Beneath Ceaseless Skies #224 Read online

  In Your Debt,

  Tangren Ao Tienwei

  It took both sides of the silk and was far from fine brushwork, but it would do.

  I begged the spirits to wait while I hurried to find Deng and Yi. They were resting on stools outside the door to the street, alongside Worry.

  “Thunder without clouds,” said Deng. “An ill omen.”

  “Or good, if we act swift,” I said. “Master Deng, bear this message to Matchmaker Tan and beg her to help us. Do all you can to bring the person she names here to drink tea. Only that will break the curse.”

  The widow raised an eyebrow. “That’s all? Tea?”

  I nodded. “Immortal tea.”

  * * *

  I returned upstairs to my celestial guests. “And now the curses, please, O Noble Ones.”

  “Not until the power is ours,” said Monkey.

  “Agreed,” said Goat.

  I frowned. “But how will I make the Meng Peak Sweet Dew tea, if your curses are staying my hand?”

  “I’ll mute mine to your ears if she will do the same.” Monkey raised his paw. “Truce?”

  Goat freed a hoof from her sleeve, abandoning the shape of a human hand. “For now.”

  Paw and hoof touched above the tea box. Like long-held sighs let fly, the bewitching whispers fled my hearing.

  “Thank you.” I untied the knot in the silk and set the splendid wood-and-lacquer tea box to one side, and spread the cloth on the table. With reverence, I broke the red seal to the box and found two silver bottles within. The spirits watched as I opened one bottle and shook a palm’s worth of tea leaves onto the silk.

  Each moss-green leaf was rolled and roasted with perfection. I’d never seen such care taken with tea, and might never again. The scent reminded me of fields at thaw and wet wood smoke. I set the bottle down just as Worry began to bark loudly outside.

  I hurried to the east window and opened the shutters a crack.

  Below, Missus Pan had arrived with five city guardsmen. However, Worry stood her ground at the teahouse door, barring their way.

  “Ma’am,” the lead guard said to the widow Yi, “please restrain your dog and let us inside, or it’s the blade for her.” He was an older man with words tattooed on his face.

  “Let me try, sir. She belongs to a friend,” begged the widow. “But my teahouse is closed. Why must you go in?”

  “We suspect we might find the stolen imperial tea within.”

  “Who told you such a thing?”

  “Missus Pan. She said she overheard you and your guests discussing it.”

  “She must be mistaken.”

  “I’m very sorry, Big Sister, but we all have a duty to obey the law,” said Missus Pan.

  The lead guard’s hand brushed against the sword on his belt. “Third Brother, ensure no one escapes from the north,” he ordered one of his men. “Ma’am, if you know something about the missing tea, tell me now.”

  I hurried back to the table and switched back to my mind-voice. Reverend Spirits, men are coming. Please hide, and send your followers away.

  They nodded. Monkey chose a hanging scroll and climbed into its plum tree scene, while Goat did the same with a mountain painting beside it. Their ghostly crews faded back into nothingness.

  Worry and the widow had bought me some time, but not much. We couldn’t be found with the tribute, but neither could I escape with it. Even if the windows weren’t being watched, I was no acrobat or martial artist. If only I still had my powers, I could have conjured a creature from water to help. I couldn’t even ask a spirit other than Goat or Monkey for a boon.

  Could I hide the package back under the floorboard? No. Missus Pan had seen it before we’d thought to replace the plank, and she surely would tell the guards. Then where?

  With as much speed as I could muster, I stuffed the bottle back in the box and closed it. But in my haste I had forgotten about the dried tea leaves I’d already poured on the silk, and when I tried to bundle up the box, they scattered onto the floor. I cursed under my breath. They would surely spot those, but I had no time to gather up all I had spilled.

  Outside, Worry stopped her barking.

  If I was caught with the tribute, I would be arrested, and Deng and Yi as my accomplices. I couldn’t count on the magistrate overlooking this crime. We’d lose our freedom. Goat and Monkey would resume their quarrel, and that devil Missus Pan would take the Plum Season. I couldn’t let any of that happen. But how? I could no longer ply my magic, unless I bartered for power from the shengxiao, but I couldn’t ask favor from any spirits other than Goat and Monkey.

