act16d5

Let us continue where we left off. We tell of the lame scholar's disappointment and return, and henceforth, his melancholy of lost hope.

From whence does his story come?

Naturally, a painting.

What painting?

The scholar's loss of an old friend, his heart like unto ashes, and his decade of footing astray, before their minds once again moved in concert—he made his resolve, and devoted his mind in full, vowing to finish that lifetime's work.

To paint what?

To paint that never before seen.

How would he paint it?

He would think thoughts never before thought.

Ah, now that we're here, this has gotten quite interesting. As you all know, the limits of one's imagination are set at what one has seen, known, experienced. Relying on imagination to trick those, outlining that which is yet unknown, is simple enough. But to do so and trick yourself, that is hard as scaling the heavens.

After all, under our heavens, where can you find one capable of thinking something as yet unseen?

The scholar faced the blank paper and strained his mind for about ten days, losing more than thirty jin of weight. He had already been lame, and his appearance grew ever more fearful.

Come the deep winter, the scholar's house had long run out of food. His neighbors feared him, and none dared to approach him.

Until one day, the lame scholar again woke in a haze, his limbs powerless, yet his mind clear.

He knew well his limits were soon coming. He looked around him, his home a bare four walls and a dim room, and felt only that all around him was void, that he truly had become alone in the world.

The scholar gradually became unable to see the floor before him wet and frozen by the snowstorm, unable to hear the biting wind coming through his door and window. He opened his eyes and blinked, fallen into primal chaos, and felt that the walls were wandering far away, his desk dissipating, his brush, paper, ink and stone all ephemeral as smoke.

At a certain moment, he suddenly came to know the exact number of snowflakes in the flurry outside his window, came to know the angle of the moonlight and the truth of the clouds. He reached out fumbling for the curtain of night, and crashed to the floor in carelessness, but the floor was no longer a hindrance to his legs. He fell underground, and then flew into the empty depths.

He could not see with his open eyes, could not hear with his rapt attention, the darkness surrounding him whole—he suddenly went into an ecstasy, as if only in this boundary where naught existed to disturb him, he could seek his true work, rather than copy or desecrate that which already existed.

He continued to wait, wait until all had faded to null, until he could not feel even his own withered flesh, before he began to think—only when all creation and all beings had ceased to exist, and his consciousness was alone in clarity, had he briefly become master of his soul.

His imagination would never again be restricted, creating works of that which simultaneously existed and did not exist—on his territory of thought, all strangeness arose equal, and enveloped reality.

It was deep in the night, and as a teacher awoke next door, he saw the lame scholar's thatched cottage overflowing in brilliant light, spectral and dazzling, letting out all manner of sounds never before heard in life, defying description. The teacher summoned his courage, and stole a look through the wall.

With just that one glimpse, he dared not investigate further. He hurried himself back indoors, and for a very long time could not fall asleep.

The next day, neighbors thronged before the thatched cottage. They forced the door and entered, discovering the scholar's remains, and naught else inside. All thought he had died of cold, and as the village headman stepped forth to look, he saw sprawled before the scholar a blank scroll of paper, covered full in frost, and nothing drawn on it.

Afterwards, the people lamented that the scholar could not leave his past, dying obsessed in front of his scroll. Others said the scholar had long since contracted some strange disease, could not control his own Arts, and only thus did this strange case unfold.

The teacher, who alone had glimpsed the truth, never talked of the matter with anyone else. It was only in his final moments he told his son; that the disdained lame scholar, even his name forgotten, was a true master of all eternity.

Why?

Because that night, the lame scholar had in reality fulfilled his promise. He had, in reality, painted 'that which had never before been in this world.'

Why do I feel like the books told it pretty differently?

The teacher had not the time to explain, or perhaps he simply swallowed the words he did not have.

Thus in the narrative heard on the streets, there is only the lame scholar's sails billowing with success, up to the fall of his senses.

As for the truth of things, I fear not a single soul now knows.

See, though, what's so hard about drawing something you've never seen before? I could head back, smear up a scroll, and none of you would've ever seen that.

Ah, you can't put it like that. You've never seen a vast lake before, but you've seen the ponded waters after the rains. Let me tell you, lakes are ponded waters made vast. In the end, you've seen them before.

If the lame scholar had strength, then this is where it lay.

Well if all that's true, then what in the world did he paint?

Who knows.

Look, could you give the contrived stories a rest? They're not exactly the most fun. Are you gonna tell any others?

