28Yue
Hunting Log #390:
Her presence is oddly calming.
We walk in silence, savefor Sonam’s occasional direction. Our exhaustion translates into a general air of bitterness. Were it not for Kelai’s map, our last shreds of hope would have faded ages ago. The burns on Sonam’s hand heal as we walk, the guiding line erasing itself as we make progress through the wide passage of yet another empty gardenscape. Any semblance of awe I had for the Jade Palace has long since left me.
“I need a break,” Wen complains.
Sonam grunts his agreement. As do I. None of us have the energy to carry full sentences.
Sooah helps herself to a jade bench while I look around the garden. There are no plants whatsoever, only a collection of tall statues carved with incredible detail. There are twelve of them in total, arranged in a perfect circle, all facing inward. A similar arrangement can be found at the corner of Sonam’s palm, just above his wrist bone, in the form of heat blisters. I inspect the carvings carefully, noticing that each statue represents a different animal.
A rat, an ox, a tiger, a rabbit, a dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog, and boar. I’m particularly intrigued by the dragon. Its lifelike eyes seem to follow me as I walk around the circle, its lips pulled back into a fearsome snarl.
“It’s a calendar,” Sonam explains.
I jump slightly at the sound of his voice. Everything here in Hell has me on edge. I’m afraid the concept is completely foreign to me. “A what?”
“It’s how humans keep track of the years.”
I arch a brow. “By using… animals?”
Sonam laughs softly, standing at my side as we study the dragon statue together. It’s a sound I’ve never heard him make before. Light and easy, as though we’re out for a perfectly normal stroll through the palace gardens, not a single horror in sight. “It’s an old story among my people. A fairytale.”
When I continue to look at him expectantly, he begins.
“Many millennia ago, the Jade Emperor, ruler of the Heavens, wanted to keep better track of the days, moons, and years. He invited all of the world’s earthly creatures to a race for the chance to join the twelve-year cycle he’d devised. The rat, knowing that he was far smaller and would therefore be slower, persuaded the ox to carry him across the river. When they arrived upon the opposite bank, he jumped off first and won the race, earning his spot at the beginning of the calendar. The ox, rather begrudgingly, came in second.
“The tiger and the rabbit came one after the other, the latter of whom kept a safe distance behind his friend’s sharp teeth. The noble red dragon of the east was the fifth to arrive despite his ability to soar through the skies, having stopped to help a few villagers in need. Sixth was the snake, and then the horse not long after. Then came the goat, the monkey, and the rooster on a raft built of lotus petals. The dog unfortunately found himself distracted,wasting most of the race playing in the river, though he managed to arrive just before the boar, who slept the day away before finally waking hours later, finishing off the race.”
I find myself smiling, thoroughly enjoying the captain’s tale. “Do you think the fox was invited, too?”
His smile grows wider, eyes crinkling as he does. It leaves me breathless. “It’s possible. Jun was the one who told me the story. He said that there were versions where the cat was invited, as well, but the rat tricked him and said the race was, in fact, the day after. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say the fox was too clever to be tricked into working for someone else. Without proper reward, at least.”
I reflect his smile, amused. “That sounds about right.”
I don’t know what to make of it when he lingers, his gaze drifting over the details of my mask. It’s strange, having him so close. My heart beats faster when he’s near, surely because of my more primal instincts to hunt and kill. That must be it. There’s no other way to explain why, when he slowly reaches down to take my hands in his, the voice in the back of my head screams at me to flee.
Sonam inspects my bloodied nails, carefully running the pad of his thumb over the tip of my index. It isn’t enough pressure to hurt. In fact, there’s no pressure at all; a mere ghost of a touch. Neither of us breathe. I’m wound up tight, though I’m unsure whether I want to run or give in to his peculiar gravity.
“Are you in pain?” he whispers, almost as if he doesn’t trust his voice to carry the question.
My lips part as I suck in a shaky breath. “A little. But you don’t have to worry about me.”
Sonam looks like he wants to argue, but before he has a chance, I take his hands in turn and study the burn lines of Kelai’s map. I gently trace the path she’s laid out before us, less concerned with our destination than I am the red swelling of his skin. His palms arecalloused and rough, his long fingers easily, but almost bashfully, knitting with mine.
“Areyouin any pain?” I murmur back. I’m worried that if I speak too loudly, too quickly—too brashly, as is my nature—I might shatter this delightfully warm haze that’s fallen between us.
In this rare moment of tranquility, this little slice of Hell, I indulge myself in the finer details of his face. I’ve never noticed the tiny scar running diagonally along his left temple to the innermost corner of his ear. The skin has faded to a light silver, barely perceptible to a passerby’s glance. I can appreciate the strong, high bridge of his nose and the seemingly permanent slant of his ever-serious brows. I’ll admit there’s something intriguing about the firmness of his lips. Now that I know they’re capable of the gargantuan task of smiling, a part of me is eager to see it again.
Out of general curiosity, of course. Nothing more.
“What other silly human stories do you know?” I ask.
“Only a few,” he confesses. “?‘The Legend of the White Snake.’ Or perhaps ‘The Butterfly Lovers.’ Or maybe you’ve heard of ‘The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl’?”
I scrunch my nose, trying to recall the little snippets I’d overhear when I stalked the streets of Longhao. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the tales in their entirety, too concerned about being caught to stay in one place for too long. Frankly, most human stories sound the same—what with their beginnings, middles, and ends. All highly predictable, though there’s admittedly something comforting about their structure.
