A Borrowed Flower Soul | For Those Without Love, Read With Caution
“The willow lives, spinning the top.
The willow greens, the bell is set aside.
The willow dies, we kick the shuttlecock.
Willow bud sprouts, we play with the pull toy…”
Beneath the medical canopy, a young man quietly wrote out a prescription, handing it together with a small bottle of pills to the elderly man before him. “Just as before—boil the herbs, then dissolve this pill in the decoction and take them together. After finishing these, you needn’t come again.”
It was Su Ting.
The old man, hard of hearing, nodded vigorously after several repetitions, clutching the young doctor’s hand in a flurry of grateful thanks before departing with his medicine.
The doctor closed his kit, shielding his eyes from the slanting western sun, and called out to the group of children singing rhymes, “Tang’er, time to go home!”
“Coming!” came a crisp reply. A little girl, dirty-faced, darted out of the crowd and ran straight into the doctor’s embrace, nuzzling his chest. “Daddy!”
“Playing till your face is all muddy again. Such a pretty little girl, yet always looking as if you crawled straight out of a mudhole.” The doctor, half scolding, half helpless, still produced a clean kerchief to wipe her face. The girl’s eyes arched with a mischievous, innocent glimmer—clear, bright, like apricots.
Su Ting could never resist her. He bent down, patted his shoulder, and the little girl, grinning with practiced ease, climbed onto her father’s back. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she cheered, “Let’s go home!”
Father and daughter wandered slowly through the town. As the sky deepened, the sunset grew ever richer, red clouds winding like silk about the feet of passersby. Perched on her father’s back, Su Haitang swung her legs and yawned, “Daddy, what are we eating tonight?”
“What does Tang’er want to eat?” Su Ting asked.
“Yam cakes! Yam cakes!” she replied after a moment’s thought.
“Very well. Daddy will buy Tang’er yam cakes.”
The town was small, nestled deep among mountains, so remote that the people scarcely cared which dynasty’s emperor was on the throne; there was a touch of hidden paradise to it. For years, Su Ting had wandered, purposeless, healing wherever he stopped—but this meant his young daughter followed him through wind and rain. When he first arrived in Luba Town, dysentery was rampant, and the only local doctor had died; he’d had to stay and treat the sick.
He never expected that, in so coming and going, nearly a year would slip by.
By day, he set up a tent to treat patients; by night, he taught his daughter to read. The days, on the whole, were peaceful.
He bought yam cakes for Su Haitang, and the sweet, fluffy treat had her beaming from ear to ear; from then on, she forsook his back and skipped along beside him, clutching his sleeve.
From afar, a soft singing drifted over—wistful, thread-thin as southern river mists. Su Ting paused, dazed, until his daughter tugged him back to himself.
Far off, by the river, someone had erected a makeshift stage. Itinerant performers—all of them could fit on two wagons. The lead was a young dan—his face painted half white, half red, holding a round fan and warming up his voice.
The little dan, after a few notes, looked over and saw a scholar-like man watching him in a daze. He waved his fan and greeted Su Ting, “Young master, staying for the show? We open in half an hour! Today’s act is a favorite of Su City’s wealthy folk. Ever heard of Su City, sir? What a place, all splendor and pleasure!”
When Su Ting said nothing, the dan, thinking him an ignorant bumpkin unfamiliar with Su City, boasted even more, “But it doesn’t matter if you haven’t heard. Just listen! No one in Luba outside our troupe can sing like this!”
Su Ting murmured, “Is that so?”
Poor, poor Luba Town—so poor that two feet of new cloth for New Year’s would bring years of joy, and a few slain chickens and ducks marked a major celebration. For such a town to host a traveling troupe boasting of splendor, springtime fireworks, a blaze of lanterns—most locals took it for a joke and would ask where on earth such fairylands existed.
Su Ting, however, was different. He came from truly splendid lands, had seen the gleam of arms, lavish banquets, the waste of gold, the heady world of song and revel. He’d seen the most dazzling of opera stars—a mere wave of a sleeve rained down silver and gold; with a single note, all the rarest silks fell into shadow.
The little dan, envious and defensive, leaped and protested, “If you really knew such celebrities, how could you be so down and out now? Liar!” He sprang onto the stage, straightening his battered headpiece, smoothing his threadbare robe. “Am I not good enough?”
He didn’t wait for Su Ting’s answer, but rapped the gong and launched into song himself: “Once, with my beloved, we watched flowers at dawn, gazed at the moon by night—who would not envy such sweetness?”
As he sang, Su Ting tapped his finger to his knee, glancing at the simply-costumed dan, and softly answered with his own song:
“In spring night, a moment outlasts eternity,
How could I unfasten the lotus clasp for all to see?
Waiting till candles dim at feasts’ end,
Time drips away in the lotus clepsydra.”
“Lotus clepsydra…”
“Ting-lang.”
With a sudden catch, Su Ting froze mid-motion. He half-smiled, shaking his head, tapping his fingers—when a louder voice, sharp and clear, rang out as if in protest: “Ting-lang!”
