He pursed his lips. “It’s not make-believe, Ai Ling.” He flipped through the thick pages as if searching for clues. “The demonic creatures described within these pages are summoned through the dark arts. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
He closed The Book of the Dead with a dusty thud. “Perhaps the lunar telling sticks can offer us a clue.” The seer stood and, his thin arms straining with the effort, slid the heavy book back onto the shelf.
“But first, let us take our morning meal together. The mind and body cannot function properly without sustenance.” Ai Ling rose to follow Lao Pan. She could not agree more. Breakfast was hot rice porridge with salted fish, pickled carrots, and spicy bean curd. Chen Yong, Li Rong, and Ai Ling sat together on the stone benches, which were configured into a half moon underneath a starfruit tree. They ate without much conversation. Ai Ling enjoyed the quiet calm of the morning, the feeling of sanctity this small dwelling within the mountains offered.
Rui took the used bowls and utensils away after the meal and brought lukewarm tea. Lao Pan whispered something to him, and Rui hurried back into the house. He reemerged soon after, holding a carved ebony canister filled with bonecolored sticks.
“Have you used these before?” Lao Pan asked. Ai Ling shook her head. She had seen others use them at the temples but had never tried herself.
The seer pulled one stick from the canister. It was flat and wide as a thumb, rounded to oval points at both ends and polished until it shone like the moon. A phrase was inscribed on the stick in black. “Each has its own saying,” Lao Pan said. “You ask your question and shake the canister until one falls to the ground.”
Lao Pan demonstrated as everyone watched, holding the canister diagonally and shaking it in a slow rhythm. The sticks began to shift forward, clattering against one another. “I can interpret the saying for you. It may offer some insight to your situation.”
He handed her the canister. Ai Ling stood under the shade of the tree, feeling awkward. “Ask the question in your mind. We can discuss it after a lunar stick falls in answer.”
Feeling self-conscious and a little foolish, she closed her eyes. Will I be able to find Father? She began moving her hands up and down, the sticks clanking in a soothing cadence as they bounced forward. She continued shaking as five sticks separated from the rest, then three. Finally one escaped from the cluster and dropped to the ground.
Ai Ling heard a gasp and glanced toward Rui, who gaped at her feet. She looked down and saw that a lone stick stood poised on its rounded tip, as if hanging by an invisible string. Lao Pan rose from the bench and touched the perpendicular stick, and it fell to the ground.
“I’ve never seen the like. The fortune cannot be told unless the stick lies flat of its own accord. I never thought it could do anything otherwise until today.” He picked up the errant stick and put it back into the canister.
“Try once more,” he said.
She closed her eyes again. Ai Ling conjured her father in her mind, guiding her hand as she wrote calligraphy. Will I be able to find Father? She shook the canister steadily and watched the sticks move forward in a group, then the few that slipped ahead of the others. Two sticks fell from the canister at the same time. Both stood on end.
Everyone stared at the upright sticks until Ai Ling grew uncomfortable.
Lao Pan finally plucked them from the ground. “Your fate cannot be told. The Immortals must have a hand in this.”
“The Immortals!” Li Rong exclaimed. “The Immortals do not interfere in the realm of man—if they even exist.”
Lao Pan glanced at the young man, his expression austere. “Not unless they have to.”
Everyone turned back toward her. Ai Ling tilted her chin and tried to appear unaffected. “So much for gaining insight,” she said.
Lao Pan smiled. “I fear I can offer no help there. But I can bless the dagger Master Tan gave to you. It will take all morning but will be worth the wait.” The seer gestured to Rui, who stopped gaping at Ai Ling and retreated with the lunar telling sticks back to the house.
“A blessed weapon can offer protection against the tainted and undead,” Lao Pan said.
Ai Ling pulled the dagger from her waist and handed it to the seer. “I would be in your debt.”
“It is my pleasure to help those who need it.” Lao Pan bowed and disappeared into the house.
The three companions sat under the starfruit tree in silence. Finally, Chen Yong let out a low whistle. “It seems even the Immortals cast an eye on you from the heavens, Ai Ling.”
Chen Yong’s comment broke her reverie. There was too much to think about—too much she couldn’t comprehend. “I just want to bring Father home.”
Chen Yong studied her, then nodded in understanding.
Li Rong cleared his throat. “It’ll be a while before Lao Pan is done with his incense waving and strange mutterings. How about you and I do a little sparring?”
Chen Yong grinned. “I haven’t beaten you enough?”
“The presence of a beautiful woman”—Li Rong bowed toward Ai Ling—“will inspire me to fight harder.”
She pretended not to hear him, but the now-familiar heat crept from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Ai Ling pulled out her small sketchbook as a distraction. She could sketch Feng and use it as reference for a horse painting someday.
Chen Yong laughed. “Come on, then. This space is perfect.”
She had never seen sparring before and did not know anyone who practiced shuen. She couldn’t decide whether to continue the guise of drawing or simply put down the sketchbook and watch.
The two brothers faced each other in the oblong courtyard, warming up with some kicks and punches. Li Rong shook himself vigorously, like a wet dog, and she giggled into her drawing.
“Nothing but applause, please, lovely lady. Kisses are welcome as well.” Li Rong winked at her with a wide grin. She was unable to pretend she hadn’t heard this time.
Chen Yong coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a snort.
“Ready, old brother,” Li Rong said.
They took a wide stance, their hands raised in loose fists in front of their torsos. Li Rong dropped to the ground and swept his leg out in an arc, kicking dust in the air. His brother simply danced out of the way.
“You’re too slow to use that for your first attack.” As he said this, Chen Yong jabbed one hand out toward Li Rong’s chest, which Li Rong struck out of the way with his forearm at the last moment.
“You’ve been practicing,” Chen Yong said.
Li Rong responded by punching him in the chest. But Chen Yong spun and vaulted, landing behind him. Ai Ling blinked, her sketchbook in her lap now, watching with open fascination. Chen Yong’s hand darted like a viper and hit Li Rong in the lower back. She heard Li Rong grunt as he sprang on one hand and somersaulted out of the way.
The brothers circled, staring with unblinking eyes. Sweat glistened on their brows.
“I didn’t hit with full force, little brother.”
“I’m not six years still.” Li Rong ended the sentence with a kick to Chen Yong’s chest, accompanied by an exhalation of air that became a gruff yell. The next thing Ai Ling knew, Li Rong was on the dirt ground, with Chen Yong towering over him.
“You let pride distract you.” He offered Li Rong a hand.
Li Rong did not take it, but leaped to his feet in one fluid motion. He loosened the sash on his tunic and shrugged it off, rolling his shoulders. He took the open sparring stance again.
Chen Yong turned to face him, and Li Rong met his gaze with a resolute intensity. Chen Yong untied the sash around his own tunic and tossed it to the side. Li Rong’s frame was taut, wiry. Chen Yong was broader, his muscles dense and powerful.
Ai Ling gnawed her lower lip as she watched, the morning light glistening off of their slick bodies. Maybe it was time to start sketching Feng again, or the starfruit blossom. Instead, she admired the lithe forms of the two brothers as they danced around each other, kicking up dirt, limbs flashing so fast in combinations she was not sure she even saw. There was no sound but their heavy breathing and the scuffle of their feet.