I want to hear the ending to the one with 'a lone soul ventures forth to Heaven, twin blade lovers that split the lands!'

I'll tell in due time, all of it. It is not possible to tell all under heaven in totality, and I use my scarce predestined hundred or so years of life to tell what I might. If I yet pursued thoroughness on top of it, that would be quite greedy.

As you'd like to hear it, then next time, we'll tell of something else.

Alright!

By custom, my mouth is worth no money. But when you've paid your tea, see what you might have for an old man's story.

It seems we've got a few new faces today. Three mysterious visitors; I hope these strange tales of mine were to your satisfaction?

Was that fiction?

If someone told me a scholar caught Oripathy, and met his end in melancholy before his wishes were complete, then I'd certainly believe it was true.

Add some spice and flourish, and the story tastes all the better.

Quite sensible!

My thanks.

However, I'm not sure myself how many really are true, out of all these anecdotal legends... I just have some interest in the field, nothing more.

That said, while I might not be any kind of formal storyteller, I've spent a long time in the village doing it, though only the few you saw are actually willing to hear me spout my nonsense.

I see three unfamiliar faces. What brings you here?

Ahem— (Gives a meaningful look)

Ah—right, right, these two friends of mine came from far away, in search of someone.

But neither of them are quite as aware of Yan as those of us born here, so I'm giving them some small assistance, acting as their guide. How should I address you, sir?

It's been many years since I left home; I long since abandoned my old name to disuse. I fancied myself literary in younger years, calling myself the 'Umbrella-Boiling Hermit,' and though it's somewhat shameless of a title, I still use it to this day.

How artistic! How artistic indeed! By damned luck, I too was given no option but to leave home, and nowadays go by 'No' and 'thing' in lieu of names sur and given. You can call me Brother No, how about that?

(I told you that was a made-up name, didn't I—?!)

(Shh...)

(Kroos? You catch something?)

(Eh? Uh, nothing, I just reckon it's really fun to watch how he lies himself a new layer every time.)

So we are both men fallen to the other side of the world. Then who's the person you three mysteries are searching for?

Hah, just as the proverb goes, chance meetings are predestiny; it truly couldn't be more opportune if we tried. The one we're searching for is also a painter, like in the story we just heard.

...A painter? This village is modestly sized, and I've never heard of any painter here. What manner of man is this?

Er... benefactor? May you describe?

A woman. Uh, she should have big, weird horns on her head. And she can use some weird Arts. Also... also... she's a painter.

And that's it?

That's it.

I admit, with that, I have even less of an idea.

Oh, this is a strange turn indeed... could it be that the one you benefactors seek left this place before we came?

This village entertains very few guests. If it's as you all say, that strange person would have to have left an impression on us. I can get someone to help you ask around.

Good, good, then we'll leave you to it, sir, and for the time being—

We'll...?

Mr. Nothing?

Hey, what's up with you?

Ah, heheh, where... where did we come in from?

What are you talking about? Didn't we—

—Follow this pathway, and you can leave the landscape garden.

Presumably you arrived following a crowd, and erred here? Haha, my garden isn't that big or small, but it's tough to find your way through it. Ask a servant for help.

Heh... Look at me, all befuddled. How is it I can't remember, now?

If you find any trace of that painter, and you need the help, don't hesitate to ask me.

I have some business for now, so, everyone, farewell.

Here, thank you, thank you, farewell now, farewell. Benefactors, shall we go?

Wait—

And that said, where should we take a look at? We've visited the teahouse, the stage station and the gardens. Where else could there be any clues?

How long has it been since we got here?

Oh, why do you ask? I'd say about... two or three days?

Are you sure?

Ahahah, heh, most likely I slept awful last night. I'm a little out of kilter.

Lavaaa.

Nnng... I can sense it now... but it's so indistinct... it's like...

Times like these, you've gotta go with your intuition.

My intuition's telling me that right now, the situation's extremely messed up.

Is it some kind of mind-level Originium Arts...?

Nngh... if it's Arts...

Benefactors, why the muttering? If we don't hurry up soon, it'll get dark on us.

What are you talking about? It's still so light—

—The sky... the color?

Did we never look at the sky before...? We should've noticed any moment we lifted our heads... now that's odd.

B... benefactors, what's going on? Look over there, is that... is that a moon, now?!

And it's broad daylight right now, isn't it? Why have they lit lanterns on the other end of the bridge?