Volume One: The Scroll of Fresh Rain Chapter Seven: The Mountain God's Night Rain

Those who have tasted despair often come to hold a devout faith in hope.
For those long trapped in darkness, the pursuit of light is often as desperate as a moth’s headlong flight into flame.

Step by struggling step, Qiaoqiao supported Mingke as they pressed forward through the darkness. She kept her eyes wide open, straining for the faintest glimmer ahead, but there was none—only darkness, and more darkness, and still more darkness. She had no idea how long they had walked when at last the blackness before them seemed to thicken and harden, as if something blocked their way.

It was not a tree, as one so often encountered in the forest; the darkness here stretched wide and flat across their path.

Qiaoqiao reached out to touch this strange blackness. Her fingertips brushed across a surface rough and soft with moss. Yet even through the familiar texture, she quickly realized what it was.

A wall—so often overlooked, yet the very thing that provided humans with safety and warmth.

Where there is a wall, there is usually a house. And where there is a house, one can escape the cold lash of the rain.

A surge of joy gave the girl new strength. She trailed her hand along the wall, searching for what surely must follow—a door.

Step by step, round and round. Gradually, despair seeped back into her heart. She walked faster and faster, feeling as though she had already circled the building more than once. It should be a simple four-sided house, yet every wall she touched was unbroken—there was no door.

She staggered and ran, her breath caught as if strangled by invisible hands. Fear gripped her—were they doomed to freeze to death before a house they could touch, but never enter?

Freeze to death? Suddenly, she noticed that for some time now, she had not been drenched by rain. The ground beneath her feet felt not like mud, but hard and dry.

Had the rain stopped? But even if it had, the water on the leaves should have kept dripping for a long while. The sound of rainfall still echoed through the woods, only it seemed distant now. Pressing closer to the wall, the sound of rain grew sharper.

So, were they inside or outside the wall?

She bent down and felt the ground—it was dry wild grass. They must be inside. But when had they come in? Qiaoqiao pondered, but exhaustion and confusion soon made her abandon the question.

No matter what, being inside these warm, dry walls was a thousand times better than outside.

She thought of lighting a fire with the dry grass, but in the darkness, with no source of flame, she did not know where to begin. Instead, she carefully felt her way to a dry corner where both of them could rest, leaning against the wall.

She had meant for someone to keep watch through this unfamiliar night, but she was so utterly spent that she soon curled up and drifted into a deep sleep.

The long night stretched on. In the haze of darkness, she felt as though someone stood before them, sighing gently.

After that, the night seemed to grow warm.

When she awoke, there was light at last—though it was dim, neither dawn nor dusk, perhaps neither at all. Outside, the patter of rain had not ceased; it was another gloomy, rainy day.

In the wan daylight, she could see that what blocked her view was a toppled censer, nearly as tall as half a person, obscuring most of her sight.

Turning her head, Qiaoqiao saw Mingke still beside her. Relief flooded her, but seeing his furrowed brow, still locked in unconscious pain, she could not help but worry.

She reached out, as she had seen adults do, and touched Mingke’s forehead. Scalding heat met her hand.

He was feverish. What now? Of course—they needed a fire.

Her head ached, and her whole body throbbed dully, but she forced herself up to look around.

The censer confirmed it—this was a temple, and a dilapidated one, built in the mountains; it must be a ruined shrine to the mountain god. Wild grass sprouted across the floor, the roof had caved in here and there, letting in cold ribbons of rain. The temple door had long since collapsed, and curiously, there was no threshold.

No wonder she had wandered in without realizing it last night, Qiaoqiao thought, though something about it still felt odd.

Taking a few steps, she startled several rats from the undergrowth, causing her to cry out in fright.

The rats, startled by her voice, scurried even faster. Some darted behind the temple, and suddenly, a clear “clang” resounded—a bell had been struck.

Parting the weeds, Qiaoqiao saw the ancient, abandoned bell, still quivering from the rats’ collision. This must have been the bell that saved them last night.

Her gaze drifted upward to the dusty incense table and the statue enshrined there. The instant she saw the statue, she froze—not because it was terrifying, but because it was, oddly enough… handsome.

Handsome was a word almost disrespectful for a deity. Gods should be solemn, lofty. Yet this statue—though gilded, dust-laden, and webbed with cobwebs from years of neglect—still bore traces of an elegant, rakish beauty, like a dashing young man of the mortal world. He seemed filled with the warmth of human life, just like that thresholdless temple door.

