . . just . . .”
“Tell me,” Bingmei said. She wanted so much to sleep, but she also wanted to hold her baby. After all the work and toil, she wanted to touch it, to kiss the child’s feather-soft brow. Why was Quion being so greedy about it?
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” Quion said soothingly. Was he speaking to Bingmei or the baby? His confusion was melting away, replaced by the warm smell of cinnamon porridge.
“Just tell me, Quion,” she said. “Does she have . . . the winter sickness? Just tell me!”
“No, it’s not that,” Quion said. “I see little tufts of
black hair. And the nose is so cute. It’s so tiny. The fingers and toes. They’re all so small. Look! Oh, Bingmei! Look what you did. I’d always heard babies wailed. This one is so peaceful. The eyes are so serious.”
Bingmei finally managed to open her eyes again. Quion’s face was transported with joy. She felt it as well, swelling and brimming inside. The pangs she’d endured all night seemed a lifetime ago. She was still exhausted but not as spent as she’d been moments earlier.
“Then why did you react the way you did?” she asked. He looked so radiant holding the baby, swaddling it in his own clothes. “I smelled it, Quion. You can’t hide it from me.”
He finally pulled his gaze away from the baby and looked at her. “I was just surprised. But I’m not anymore.”
“Surprised at what? Tell me.”
Quion pressed his lips against the babe’s forehead. “This whole time you’ve been calling the baby your daughter. I thought you knew. Thought the phoenix had told you.” He grinned at her. “It’s a boy. Here.” He shifted the little bundle and offered it to her. “Hold your son.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Fate Accomplished
As Bingmei watched her baby sleep in the reed basket that Quion had woven for him, she stared at the tiny face, tiny fingers, the little puckered mouth that showed contentment, and she wondered whether her heart would burst from the feelings of love she had for her son.
Eight days had passed since the ordeal of childbirth, but already Bingmei’s memory of the event had been muted, stripped of consequence compared to the wonder of her child. She couldn’t stop staring at him. This little thing had come from her, and as she gazed at him, she found herself imagining her own mother and father kneeling by her cradle. And their parents before them. And their parents before them, backward in time, generation on generation, until the feeling swelled in her again and made tears prick her eyes.
