Yijing lowered his hand from his face to the gourd fastened at his waist, pulling it free and tipping it above his head—the clear liquid falling easily into his mouth.
"Ahh, that is better," he exclaimed, and smiling, extended the gourd towards Chún. "Please, it is refreshing on such a warm day..." Yijing waggled the gourd invitingly, sending the clear sound of liquid sloshing to Chún's ears.
Bowing his head in thanks, Chún hesitantly took the gourd and, with the old cultivator watching and nodding encouragingly, carefully raised it to his lips and drank.
An indescribable coolness rushed out from Chún's mouth and down his throat, hitting his stomach like a cool breeze unfurling through his body. For a moment he felt that he was standing under the small waterfall further down the mountain where he usually washed—instead of on a boulder beneath the Golden Crow.
Chún felt a shiver pass through him, followed by a rush of energy. Small popping noises came from his muscles and joints, causing him to twitch in surprise. He lowered the gourd hurriedly to avoid spilling it and stared at the old cultivator with wide eyes.
"This… this is a treasure," he breathed. "Honoured elder, you should not waste it on this unworthy one..."
He hastily pushed the gourd back into Yijing's hand and scrambled off the boulder to bow deeply.
Yijing snorted gently and hopped off the boulder, whacking Chún across the shoulders as he landed in front of him.
"None of that nonsense, xiǎo yǒu. It is water—not a treasure. Or at least," the old man waggled the gourd in Chún's face, forcing him to straighten up as he ambled away toward the stream at the far edge of the pasture, "not a treasure an ordinary man would recognise. Follow me—we can watch the flock from here as well as there."
Chún blinked again—he seemed to be doing that more than usual today—and scrambled to follow. Yijing moved with surprising speed, despite his short frame, and Chún caught up just as they reached the stream.
"I can refill your gourd, honoured elder—"
His words trailed off.
Yijing extended the gourd into the air above the stream, and vibrant blue mist curled upward like drifting incense. Cerulean motes—like living fireflies—danced through the haze and poured into the open mouth of the gourd.
Chún's pupils shrank in shock, but before he could speak, the stream gave a sound like a chuckle and rose upward in a silver twist, flowing after the mist like a coiling serpent.
The quiet pop of the cork startled him from his trance. Yijing was watching him steadily.
"Tell me, xiǎo yǒu—what did you see?"
"Water... the Cry of the Stream—it... into your—and then the water... just—"
Yijing's wrinkled face broke into a smile. "Cry of the Stream, is it? Good. Very good."
He tapped Chún lightly with his staff. "After hearing your verse, I thought that might be how you would see it."
His expression grew solemn.
"What would you say, xiǎo yǒu, if I told you even the mightiest—"
He scowled suddenly, startling Chún.
"—even the mightiest cultivator would have seen only water move from stream to gourd?"
Then Yijing smiled again, broad and bright.
"But xiǎo yǒu can see more..."
He laughed at Chún's stunned expression and turned back toward the boulder, raising his voice in chant:
Come with me, xiǎo yǒu
Treasures of Heaven and Earth indeed, my friend
Treasures of Heaven and Earth.
Chún opened his mouth, then closed it again. The old cultivator was already walking away, his staff tapping lightly as he crossed sun-warmed grass and into the treeline.
The moment stretched. Chún remained still, uncertain whether to laugh, kneel, or simply breathe. His body buzzed with the echo of the drink, a low thrumming that hadn't quite faded. His limbs felt loose and light. The air around him tasted sharper—cooler than it should have been under the Golden Crow's gaze.
He glanced at the flock. The geese were grazing peacefully, as if none of this were strange at all. A few flapped and honked in lazy objection, but not one had wandered far. That too felt strange.
Chún blinked and followed, only realising as they reached the shade that Yijing had not returned to the boulder at all, but had settled near a fallen log beneath the canopy. That made sense, since the warmest part of the day was fast approaching and the boulder was already baking beneath the Golden Crow. If it hadn't been for the strange energy of the old man's drink, he might have fainted like one of those legendary imperial court beauties the village storyteller never stopped praising. As it was, he definitely felt light headed.
Only then did he realise he'd drifted from his duties. Instinct took over, even as his thoughts swirled like a whirlpool. Taking a deep breath of the still cool wildflower scented mountain air, he shaded his eyes and checked the sun's position, then slowly moved over into the pasture to check that the geese were moving into the shade closer to the stream at the north end of the mountain meadow as the Golden Crow climbed higher.
Chivying a few geese who seemed intent on roosting in the middle of the field and prodding them towards the trees, Chún nodded in satisfaction as a number of geese walked into the water and started drifting about with busy honks as they prodded the stream-bed for juicy tidbits. These tasks Chún had done many times before, and habit carried him through the motions.
