We swam through the currents, fighting turbulent waves. Disoriented, I sought the surface of the ocean, forgetting how to tell up from down. There—I could see that solitary beam of light in the distance, blinking at us as if beckoning us closer. I gave a shout of triumph—we weren’t too late!—and swam with fervor.
But Kuro was tiring, his focus waning. The currents played cruelly with us. With every stroke I made, the waves drove us back twice as far. The attack felt personal—this was how I had lost Zilong during the war.
“It’s too late for us,” said Kuro.
“No,” I gasped, fighting the currents. “We can’t—give up—”
“We had a good run,” said Kuro, disentangling his fingers from mine. “But I’m ready. I’m ready to move on.”
I reached for his hand, but the waves were too strong. Borne by the currents, he disappeared into the depths of the dark sea.
“Kuro!” I screamed, treading water. But the pale beam of light was fading, and I was out of time. I surged forward, lighter and more buoyant without him. Still the light narrowed, the chasm that had once been so vast now barely wide enough for me to slip into.
Through the opening I could see the clear expanse of sky, only one moon hanging from above. I could see people and horses and even my own body, which I’d abandoned, and next to it—Sky, my first love, who I never thought I’d see again.
As if sensing my desperation, he turned toward the fissure and peered through it.
“Sky!” I screamed. Somehow, he heard me. He reached a hand through the crack, and I was reminded of another night long ago, a Ximing cliff, waves crashing far below me. He had saved my life then, despite the impossibility of it, and perhaps because of that memory, that moment, I found myself imbued with false confidence. I trusted Sky; I trusted him to save me. His touch would return me to the human realm. It would be my bridge back to myself.
I reached for Sky’s hand, that solitary source of light against a world of darkness. But my fingers, like a ghost’s, slipped through his. He fumbled for me, his hand meeting nothingness.
My will, already threadbare, unraveled into dust. I surrendered to the currents. I let go.
“Meilin!” he screamed.
The last thing I saw was Sky, plunging into the darkness after me.
Forty-Four
And do not the birds, weary from far-flung flights, still know to find their way home?
—The Classic of Poetry, 532
Time passed like the unspoolingof thread, slowly, then all at once. In the darkness I wandered, neither alive nor dead. At times I heard stories, stories of great heroes and terrible villains, stories of war and adventure and chaos. And I thought,I wonder what that must be like.
Gradually, I forgot my name. I forgot my life before. I wandered the trees and the rivers and the mountains, knowing I liked warmth, knowing I gravitated toward light, though I could not recall why. I migrated with the seasons, finding solace in the habits of birds, who knew how to make a home anywhere.
It was early in the spring when the plum trees had blossomed, and I was sitting beneath their shade, gossiping with the fireflies. A young human woman approached me, hesitantly at first, then with a boldness that made me uncomfortable. I was not afraid, of course, for true emotion in the spirit realm was a rare thing. But I was not accustomed to boldness; most of the human wanderers in this place bore only a vague sort of aim about them.
“Qinaide,” she said.Beloved.“I’ve been looking for you.”
What a peculiar word—beloved. For there was no such thing as love and affection here, or any emotion that required intensity of feeling.
I observed her as she drew near. Her shoulders were strong and straight—swimmer’s shoulders—and the apples on her cheeks high and pronounced. She looked young, but there was a certain depth of experience in her eyes that only came with age.
“Do you know my name?” she asked me. I shook my head.
“Do you know your name?” she asked me, and this I pondered for a beat longer, before shaking my head.
“You really did give it all to the veil, then.”
I did not understand her, so I said nothing. This did not frighten me, that I did not understand. There were many things about this world that I did not understand. For example, why did the water feel cold when you first stepped in, but warm when you left it? Why did the stars seem brighter on cold winter nights? Why did some birds always sing, even with no one to return their song?
She sighed and sat beside me, picking a fallen plum blossom and tucking it behind my ear. “Let me tell you a story,” she said. Under her breath: “Where should I begin?”
“At the beginning, of course,” I said, and she laughed.
“Why, yes,” she said, settling back on the grass. “Let’s see. This is a story about a girl, a girl named Hai Meilin.”