  Then I remembered that I hadn’t yet discussed payment for the settlement tea.

  Spirits! When an arbiter of the settlement tea finds both parties at fault, they both share in the cost of the tea. The cost today is success in serving the immortal tea to a guest not yet come. I ask for magic from you both, so I might bring that to pass.

  I heard the front door open.

  What do you choose? said Monkey.

  Bleat what you wish, said Goat.

  I looked up at the beams in the gloom above. The spryness of a monkey, the balance of a goat.

  Then drink... Goat began.

  ...that cup of ink, Monkey finished.

  I grabbed the teacup and downed the horrid drink. While I retched at the taste, I felt the power of the two shengxiao animals course through me. I felt I could tumble and leap and screech my joy, while at the same time felt a steadiness to my stance.

  Bundle in one hand, I hopped soundlessly onto the table where the widow had left the tray of loose leaf tea and crouched. The Yellow Mountain Fur Peak tea leaves resembled Meng Peak Sweet Dew, so I strewed the whole scoop of them onto the floor. Let Missus Pan try to find the Sweet Dew among that mess.

  Voices rose below.

  I leapt, caught the highest beam, and pulled myself onto it. Had I not the surefootedness of a mountain goat, I might have lost my footing. Balance came so instinctively that I could focus on hiding the tea box in the darkest recess of the rafters.

  Footfalls on the stairs. I was out of time.

  As agile as a monkey, I dropped back down just before Missus Pan escorted the lead guard up the stairs and into the gallery. I could now read the aged and faded oath tattooed on his face that marked him as a former member of the ill-fated Eight Character Army routed by the Jin. He scowled and kicked away chopsticks in his path. The widow Yi and another guardsman followed shortly behind them.

  I coughed in greeting. “Water,” I managed to say, covering my mouth with a hand as I realized that my teeth must be black as soot after drinking that ink

  Yi quickly poured me a cup from the pot I’d left to cool. “As you see, sir, it is only my friend needing rest up here. How are you feeling, Ao?”

  Almost gagging on a sip, I admitted I still wasn’t well.

  There came the cacophony of a search from down below.

  “We’re searching for stolen property. Fourth, check everywhere,” said the guard to another of his men. “You, who are you?”

  I gave him my name and occupation.

  “You’ll want to ask about that plank,” said Missus Pan, pointing. “It wasn’t in place on my last visit, and I bet they’ve hidden the tea there.”

  The widow glanced at me, and I gave a slight nod. “You are welcome to search it,” she told the lead guard demurely. “On occasion my late husband kept extra cash there for safekeeping.” She showed him how to open the panel. “See, it’s empty. Fortune has not been kind in recent days.”

  The lead guard raised his voice. “Men, check for other possible hidden panels.” He looked up at the beams, then knelt to inspect the spilled tea, taking a pinch to smell. “What’s this?”

  “My carelessness,” I muttered, hiding my relief that he didn’t see the hidden box in the rafters. “Foolish of me, trying to make tea while suffering a coughing fit.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And the chopsticks?”

  “My dog got
playful earlier.”

  “She’s yours? Keep her out of our way.” He shouted again. “Anything, men?”

  They responded with a chorus of no’s.

  The guard scowled at Missus Pan. “It seems you misheard, ma’am. The tribute tea isn’t here.”

  “But I heard them mention the tea,” she insisted.

  “So it’s you who’s been spreading lies about my tea-and-wine shop, Little Sister,” said the widow. “You must stop these false rumors against me. Or shall we drink settlement tea and invite the neighbors to hear my grievance?”

  Missus Pan dropped her pleasantry. “No need. Your business will fail, soon enough.” With that, she stormed out, the guardsmen in tow, leaving us to clean up the mess.

  “They didn’t hurt my dog, did they?”

  “No, she’s a shrewd one. Backed off before they could.” The widow frowned at the hanging scrolls that hosted the shengxiao. “Did you paint these?”

  “I suppose I did,” I said. “May they bring you luck.”

  “You’re full of surprises. Where did you hide the tea?” she asked.

  I pointed up.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I won’t ask how. Is it safe there?”

  I shrugged. “Possibly until an earthquake. It’ll do until we can figure out a safer place for it.”