A shiver ran down his spine, paralyzing him on the bench. Then, in a flash, hurried footsteps bore down—someone grabbed his sleeve, scolding, “I searched half the day for you, only to find you here listening to opera—how many times did I call, and you wouldn’t answer? Were you that entranced?”
He followed that hand, slowly looking up—his mind roaring to blankness.
The newcomer glanced at the little dan on stage, young and fresh, then touched the faint lines at the corner of his own eyes. He seemed to understand and turned wordlessly away, taking several dozen steps before sneaking a backward glance. Seeing Su Ting, not far behind, his heart softened, and his pace slowed.
Little by little, their shadows overlapped.
Su Ting could not take his eyes off him. Again and again he tried to speak, only for the words to stick. Finally, pinching himself to break the silence, he managed to croak, “Haitang?”
Bai Haitang replied, “What are you pinching yourself for?”
Again, “Haitang.”
Reluctantly, Bai Haitang answered, “Mmm.”
Tears thickened Su Ting’s voice. “Tang-ge… I’ve missed you so much.”
Bai Haitang regarded him for a long moment, then reached out to feel his forehead and burst out laughing. “Gone silly, have you? We’ve only been apart—”
Before he could finish, Su Ting pulled him into a tight embrace, the scent of medicinal herbs saturating his clothes—a tinge of bitter coptis, a whiff of myristica, sweet licorice as well. Half protesting, half yielding, Haitang muttered, “People are looking, you know,” yet let himself be held, quietly amused. “Still such a child? More delicate than Tang’er herself.”
Hand in hand, Su Ting led Haitang home. The little girl came charging out, face as dirty as a painted cat, nearly stumbling. Bai Haitang quickly let go of Su Ting’s hand, reaching on instinct to steady her—but pulled back abruptly, pushing Su Ting forward instead.
That mischievous child—wilder than the neighbor boys—was seized by Su Ting, who scrubbed her face clean, all the while gently scolding her for old mischief: breaking the Wang’s stool last year, tormenting the Li’s puppy before that, digging up past offenses again and again until not a speck of dirt remained in her nails.
Dinner. Hot porridge.
Once full, the girl ran off to play, leaving Su Ting silent at the table, while Bai Haitang propped his cheek on one hand, watching her with a half-smile.
Before they knew it, they had strolled out into the courtyard, to a corner where an old flowering tree stood. The tree had withered; despite the watering of many tenants, not a sign of revival had shown. Now, Bai Haitang mysteriously dug at the roots and unearthed a bottle of wine, its origins lost to time. He waved it gleefully at Su Ting.
Bai Haitang cautiously unsealed the bottle and, after tasting, could not help but take a few extra sips.
He handed the wine to Su Ting, tilting his head upward under the new crescent moon—a gaze bright as silver. Su Ting seized Haitang’s wrist, pulling him in close and kissed him—for the first time, learning how gentle lips could be, how sweet a kiss. Cool and soft as dewdrop petals, their flavor as tender as flower nectar. For a moment, he could not tell if this matched what he’d dreamt all these years.
No breath but his own, only his heart thundering.
A strand of dark hair dipped into the wine.
Su Ting brushed it away, gently dabbing it clean with his sleeve. Haitang, watching the girl dancing in the lamplight, eyes softened. “What a beautiful, clever child.”
“Mmm,” Su Ting answered. “Her name is Haitang, too. When she’s grown, she’ll be as lovely as you.”
Bai Haitang frowned at him.
“Soon, I should be arranging her marriage. Now that you’re gone, I have no idea what sort of husband to find her, or how much dowry to set aside. It all happened so quickly—I can’t quite bear it. I always remember how loud she used to cry.”
Haitang smiled. “All little girls cry. That day, you wailed so loud the flowers on the back hills of Xinan complained to me—’How many more days is that man going to cry? When will he leave?’ ”
He mimicked their whining so well that Su Ting had to look away, blinking away a sudden mist, surreptitiously wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
Haitang swung his feet, a flash of vibrant red showing beneath his white robe. “Ting-lang, you haven’t changed at all. Still a child.” He tugged at the unfinished seam of his clothes, regretful. “The robe’s not even done—so ugly, did I make you cry so hard?”
“It’s not ugly. You look beautiful tonight.” Rising, Su Ting retrieved a bamboo basket from the bed’s foot, drew out scarlet thread, and, kneeling, lifted the unfinished hem. “This is the loveliest wedding robe I’ve ever seen.”
Bai Haitang stared in astonishment, then bent to watch Su Ting thread the needle with practiced hand, to study the fine scars on his hands from gathering herbs, the calluses left by long writing, and the frayed cuffs of his robe. Candlelight flickered. At last, he murmured, “You have changed.”
“I met good people.” Su Ting bit the thread, smoothing the fold. “Thanks to them, I have all this. Thanks to them, Tang’er grew up safe.”
“Hm…” Haitang propped his chin, pondering, then studied the stars beyond the window. “Are you and Tang’er doing well?”
