Chapter Two Hundred Fifteen: The Four Seasons Turn — The Years Advance in Order

Volume Six: Spirit-Life in Dahuang — Dao Grace Everlasting

Xiwei found an old tree beside the river.

It was not the largest tree, but its position was perfect. It stood where the river curved, half its roots gripping the bank, half submerged in the water. She flew up and settled on its thickest branch. From there she could see the river bend reflecting the drifting clouds above, and the comings and goings of the great beasts and small upon the grassland opposite the bank.

She decided to stay in this tree for an entire year.

In spring, tender green buds emerged from the branches. She discerned the rhythm of growth from the changes at their tips. Rain fell upon the leaves, gathered into beads, and slid along the veins before dropping away.

In summer, the canopy grew dense. Cicadas shed their shells upon the trunk, and their drone rose from morning to night.

In autumn, the leaves turned yellow. At the first gust of wind, a few leaves broke free from the branches. They spiraled downward in a long, slow descent, as though even the wind was reluctant to send them away.

In winter, the tree stood bare. Its branches stretched into the cold wind. Xiwei remained on her branch.

Then spring came again. When the first new bud unfurled upon the naked branch, Xiwei smiled softly. A year had passed. The tree was still alive. It still stood at that bend in the river, roots anchored in the soil, branches reaching toward the sky. It had passed through a full cycle of the Four Seasons.

The water still flowed. The wind still blew.

Atop the highest peaks, ice that had not melted in ten thousand years began to loosen under the first warm rays of the spring sun. A single drop of water broke free from the tip of an icicle. It had been frozen the whole winter through; now, at last, it regained its freedom. The drop fell onto a rock and glittered in the sunlight.

It was the first meltwater of spring.

It seeped through the crevices in the rock and joined a thin stream. The stream wound down from the summit, leaping among the broken stones, singing with a clear, bright voice. More and more meltwater gathered; the thin stream became a brook. The brook scoured the mountainside, grinding rock into sand and carrying the sand downstream.

Spring had arrived. The snow on the mountainside melted faster. The brook swelled several times over in a short span, and the water roared. That single drop — now merged into the brook — was swept along by the rushing current, racing toward the lower reaches.

On either side of the brook, the snow-covered earth emerged. The first tender shoots pushed through the frozen soil, their leaves still curled, their color a soft, pale yellow. Those shoots trembled gently in the spring breeze, like life just waking and stretching its limbs. The buds on the trees swelled as well; before long, young green leaves would unfurl.

The spring water flowed through a meadow. The meadow was dotted with nameless little flowers — yellow, white, purple — scattered like stars across the green. Bees buzzed among them, their legs heavy with pollen. A rabbit poked its head out of the grass, ears swiveling, listening to the sounds around it. Spring had brought everything back to life.

Summer came. The sun blazed hot. The brook had become a small river; the surface had widened, the current slowed. That single drop, mingled now with the river water, grew lukewarm beneath the sun. The trees along the banks grew lush and thick; their canopies cast wide swaths of shade across the river's surface.

The fish in the river sheltered in the deep pools, hiding beneath stones, flicking their tails only now and then. Dragonflies skimmed the surface, laying eggs — the tips of their tails lightly touching the water, depositing eggs among the water-weeds. The cicadas sang in the trees, their cries rising wave upon wave, as though trying to shout forth the entire summer.

A violent storm broke over the mountain forest. The rain lashed the hillside, sweeping soil and fallen leaves into the river. The water turned muddy; the level rose fast. That single drop was swept along by the turbid flood, mingled with silt and dead leaves, rushing headlong downstream. The flood undercut a section of the riverbank; an old tree tilted into the water, its roots laid bare to the air.

After the storm, the sky cleared. The river water slowly clarified. That drop was carried into a deep pool. The pool ran deep; its water was dark green, its surface still as a mirror. The sky reflected in it shone a brilliant blue, and white clouds drifted past.

Autumn arrived. The leaves around the pool began to yellow, then redden, then flutter down one by one. Fallen leaves floated on the surface, drifting slowly with the lightest breeze. Some sank, rotting gradually into the sediment at the bottom. The water warmth dropped. That single drop felt the cold; it grew heavy and still.

The autumn rains grew sparse. The pool's water level fell slowly, exposing a ring of water-stained earth along its shore. Those marks were like rings of age, recording the shifts in the water's level. Flocks of migrating birds passed across the sky, flying in a V-formation, heading south. Their cries drifted down from the heights — drawn-out and desolate.

Winter came. The first snow fell upon the water and melted instantly. But then more and more snow piled up along the banks. Ice began to form on the surface — at first, only a thin film at the edges; then the ice spread toward the center, growing thicker and thicker. That single drop was sealed beneath the ice. It slumbered in darkness; everything around it had gone silent. Above the pool, the snow kept falling, covering the earth in a uniform white.

Winter was cold and long. But even beneath the ice, that single drop was not entirely still. The water still moved — only very, very slowly. The fish in the deep water barely stirred either; they hung suspended, as though caught between dreaming and waking, awaiting the return of spring.

Until one day, the current beneath the ice suddenly quickened. That drop felt it — something had changed.

Spring had come again.

The ice cracked with a sharp, clean sound. That drop was released once more. It spilled from the pool and rejoined the river. On either bank, new shoots were breaking through the soil. That drop continued flowing forward; it could no longer remember how far it had traveled. But it knew the journey was not over.

It still had far to go. It still had many springs, summers, autumns, and winters to pass through. Every turn of the seasons was a purification; every freezing and thawing was a rebirth. It was only a drop of water — yet it bore the weight of time itself. From the very first rain that fell when Pangu opened Heaven and Earth, this water had been on its journey. It would flow on forever.

That river did not only witness one drop's journey. It witnessed the transformations of countless lives through the turning of the seasons. On either side of the valley, in spring, animals emerged from hibernation and came to the water's edge to drink. In summer, the young learned their first lessons of survival beside the water. In autumn, the animals migrated along the river valley toward warmer lands. In winter, the river's surface froze; snow blanketed everything. But when spring broke again, it all began anew.

The old tree on the cliff put forth buds in spring, grew lush in summer, shed leaves in autumn, and stood bare in winter. It had repeated this for many years. Its rings grew more numerous with each passing year; its bark grew thicker. It stood by the river valley like a silent recorder of time. Every cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter left a mark upon its rings. Those rings were broad or narrow — the years of abundant rain left wide rings, the drought years left thin ones. The tree's rings were a history book written in wood.

Seated atop a mountain peak, Xiwei let her gaze follow the winding river below. She suddenly realized that time was not merely linear — it was also circular. The Four Seasons were like a wheel, turning without end. With every revolution, the trees grew a ring thicker, the river scoured its bed once more, and the animals completed one more cycle of birth and death.

Year after year, in the turning of the seasons, the Myriad Things slowly grew and slowly changed.