  “How will we serve the tea, then?”

  Good question. The boons that Goat and Monkey had given me were fading, and I still had no magic of my own. There was no way I could climb back up to get the tea box down.

  I knelt and began picking up the scattered tea leaves. “Madam, I’m afraid I need your help sorting through these for Sweet Dew.”

  * * *

  Deng returned with a wisp-bearded gentleman he introduced as Master Zuoren, who was to be married in a month’s time. Yi and I welcomed him into the gallery.

  “Forgive the mess, Master Zuoren,” said the widow. “Please, relax while I brew a very special tea for you. You might say it’s one of a kind.”

  “Matchmaker Tan was ill and couldn’t see me, but her servant brought her the fan,” Deng whispered to me. “I was told Zuoren’s name and where I might find him. Year of the Goat, Hour of the Monkey.”

  I clasped his shoulder. “Then I will thank her in person once she’s feeling better. Would you mind seeing to the hot water?”

  “Not at all. Why’s your tongue black?”

  “I drank ink by mistake.”

  He laughed and headed downstairs for the kitchen.

  The widow was paying great attention to Master Zuoren, making him feel at ease. “We’ll be happy to host your wedding banquet here for a very modest sum,” she told him.

  I looked to the hanging scrolls. I’m just checking if Master Zuoren belongs to you both?

  Born in my year, confirmed Goat.

  And during my hour, agreed Monkey. You may serve this man the tea.

  Also, my Esteemed Friend and I have agreed on a parting gift for you, Tangren Ao, said Goat. After first sip seals the settlement, we will allow you all to drink of the Sweet Dew. For Master Deng and Widow Yi, it will give them the luck they need to restore this teahouse to its former glory. For you, the tea may help heal that wound to your soul.

  I bowed to the two spirits hiding in the hanging scrolls. Your kindnesses know no bounds.

  It was dusk. I opened a shutter on the east side and looked down. Worry was guarding our doorway again, nose towards the noodle shop. I spied Missus Pan there, welcoming guests but casting a sidelong glance towards the teahouse.

  The curses might be broken, but I feared Deng and Yi would always have Pan’s malice to contend with. I too had made myself her enemy. One thing bothered me: how had she entered the Plum Season and mounted those steps with almost no sound? Could she be more than she seemed?

  When the immortal tea was brewed and ready, the widow poured it for Master Zuoren. The gentleman thanked us and lifted the cup, blowing on it to cool the tea. He took his first sip and smiled. “It’s the finest tea I’ve ever tasted. Fragrant. Invigorating.”

  I sighed with relief. “Then let us all drink to better days.”

  As Yi poured three more cups, Worry bounded up the stairs and sat at my feet.

  I heard Goat and Monkey go, said Dog. I smell no more curses. Good boy, Aoooooo.

  It was a relief to hear Dog’s voice and to know that I could once again speak to other shengxiao spirits. Only because of your wise advice. Thank you.

  I raised my teacup. The aroma of the Sweet Dew was subtler when brewed, and the infusion a pleasing clear yellow. I took a tentative sip and grimaced. The tea tasted of smoke and rain and iron and nut and soil, and a sweetness that lingered long after.

  Was the quality fine?

  Yes.

  Unique?

  Yes.

  Agreeable to my picky palate?

  No.

  Nonetheless, I drank it all. In the end, disagreeable tea still tasted lovelier than a mouthful of ink.

  Copyright © 2017 Tony Pi

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  Originally from Taiwan, Dr. Tony Pi earned his Ph.D. in Linguistics at McGill University and now lives in Toronto, Canada. His story “No Sweeter Art” in BCS #155 was a finalist for the 2015 Aurora Awards and its BCS podcast a finalist for the 2015 Parsec Awards, and the BCS podcast of its sequel, “The Sweetest Skill” in BCS #197, was a finalist for the 2016 Parsec Awards. Visit www.tonypi.com for a list of his other works.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  A MARVELOUS DEAL

  by Kate Dollarhyde

  When Sylvie was eight years old, she became very sick. Her parents, too, became very sick. And while Sylvie burned in fever dreams, her parents died.

