The lanterns circling the tower are about to flash, echoing the color of the brick-red walls and the emerald-green roofs. Actually, the pavilion could be called a pagoda, but it lacks the usual elegance of these traditional structures. However, it makes a remarkable impression: yes, it is new, but something so ancient, some spirit of place, no doubt, lives in these stones. And surrounded by dozens, hundreds of skyscrapers, each year more and more squeezing their arms – both on this coast and on the opposite one – scratching the clouds with their claws, the Tengwang can seem like a pillar, piercing and linking the past and the present.
The rain that had fallen since this morning had washed everything away, making the colors more vivid. The wide stone staircase leading up to the pavilion now looked more like a rock than a human creation.
Two young men – obviously out-of-towners, tourists – stop right at the Yin-Yang symbol – the Great Limit sign – take their eyes off their smartphone screens, and look up.
«Hmm, there it is. Well, not bad, huh? We didn’t go here for nothing.»
«Impressive. It’s not a small thing,» the guy sips his iced tea from his cup, smacks his lips. «You know, it’s not bad. I don’t really like herbs, but it’s nice and refreshing.»
His buddy sips his drink too, nods.
«Yeah, it is good. Well, shall we go?» he waves his hand in the direction of the rise.
«Soon, give me a couple of minutes. Let me catch my breath: you’ve been dragging me around all day… didn’t even take a taxi.
«Taxi… You’re such a sissy. We never even left the neighborhood. And dragging… like I made you do it.»
«All right, all right, it’s about work, I agree. But it’s time to rest now, isn’t it? So, what’s the hurry? This tower isn’t going anywhere,» he looks at the Tengwang again. «Look, what’s that up there?»
At the corner of the curved roof, remotely resembling a dragon’s spine, stood a strange figure. It wasn’t easy to make out the silhouette in the twilight: not human, but certainly someone alive.
«Wait a minute, I think that’s one of them. He’s going to jump, look! Oh, that’ll be a sight to see! Come on! Jump!»
***
He is standing on the very edge.
In general, the weather today is windless, but not here, not up there. However, the wind is a friend, one of the few: violent, uncontrollable, necessary.
Now any gust threatens to rip him off the roof. Rip him off, throw, spin… no, not now… a little more later…
Down below, behind him, a dark ribbon of river winds, lazily rolling its still-cool waters into the distance: a few weeks, and the heat will take over. A heat from which he must get away. Is it worth it?
For what now?
Why should he go back to his homeland now? Alone… without her…
What’s driving him back?!
Spring…it’s all her, part of the eternal cycle of this world. The law of the universe, if you will. A law demanding and inexorable, embedded in the very depths of the subconscious. To go back…
He thought they would go home together. Together from this seemingly benevolent place to which they were strangers.
Aliens. Incomers.
Scarlet faces, scarlet feet, white covers.
They are different.
No, they haven’t been harassed here for a long time. They’re even protected. People take care of them, you could say. But people care more about themselves and their well-being.
What about them? They’re not from around here. Valuable, but different.
They will never understand each other. And people are stronger. Stronger, more insolent, more demanding.
And they take the water. They limit themselves, but still inexorably take away space for life. Not here, but there, just to the north – here he came by chance, circling and circling, and here – but the city will soon approach there as well. It would come and take new lives, as it had taken his beloved. Would kill others as it had killed her.
No, no one hunts them on purpose: the local governments have long forbidden such things. But man stains everything around him with his presence: everything he has created can bring death. Many things are not her weapons at all, but almost every grain can suddenly summon this cold, empty-eyed lady.
Simple fuel for people’s boats is poison for the likes of him.
Dirty death. Accidental death.
They were found too late.
He called out to people, calling desperately, trying to lead them to her, dying in that muddy puddle, but people didn’t understand. They shouted in admiration, pointed their fingers at him, smiled, wished each other happiness. As if he had come to them to show off. As if they couldn’t hear the hopelessness and grief in his cry.
People sat in their cells scattered over the ground, stacked one on another, formed the tall ant towers like the ones across the river. People sat there thinking only of themselves.
Sometimes they remembered creatures like him, too.
Not everyone: only the most understanding or those who could benefit most from it.
Then they decided to surround the strangers with care.
For now, all care is the bracelet draped around his leg. Yes, they had put a tag on him – trying not to hurt him, but still against his will – a tag that could be used to track his life.
But what does it matter to him?
His sweetheart also had a tag, a shiny little thing wrapped around her shin.
Did it help when the wearer was convulsing? That’s right.
They also gave him a name. A strange name, similar to their own.
Heng Chun. The Permanent Spring. The Eternal Spring.
Hah!
There is nothing eternal in this world, only the stars that light up in the blackness of the nights.
But they are there, far away, leading with their radiance to home – that’s all.
And there is no spring in his soul.
Her breath is all around… everywhere… everywhere…
Everything is blooming, everything is alive… Only it is as if he died inside on that shore, where she let out her last breath.
One step, one more step, and then crash down.
No, that’s something only they, the humans, can do. And they are horrified by it. And they marvel at it!
See, and now they’re looking up at him with all their eyes.
They’re watching, discussing something, gesticulating wildly. Waiting.
Yeah, it’s like they’re waiting for something…
The wind brings unlocal music. That is, their music, human music, just not typical of this place: jagged, rough, sharp-cutting with the edges of the words.
He doesn’t understand the meaning, but the rhythm is hammered into every bone in him.
…Und der Mob fängt an zu toben
Sie wollen seine Innereien
Und schreien
Spring*
A piercing cold and scalding heat. The blood roars. Painful and… cleansing. As if spring had washed