“She’s so unruly, I can hardly manage her. If you get the chance, scold her for me—she’ll listen to you. She’d even go dress-shopping with you; little girls always mock my taste and my plain cooking.” He pressed his cheek to Haitang’s robe, murmuring, “All’s well, except… I miss you.”
“I’ve always been here—the northern snows are thick as quilts, the western peaks rise to the sky… I see it all through your eyes.” Bai Haitang bent down and kissed his temple. Overhead, the moon hung like a distant pearl. “Time passes swiftly. Dawn’s almost here.”
“Rare to see you—will you go when it breaks?”
But Haitang answered with a question of his own, gazing at the medicine chest: “Are you happy practicing medicine, Ting-lang?”
Su Ting nodded.
“After you left, the flowers on the back hills bloomed endlessly, their roots entwined with mine.” Haitang pointed dreamily to the distance, moonlight dusting his flawless face, the faintest rouge at his cheeks, long eyes lowered, just as when Su Ting had first met him. “You must see to your patients, care for Tang’er. I must care for the flowers. If the flowers do not see me, they weep.”
Su Ting pressed his lips together, understanding, and quietly replied, “All right. Go on.”
“Ting-lang,” Haitang called softly, “in the future, sew Tang’er a most beautiful wedding gown.”
Su Ting smiled. “It’ll outshine every flower in the world.”
Haitang added, “It’s cold. Wear more layers.”
“…Mm.”
At last, Haitang laid his hand on Su Ting’s shoulder, drawing close, his red robes fluttering like butterfly wings, swirling together with Su Ting’s own as if they could never part. Su Ting wanted to close his eyes—yet he clung to that red sleeve, unable to let go, whispering countless promises.
Silver moonlight poured over their hair, shining for an instant as if rendering them white.
A tune, gentle and new, hummed against the wind.
Su Ting listened quietly, finally letting go.
“Ting-lang… thank you for all these years.”
…
When he opened his eyes, a fresh red begonia blossom had fallen into his palm, like a crimson wedding dress. Its delicate stamens lay tangled in the petals like threads of silk. He glanced up to see the yard’s old tree, now bursting with tiny buds—suddenly awoken to spring.
Was it “he” who, traveling from afar, had borrowed the tree’s soul, or the tree that had fulfilled his heart’s desire?
“Silly! Ran into a demon, did you?”
Startled, Su Ting spun around, finding a thin, boyish face grinning mischievously. “Didn’t you know, when trees suddenly turn green like this, there’s a dead man under them! If you sleep beneath it, your soul will get snatched!”
The little dan—makeup washed clean—squatted in front of him, watching for a while before growing bored with his lack of response. “You’re no fun at all!”
Stretching, the dan prodded Su Ting’s elbow with his flute. “Bookman! Was my singing so awful that you fell asleep after three verses? Good thing your daughter led the way—I carried you home! Yet you wouldn’t sleep inside, but under the tree of all places! I heated some water; wash up, or you’ll catch a cold!”
The early spring wind tangled Su Ting’s hair. He rose, listening to the bubbling water in the kitchen, like last night’s bowl of hot porridge. “I think I had a dream.”
“Good or bad? What about?” The dan chattered while Su Ting fetched a spade from under the eaves and inexplicably began digging at the tree roots. “Our boss says, for a nightmare, you should touch the bridge rail so the evil can’t track your scent—what are you doing?”
Hitting something hard, Su Ting dropped the spade, brushed away the soil, and uncovered red silk. “I dreamt of a fine flower—a fine wine.”
“Flower?” the little dan repeated, uncomprehending.
Where flowers bloom, there is always a trace of you; all through the seasons, you are with me.
Never alone.
Su Ting cradled the bottle of wine, the breeze perfumed with blossoms, dusting off the red silk seal. Suddenly, he glanced at the bamboo flute in the dan’s hand, and said, “I’ve learned a new tune—let me sing it for you.”
He sang softly, the melody floating with the spring wind, new shoots swaying.
The little dan listened, half in doubt. “Such a fine tune—you’re giving it to me? You won’t regret it?”
Su Ting finished, tucking the red begonia into his medicine chest and sealing the wine in the cupboard, pulling the blanket over his sleeping daughter. “If you sing it well, tell them it was written by Bai Haitang—my wife.”
The dan frowned, the name tickling his memory, though he could not recall where he’d heard it. He eyed Su Ting, wondering if this scholar was once a ruined gentleman. Seeing Su Ting ready his kit to make house calls, he hurried after. “Won’t you ask your wife before giving me her song?”
The scholar only waved, “No need. He’s gone far away.”
The little dan stood at the garden gate, tiptoeing after his receding figure. “What’s it called, then?”
Su Ting paused a moment in thought. “When the flowers return.”
Flowers bloom in season, fall and return—so go the ties of the world.
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Author’s Note:
Borrowing the flower soul to send a letter
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I kept forgetting to upload this after finishing it; I guess I might as well now. Not really sweet or angsty, just a little closing for the flower’s story.