1
The morning light entered through the gaps in the wooden walls. Tomás opened his eyes and for a moment did not know where he was. Then he heard the wind moving the leaves of the Shenmu outside, and remembered.
He sat up on the straw bed. His body ached, but it was a good ache, the kind that comes from sleeping on a hard surface after days of tension. He looked around the small room: the hearth, the pots, the table, and on the table, his old clothes folded carefully. His notebook lay under the bed, safe.
He took out the notebook and opened it. The pages from last night stared back at him: the blue flower, the thatching grass, the Shenmu. Three plants. Three questions. Three pages.
It was a start.
He put the notebook back under the bed, stood up, and went outside. The air was fresh, with that morning humidity that he knew so well from southern Chile. The sky was gray again, but not threatening. Just... gray.
In the square, people were already moving. Women carried jars to the water source. Men gathered near the Shenmu, talking in low voices. Children ran around, chasing each other.
When they saw him, some of the children stopped and stared. Tomás raised a hand in greeting.
Zǎo shang hǎo - he said, trying to pronounce it exactly as Wei Chen had taught him.
The children looked at each other. One of them, a boy of about seven with quick eyes and a mischievous smile, stepped forward.
Zǎo shang hǎo - he repeated, but his pronunciation was different, more natural.
Tomás nodded. The boy smiled, proud.
Then the boy pointed to himself and said:
Wang. Xiao Wang.
Tomás understood. His name. He pointed to himself and said:
Tomás.
The boy frowned, trying to pronounce it: "To-más?" He nodded, satisfied, and then pointed to the other children, introducing them one by one. Tomás tried to repeat the names, but they were difficult, full of sounds his tongue was not used to.
The children laughed. Not a mean laugh. A playful laugh.
Wang took his hand and pulled him toward the square. Tomás let himself be led.
2
Granny Liu was already at the communal fire, stirring a large pot. When she saw Tomás with the children, she smiled and gestured for him to come closer.
Chi - she said, pointing to the pot.
He approached and looked inside. It was a different soup today, thicker, with chunks of something that looked like root vegetables and pieces of meat. It smelled good.
Granny Liu filled a bowl and handed it to him. He took it with both hands, as he had seen others do, and said:
Xièxiè.
She nodded, pleased. Then she pointed to the pot and said something long that he did not understand. He shook his head.
She tried again, slower. She pointed to the vegetables, then to the ground, then made a digging motion. From the ground. She pointed to the meat, then made a hunting gesture with her hand. From hunting.
Tomás nodded. He understood: the ingredients, their origin. He pointed to the vegetables and asked:
Shénme? What?
Granny Liu thought for a moment, then pointed to a plant growing near the edge of the square. It was a leafy green, common, growing in a small patch. She said a word: "Báicài."
Tomás repeated: "Báicài." He took out his notebook from inside his robe and, using the small brush and ink Wei Chen had given him, wrote the word carefully, imitating the characters as best he could. Then he drew a quick sketch of the plant next to it.
Granny Liu watched him with curiosity. When he finished, she pointed to the notebook and said something that sounded like a question.
He pointed to the plant, then to the drawing, then to the word. "Báicài," he said. "I write it. To remember."
She did not understand the words, but she understood the meaning. She nodded slowly, and for a moment, her eyes looked at him with something new. Respect, maybe. Or simply acceptance.
3
After breakfast, Wei Chen found him near the Shenmu.
Tomás - he said, and the name sounded less strange now on his lips - Come.
He followed Wei Chen through the village to a small building near the chief's house. It was made of wood and stone, with a roof of thatched grass, but it had something the other houses did not: shelves. Shelves full of rolled bamboo scrolls.
Wei Chen's house. His library.
Inside, Wei Chen gestured for him to sit on a mat. He unrolled one of the scrolls and spread it on the low table between them.
The scroll was old, the bamboo strips darkened by time, the characters painted with careful strokes. Wei Chen pointed to a drawing at the top: a plant with long leaves and small flowers.
This - he said slowly - is "Língzhī." It is a spiritual herb.
Tomás looked at the drawing. It was stylized, almost artistic, not at all like the precise botanical illustrations he was used to. The leaves were too symmetrical, the flowers too perfect. He could not tell the scale, the habitat, the soil preferences.
He pointed to the plant and asked:
Where? Where does it grow?
Wei Chen thought for a moment, searching for words Tomás would understand. He pointed to the mountains in the distance, then made a gesture of danger, of difficulty.
Far. High. Hard to find.
Tomás nodded. Then he pointed to the Shenmu, visible through the door, and asked:
Shenmu. Spiritual?