Qiaoqiao pressed her small hands together, knelt, and bowed deeply to the statue. As she looked up, she caught sight of two fire strikers lying on the incense table. Overjoyed, she bowed three more times in gratitude.

As she lifted her head, her vision blurred for a moment. For an instant, she thought she saw the statue smile at her. But when she blinked, the god’s face was once more languid and careless.

Qiaoqiao stared wide-eyed, a little frightened and uncertain—but still, she was afraid. She kowtowed three more times, folded her hands, and prayed in silence.

“Mountain God, please watch over Mingke and Qiaoqiao, help us return home safe and sound. Qiaoqiao promises to listen to Auntie from now on and never sneak out again.

“If… if one of us must stay in the mountains with you, then… then let it be Qiaoqiao.

“Qiaoqiao has done many bad things. Not just sneaking out for this trial and getting Brother Mingke in trouble. Uncle even said I was born under a bad star, that I brought misfortune to my parents, though I’m not sure what that means.

“And I’ve always been a restless sleeper, crying at night and keeping Auntie awake, so she always threatens to abandon me. I’ve poured out the medicine Auntie boiled for me many times. Once, angry at Uncle and Auntie for scolding me together, I threw Uncle’s favorite tobacco into the latrine so they’d fight and I’d feel better. I gave the kids who called me ‘sickly’ outside the worst, meanest nicknames I could think of.

“And… I’ve never been a good child. If someone must be punished, let it be me.”

One by one, Qiaoqiao counted her wrongdoings, fear and unease mounting in her heart. She sobbed as she prayed, but when she finished—perhaps because she had steeled herself for the worst—she felt no more fear. She wiped away her tears, took the fire strikers from the incense table, returned to Mingke’s side, gathered dry grass, and after several failed attempts, finally coaxed a fire into life.

The flames were warm. Qiaoqiao stretched out her arms to bask in the heat, eyes narrowing in comfort as she sighed softly. When she opened her eyes, she found Mingke’s clear gaze fixed gently upon her.

Feeling shy, Qiaoqiao drew her knees to her chest. But then, seeing the clarity and purpose in Mingke’s eyes, she suddenly thought of something and blushed as she asked, “When did you wake up?”

“Just now,” Ye Mingke replied, narrowing his eyes mischievously. He tried to sit up, but halfway there, he was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness and sharp pain in his chest, nearly collapsing again. Qiaoqiao hurried to steady him, helping him lean back against the wall.

Ye Mingke unfastened his shirt and examined his wounds. On the surface, there were only the savage claw marks left by the white tiger, still burning with pain.

But Mingke sensed something worse—the internal injury from when the wood struck him. He could not see it, but pressing lightly on his chest sent fresh waves of agony through him.

The situation was grim, but not hopeless. Stay calm. Do the best you can. Mingke closed his eyes, thinking through their predicament as coolly as possible.

Bai Qiaoqiao watched Mingke’s furrowed brow, but she no longer felt the same dread as before. After all, he had woken up.

“Did we come here by drifting down the river?” Mingke asked after a while.

“Yes,” Qiaoqiao replied.

“Have you ever been to this mountain temple before?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can find that river again?”

“Maybe.” Qiaoqiao frowned, thinking it over. “I was too tired last night, so we probably didn’t go very far.”

“Qiaoqiao,” Mingke said, meeting her eyes seriously. There was fear in his clear gaze, but also a firm resolve. “It’s possible… that no one will come to rescue us.”

“Why?” Qiaoqiao looked into his eyes, sensing the courage he was trying to give her. Though she, too, felt afraid, she was not frightened by his ominous words.

Mingke saw her calm and let out a breath. “You know, I’ve been chopping wood since I was little, so I know all the mountains that aren’t sealed. But I’ve never seen this temple before. If I remember right, all the mountains around the one we were on yesterday are sealed—and we came here by the river.”

“The sacred mountains that are sealed—no one is supposed to enter. But we were brought in by the river, so we might be inside a forbidden mountain.”

“We don’t know whether the adults in the village will guess we entered a sacred mountain, or whether they have any way of coming in after us. So we can’t just sit here and wait.”

“We have to find our own way out. The river is our best clue.”

Mingke, not wanting Qiaoqiao to be too afraid, laid out everything he had deduced, and the hope of escape, all in one breath. Then he looked at her quietly.

Qiaoqiao looked back, clutching her dirt-stained dress tightly in her small hands. She gazed at him—a timid, frail ten-year-old girl, who did not cry or complain. She simply looked at him and asked quietly,

“So what should we do?”