  When she could move again, when she had stopped crying and wiping her dripping nose, Sylvie dragged her parents to the back of their small wooden home and laid them out on the ground. She found a trowel in the dried-grass basket near the hearth, and with that trowel she buried her parents. On her ninth birthday, Sylvie was alone.

  On a brisk fall morning scant weeks after their deaths—a morning where the dead leaves of creaky old maples danced in circles on the ground—Sylvie pulled the last of the carrots from Mother Shabna’s garden. They were her mother’s favorite carrots, clothed in burgundy skin with centers orange and sweet. Sylvie called them dragon carrots, because their hearts were filled with fire. She had seven carrots, which was very good, as she’d already eaten all the cabbages, the pumpkin, the squashes, and the potatoes. She’d saved the carrots for last—they were her favorite.

  But there, under a small drift of leaves, she found an eighth carrot. Sylvie delighted in her bounty and pulled the carrot with careful hands from the hard earth. It emerged screaming. Sylvie threw it to the ground.

  “Wicked child, wicked child,” it screeched, “look what you’ve done! I was dreaming the most delicious dream, a dream of hot rabbit’s blood on the frozen ground. How will I slake my thirst now?”

  Sylvie was a cautious, calculating child, and regarded the indignant carrot from a distance. Its face was small and wrinkled, heavy in the jowls. It looked to Sylvie like Farmer Seless’s baby boy, and it screamed just as the baby had.

  “Young carrot, please forgive me. I was foolish, and did not think you might be sleeping, even though Mother Shabna told me to always check for ones with faces. How do I put you back to bed?”

  The carrot rustled its lush greens in irritation and crossed its spindly root arms. “It’s too late for that, too late, too late. Now the great spirit in the sun has seen me and named me, and so I must take up my purpose.”

  The carrot opened a crack in its front wide like a grin and stretched its taproot taut.

  “Start with the bargain, start with that. ‘The bargain always comes first,’ the great spirit taught me. Young girl who has woken me early, who pulled me from my sweet dreams and soft earth bed, there must be something you want. What is it, then? What, what do you want?”


  Sylvie’s heart picked up its beat. Spirits were wild things, Mother Dar had said, remainders of the fertile earth, the world’s birth blood. Not the seed but the chaff. She remembered Mother Dar pressing a carved stone into her hand, pressing so hard the swirling design in its surface had etched briefly in her skin.

  “When someone you do not know tries to speak with you, clutch this stone as I’ve shown you and think of the fire holly wreath above our door. Then I will know, and will find you, and be certain you are safe.”

  Mother Shabna had clicked her tongue from beside the hearth where she bent over a fat pot bubbling with lentils. “You’ll put fear in her heart if you speak to her thus. Fear will not help her.”

  Still, Mother Dar had pressed the stone into Sylvie’s palm and closed her fingers around it. “A witch’s daughter is a rare and precious thing, as you are mine. Take the stone. Think of the fire holly. Be safe.”

  Sylvie had put the stone in the safest place she could imagine; Mother Dar had guarded it so dutifully, it was only right she take it to her grave, as Mother Shabna had taken her trowel and her seeds.

  Sylvie pushed her curling unkempt mane from her eyes and dashed away with dirty fingers the tears that burned her cheeks. She kneeled beside the carrot.

  “I have never seen a carrot strike a bargain. What manner of carrot are you?”

  “A hungry one!” The carrot threw itself into the dirt and whined.

  “How might I feed you?”

  “With rabbit’s blood, with rabbit’s blood! Wet and hot and fast in the veins.”

  “I thought carrots only desired water, a kiss of sunlight, and dirt.”

  “I am different, yes. You’ll see it’s true. What bargain, then? What? What?”

  “What can you do?”

  “Anything you want, anything. It is easy. I am a carrot of great power! See my stalk, this green? Yes, I am strong, strong.”

  Sylvie thought of her parents in their cool earthen graves: Mother Dar, her face hard-planed, lined, and deeply brown but always soft in the eyes for her, redolent of oak moss and sweat; Mother Shabna, ensconced in a rushing tide of skirts and shawls of indigo blue, her fingers long and finely-boned, webbed with old scars and laden with rings of twisting grapevine and woven river grasses.