Wei Chen shook his head. He pointed to the Shenmu, then to the ground, then to the village. He said a word: "Pǔtōng." Ordinary. Common. Then he pointed to the scroll, to the Língzhī drawing, and said: "Líng." Spiritual.
Tomás frowned. The Shenmu was sacred, huge, ancient, covered in leaves with golden dots. But it was not "spiritual." A small herb in the mountains, rare and dangerous, was "spiritual."
The categories did not match his expectations.
He pointed to the Língzhī again and asked:
What does it do? Why do people want it?
Wei Chen smiled, as if the question pleased him. He made a gesture of drinking, then touched his chest, his arms, and made a motion of growing stronger.
Eat it. Become stronger. Cultivate.
Cultivate. That word again. Tomás had heard it before, in Wei Chen's explanations, in the whispers of the villagers. He still did not fully understand it.
He pointed to himself and asked:
Can I... cultivate?
Wei Chen looked at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly.
No. You have no... - he touched his own chest, his center - No spirit roots. No talent.
Tomás should have felt disappointed. Instead, he felt... relieved. If he could not cultivate, he would not have to fight. He would not have to compete. He could simply observe, learn, understand.
He pointed to the scroll and said:
Can I... see more?
Wei Chen nodded and unrolled another scroll.
4
The morning passed like that. Wei Chen showed him scroll after scroll, pointing to plants, saying their names, explaining their uses. Tomás listened, repeated, and when he could, he asked questions. His vocabulary grew: gēn (root), yè (leaf), huā (flower), guǒ (fruit). He learned that some plants were for eating, some for medicine, some for cultivation.
But the drawings remained frustratingly imprecise. A plant described as "growing near water" could mean anything from a marsh to a riverbank. "Harvest in spring" could be any month. "Use the root" did not specify how much, or how to prepare it, or what to avoid.
By midday, his head was spinning with information. Wei Chen seemed to notice and stopped.
Enough - he said - Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, more.
Tomás nodded gratefully. He stood up, bowed slightly as he had seen others do, and left.
Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds. Real sun, warm and golden, the first he had seen in this world. It felt good on his skin.
He walked toward his small house, but on the way, he passed by the patch of báicài that Granny Liu had shown him. He stopped, crouched, and examined the plants closely.
They were leafy greens, similar to cabbage or kale, with broad leaves and thick stems. But as he looked closer, he noticed something: the leaves had tiny veins, almost invisible, that formed patterns. Not the random patterns of Earth plants. Geometric patterns. Almost like... circuitry.
He touched one of the leaves. It felt normal. He broke a small piece and smelled it. It smelled like cabbage, but with an undertone he could not identify.
He took out his notebook and added a note:
"Báicài (common vegetable). Leaf veins form geometric patterns. Similar to cabbage family but with unidentified undertone in smell. Possible mutation? Or normal for this world? Need to compare with other specimens."
He was writing when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned.
It was the boy, Xiao Wang.
Tomás - the boy said, pointing to the notebook - What? What do?
Tomás thought for a moment. How to explain? He pointed to the báicài, then to the notebook, then made a writing motion.
I write about plants. To remember.
Wang did not understand the words, but he understood the meaning. He pointed to himself and said:
Wang. Learn?
Tomás smiled. He pointed to the báicài and said the word slowly:
Báicài.
Wang repeated: "Báicài." Then he pointed to the plant and said something in his own language, too fast for Tomás to follow. Tomás shook his head.
Wang tried again, slower. He pointed to the báicài, then to the ground, then made a gesture of planting. He was explaining how it grew.
Tomás nodded and wrote in his notebook: "Báicài - planted in patches near houses. Grows fast? Ask Wang more."
When he looked up, Wang was pointing to the notebook, to the Spanish words Tomás had written.
What? - the boy asked, pointing to the strange letters.
Tomás hesitated. Then he pointed to the Spanish word "báicài" and said:
My language. From my home.
Wang's eyes lit up. He pointed to the word and repeated: "Bái... cài?" Then he pointed to the plant and said the same word in Chinese.
Tomás understood. The boy was fascinated by the idea that the same thing could have two different names.
Báicài - Tomás said, pointing to the plant in Chinese.
Báicài - Wang repeated, pointing to the plant.
Then Tomás pointed to the Spanish word and said: "Báicài" again, but with a questioning tone, as if to say "in my language, it's the same word?"
Wang laughed. He pointed to the plant and said "Báicài" in Chinese. Then he pointed to the Spanish word and said "Báicài" in his own accent, which made it sound different. He laughed again.
Tomás smiled. This boy, this child, was teaching him without even trying. He pointed to himself and said:
Tomás.