Eventually all of the flock were out of direct sunlight and Chún trotted over to retrieve his herding staff, roughly wrapped buns and skin of thinned wine that he had left behind when he climbed down from the boulder earlier, then joined Yijing on the log next to the water.
The old man seemed absorbed in watching the beams of sunlight falling through the leaves, dance over the shifting surface of the stream, chased now and then by an iridescent dragonfly—only to be leapt at by hungry fish, scattering jewelled droplets through the air.
Chún was hesitant to interrupt Yijing's thoughts, so he busied himself with unwrapping what little food he carried. The scent of water and wild greenery helped mask the staleness of the buns and Chún took a moment to throw a silent curse at Fatty Nie, the village baker, who would only trade him yesterday's leftovers.
Normally, Chún wouldn't care about the buns, but having someone with him made him conscious of how little he had to share.
"Forgive me, Senior, I have little to offer for a guest", he said quietly; suddenly aware of his bare feet and the cast-off shirt and pants held at the waist by a grass rope he had twisted together himself.
"If you would share mine as well, I'd gladly share with you," answered Yijing. "Many times I have wished for as much of a feast as you hold in your hands," he added as he offered over some sticks of jerked meat and fruits in return. Seeing the look of trepidation on Chún's face he smiled, "It's ordinary food".
---
The two of them split the repast equally and ate slowly, watching the flock resting among the trees and paddling in the water. Chún's thinned wine was ignored as they passed the gourd between them. The water was no longer shocking - it was pleasantly refreshing and he felt comfortable all over - it even seemed to bring the buns back to freshness when Yijing sprinkled them with a sly wink.
"Those mists and lights—I've seen them for as long as I can remember, honoured elder," said Chún quietly as the food was finished and they sat digesting and drinking the Water. "Never much, and usually here on the mountain more than anywhere else, but..."
Yijing stayed silent, a listening presence. Chún leaned back on his arms and closed his eyes, listening to the noises of the forest and mountain, feeling the warmth of a beam from the Golden Crow on his face. The cry of some essence beast deeper into the mountain forest echoed, startling all the wild animals to silence and sending the flock into a flurry of warning honks.
"There were times I nearly convinced myself I was imagining it all", he eventually whispered bitterly. Shaking his head, Chún sat up and looked into the forest unseeing. "When I was smaller, I once asked the villagers what the mists and lights were— they either called me a crow-struck fool, ill or cursed. Even the Storyteller and the Village Head only spoke of nonsense and childish imaginations."
Chún wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and spoke in a horse voice, "After that the villagers kept their distance - and only let me do the work no one else wanted. Lately, I've heard a few of them say that it would be best if I found somewhere else to live." He let out a long breath. Then turned toward Yijing beside him with some confusion and said tentatively, "There was a time this one tried speaking to a man the villagers called a wandering cultivator - he laughed at me and said that fireside tales were not a good way to try and impress him into taking a disciple - and said there was no ability in this one to gather essence at all".
Yijing snorted and spat to one side, a sneer on his face and beard bristling with indignation, his voice edged with iron. "Bah, cultivators are trash - they think they stride the Heavens and Earth but they all they do is consume. Cultivators, that's an insult to the Heavens - what do they know? Nothing but the collecting, consuming and hoarding of essence - ravenous gluttons - a plague of locusts."
Chún's mouth parted. Surprise cleared the bitterness from his face. "But..."
Yijing laughed, his face overcome with mischievous smiles in an instant, "That was the illusion, of course—meant to lead you astray - and had you been ordinary, you would never have known the difference."
Chún shook his head. "Honoured elder, I saw—"
Yijing rolled his eyes and poked Chún with his staff, "That's because you are NOT a Locust, xiǎo yǒu, just as this one is not a Locust".
"But you move... and you're strong..." Yijing ignored Chún's babble and turned to fix a serious eye on him; "xiǎo yǒu, the sages say silence is a great treasure.''
Words stopping midstream, Chún bowed his head in embarrassment. Yijing ruffled his hair and asked slowly, "How often do you come up the mountain?"
"Most days, honoured elder… no, Honoured Yijing," he stammered, catching himself using a cultivator's honorific, but the bald old man shook his head gently. "Senior will suffice—for now, xiǎo yǒu. Now, do you always sing when you come up the mountain?"
"Not always, Senior, but mostly. It is a long walk and the air is much cleaner here, there is a quiet here that lightens the spirit more than anything found in the village".
"En. Some of that comes from your song, xiǎo yǒu. This place likely held more essence than most—mountains often do—but your voice has stirred it. Raw and unfocused now, perhaps—but in time, it might have become a low-ranked treasure ground."
Chún hesitated. "But… honoured elder—how could that be?" He blinked, then frowned. "You said I wasn't a Cultivator… but wasn't that cultivation?"