Chapter Two Hundred Sixteen: Mountains Lovely and Rivers Rushing

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

Xiwei stood partway up the Sky-Pillaring Peak. From this vantage, the contours of the earth lay open before her. The early morning sunlight fell slantwise upon the distant mountain ranges, warming the gray-brown rock to a rich gold. The wind rose from the foot of the mountain, cool with dew, stirring the loose strands of her hair.

She looked down at the river valley stretching away below. That river had been Pangu's left arm, transformed. The water flowing down from the mountain glittered with rippling light. Along both banks grew every shade of green — the vegetation spreading from the water's edge all the way to the mountain's base. Seen from afar, it was like a ribbon of green set into the folds of the earth.

Mountains and waters reflecting each other, the light of the sky and the shadows of the clouds.

On the grasslands of the north, a herd of horned beasts began their migration. No one told them where to go, yet every one of them knew the direction. The old leader lifted its head into the dawn light, scented the moisture in the air from the south, and took the first step. The entire herd fell in behind it and began to move — like a river in flow.

They set out from the grasslands, heading toward the distant mountains.

The first days were easy. The grassland stretched to the horizon without end; the wind skimmed the tips of the grass, raising wave after green wave. As the horned beasts walked, their hooves pressed deep prints into the soft earth. The small creatures of the grass fled in all directions as the herd passed, then crept back to where they had been. Birds circled above, waiting for the insects startled into flight.

The grassland gradually gave way to rolling hills. The ground began to rise and fall. The horned beasts climbed slope after slope. Each slope was higher than the last, and with every ridge they crested, the view ahead shifted in subtle ways. The hills were thick with scrub, their branches heavy with berries. Some of the young stretched their necks to nip at the berries as they walked, only to be hushed with low warning calls from their mothers.

The mountain range appeared ahead. The peaks rose into the clouds, their summits mantled in gleaming snow. The foothills were clad in vast stands of conifer forest, their darkness spreading across the entire slope. The air turned crisp and cold; the wind now carried the scent of pine resin.

The herd entered the mountain forest. The light grew dim beneath the canopy, which shut out most of the sun. The ground was thickly carpeted with pine needles, soft and nearly silent underfoot. The forest was quiet — unnaturally so. The lead beast slowed its pace; its ears twitched, straining after every sound.

The sound came from above. A tiger's roar. It rolled through the valley and set the leaves trembling. A panic rippled through the herd; some of the young horned beasts bolted forward in alarm. But the leader held the formation steady. It knew that so long as they kept their ranks and none were left alone, the tiger would not strike lightly.

They passed through the forest and reached the mountainside. Here the trees grew shorter and sparser. Bare rock showed through the ground — gray-brown, its surface covered in moss and lichen. The moss took on a soft green under the sunlight, as though the stones had been clothed in velvet.

A deep gorge cut across their path. At its bottom, a swift river roared, its sound crashing back and forth between the walls. The leader traced along the rim for a stretch, searching for a place to cross. It halted where the river spread wider and the current ran slower — a point where the water spilled across a shallow shelf and the stones at the bottom were clearly visible.

The horned beasts began to ford the river. One by one, they stepped into the water. The current battered their legs, and they were forced to turn sideways to lessen its force. The young were staggered this way and that; their mothers shielded them from the upstream side. One small beast was swept off its feet, thrashing in the water. Its mother surged forward at once, using her head to push it up and nudge it to the bank. The young one coughed, shook the water from its coat, and rejoined the column.

Beyond the river lay an open alpine meadow. It was covered in low, dense purple flowers, like a carpet spread upon the ground. The wind here had turned sharp. The warmth was dropping fast. The horned beasts quickened their pace; they had to cross the ridge before dark.

They climbed to the ridgeline. The world beneath them suddenly opened vast. On the far side of the mountain lay a broad plain, and across its center ran a great river, glinting silver in the sunlight. That was their destination — the wintering ground.

The horned beasts descended the ridge in the light of the setting sun, heading toward that plain. Their shadows stretched long and moved slowly across the grass. The column unwound for miles along the mountainside, like a ribbon of silk flowing in the wind.

Xiwei watched the migrating herd from midair. She saw the horned beasts crossing high mountains, fording rivers, threading through forests and grasslands. The mountains and rivers spread open beneath their feet; the waterways pointed their way.

Along the migration route lay a salt marsh. In the dry season, it was a vast stretch of white — its surface hard as stone, webbed with cracks. The wind sweeping across the marsh raised fine salt dust that glittered with piercing white in the sunlight. The horned beasts skirted the heart of the marsh, keeping to its edges. A few curious young ones licked the ground and immediately spat their tongues out at the salt.

Past the salt marsh came the broad alluvial plain. The soil here was deep and black and rich; rivers wove through it like a net cast upon the earth. The grass and scrub grew exceptionally dense. In places, the growth stood waist-high, and as the horned beasts moved through it, only their backs could be seen undulating above the greenery. The rivers here turned gentle — the water spread wide and slow, mirroring the blue sky and white clouds. The herd paused here for two days, replenishing water and food.

At the plain's end lay a zone of low hills. Wild fruit trees covered the slopes — trees not tall, their trunks short and thick, their limbs loaded with bright red fruit. The horned beasts feasted. The sweet, juice-heavy flesh burst in their mouths, and the taste made them narrow their eyes with pleasure. They ate their fill, until the corners of their mouths were stained with red juice.

At last, they reached their destination — a vast river-valley plain. Here the climate was warm; the water and grass were rich enough to sustain them through the full span of winter. The lead beast stood upon a height and looked down at the fertile land spread before it. It called out, low. The sound was not loud, but the entire herd heard it. They knew: the journey was over. They were safe.

Every mountain, every river, was bearing life in its own way. They were roads. They were also home.

By dusk, the entire herd had arrived on the river-valley plain. The setting sun stretched their shadows long, layering them with the shadows of all who had come before. In the soil of this valley plain were the footprints of countless predecessors; among the grasses were the shells of countless hatched eggs. The sound of the river softened in the twilight, like an ancient lullaby.

This was migration. The young grew as they walked; the old fell along the way. Every migration was a cycle; every generation's steps fell upon the tracks of the one before.

The mountains, voiceless, bore the weight of every footstep. The rivers, ceaseless, bore witness to every cycle.