To-más - Wang repeated.
Then Wang pointed to himself: - Wang.
Wang - Tomás repeated.
They sat there for a while, by the báicài patch, taking turns saying each other's names and laughing at the different sounds.
5
That afternoon, Tomás went to the fields.
Not the village fields, but the small gardens behind the houses where families grew their own vegetables. He walked slowly, observing, taking notes. People watched him but no longer ran away. Some even nodded as he passed.
He saw a man working the soil with a wooden hoe. The man was older, with sun-darkened skin and strong hands. Tomás stopped at a distance, not wanting to intrude, but the man saw him and gestured for him to come closer.
Nǐ hǎo - Tomás said.
The man nodded. He pointed to himself: "Shi." Then he pointed to the field, to the plants growing there.
Tomás recognized some of them: báicài, the blue-flowered lánhuā, and another plant with long vines crawling on the ground. He pointed to the vine plant and looked at Shi questioningly.
Shi made a gesture of digging, then pointed to the roots. Root vegetable. Tomás crouched and looked closely. The leaves were broad, heart-shaped, and the stems were thick. He touched the soil near the base, feeling for the shape of the root below. It felt large, round.
He pointed to the plant and asked:
Shénme míngzi? What name?
Shi thought for a moment, then said: "Dìguā."
Tomás wrote it down: "Dìguā. Root vegetable. Leaves heart-shaped, vines creeping. Similar to sweet potato? Need to see root."
He looked at Shi and asked:
Can I... see? The root?
Shi understood. He took his wooden hoe and carefully dug around one of the plants, then pulled. A large tuber emerged, brown-skinned, about the size of a fist. He handed it to Tomás.
Tomás examined it closely. It did look like a sweet potato, but the skin was rougher, and when he scratched it with his nail, the flesh underneath was pale yellow, not orange. He smelled it. Earthy, slightly sweet.
He pointed to the tuber and asked:
Eat? How?
Shi made a gesture of putting it in the fire, then eating. Roasted. Tomás nodded and handed it back.
Xièxiè - he said.
Shi nodded and went back to his work.
Tomás wrote in his notebook: "Dìguā. Root vegetable, roasted. Similar to sweet potato but pale flesh. Investigate nutritional content and growing conditions."
He looked at the field, at Shi working, at the plants growing in neat rows. This was what he knew. This was what he understood.
For the first time since waking up in this world, he felt something like peace.
6
That evening, by the communal fire, Tomás sat with the others.
Granny Liu was there, stirring her pot. Wei Chen sat nearby, reading a scroll by the firelight. Hunter Shi was sharpening a knife with slow, careful strokes. Xiao Wang and the other children ran around, playing some game that involved a lot of shouting and laughter.
The soup was dìguā, roasted in the fire, then mashed into a broth with wild greens. It was simple, hearty, good.
Tomás ate in silence, watching the people around him. They talked, laughed, argued about small things. A woman complained that her chicken had escaped again. A man said the price of salt had gone up at the market. A child cried because he had fallen and scraped his knee.
Normal life. Daily life. The kind of life he had always preferred.
When he finished eating, he took out his notebook and, by the firelight, began to write. He wrote about báicài, about dìguā, about the blue lánhuā. He wrote about the geometric veins, the tastes, the smells. He wrote questions he wanted to answer.
Wei Chen watched him from across the fire. After a while, he moved closer and sat beside him.
You write much - he said.
Tomás nodded.
I need to remember. There is so much I do not know.
Wei Chen pointed to the notebook, to the Spanish words.
Your language. Can you teach me?
Tomás looked at him, surprised.
You want to learn?
Wei Chen nodded.
You learn our words. I learn yours. Fair.
Tomás smiled. He pointed to the word "báicài" in Spanish and said:
Báicài. In my language, the same word. But we write it like this.
Wei Chen looked at the letters, fascinated. He took a stick and, on the ground, tried to copy them. The shapes were clumsy, uneven.
Difficult - he said.
Yes - Tomás agreed - Your writing is difficult for me too.
Wei Chen looked at him, and for a moment, they were not a foreigner and a local scholar. They were just two men, both curious, both trying to understand each other.
Tomorrow - Wei Chen said - I teach you more words. You teach me yours.
Deal - Tomás said, using the English word without thinking.
Wei Chen frowned. "Deal?"
Tomás laughed. "It means... agreement. In my language."
Wei Chen repeated: "Deal." He nodded, satisfied, and went back to his scroll.
Tomás looked up at the sky. The stars were out now, different constellations than the ones he knew. But stars, after all, were just stars. And earth was earth. And plants were plants.
He closed his notebook and went to sleep.