Threads 269-Perception 6

“I’ll have to hope enough people are enraptured by what could be to counterbalance any disagreements about what was,” Ling Qi mused.

“Guess I’ll just have to hope you’re as good at the hustle as you are at the flute,” Yu Nuan quipped.

“Is it a hustle if you believe what you’re saying?”

“It’s especially a hustle then.”

“Such a cynical junior.” They both looked up to see Bian Ya approaching them again. “But I am glad you took my advice to heart. Positive bonds are far more stable than negative.”

No one wanted to see themselves in failures. It was better to show a model of success and direct people towards it. Those had been the older girl’s words. Ling Qi wasn’t sure it was as definitive as that, but for this project, she agreed.

“Regardless, let’s get to the final preparations,” Ling Qi said. “We have a show to put on.”

***​

The stage rose from tightly woven roots and vines, pale green shading into a rich dark brown as bark grew in, filling the width of the field. Pillars and risers and rafters shot up like new shoots in spring, and they were swiftly covered by glittering curtains of dark purple, casting the area all in shadow and concealing the figures on the stage.

Disciples with drinks and food in hand began to arrive, drawn by the curious sight. They shuffled awkwardly between the many beasts drawn by the concentration of Zhengui’s qi. A show by one of their hosts, the word disseminated. A grand performance of many of the Inner Sect’s musician disciples as a send-off to one of their own.

What kind of performance would it be? What could need such a grand setup? A play? Which one? There were many popular theater troupes and many playwrights these days. Something old, others said, to fit the theme of the party. Something poorly understood and ill thought out, grumbled some, who found the whole business crude or insulting or both.

Yet as time wore on and the sounds behind the curtain began to fade, the guests, enthusiastic, reluctant, or merely interested, began to gather. If nothing else, the field near the stage was where everyone else was going, and it would not do to be left out.

The performance began with a rumble of thunder, the drifting clouds overhead growing dark and swelling with moisture and flashes of heavenly power. Then with the cooling of the air, the wind picked up, and tendrils of mist flowed from beneath the curtains, thin and wispy, but spreading swiftly through the field.

The curtain rose upon a scene in shadow. The ground between a towering grove of titanic and primeval trees was strewn with countless bones. The low bass notes of a playing lute became the rumble of great beasts. Briefly glimpsed figures of costumed disciples could be seen before the strumming music bent their shadows into beastly titans.

The Stag God, depicted with a shaggy head and jagged horns, twisted and broken many times, spoke in a voice of thunder of lowly men who no longer knew their place and of the leader who raised them above their station and filled the minds of the forest people with defiance. He spoke of faraway lands where the gods were falling one by one to the machinations of man.

A chorus rose to match the music, intertwining with the actors’ voices to boom and shriek. The shadow of vast wings wide enough to blot out the sky covered the stage. The prideful call of the Eagle God resounded, and he laughed off the Stag God’s cowardly fears, declaring that the storm of his wings alone would end this nonsense.

A great and terrible wolf with crimson eyes surrounded by his lessers, the Wolf God snarled of kin stolen by trickery and made weak by luxury, whose submission was an insult to his strength and who would need exterminating alongside the humans for the strength of the pack.

A mountain stirred and rumbled. The Bear God, a being of muscle and fur and power, vowed to end the noise of squabbling human life which disturbed his slumber.

A hissing voice of thousands in the buzzing of insects and the chittering of rats joined the chorus. The Vermin God agreed to lend their might, for man was growing wise and canny in the protection of their stores, and food would grow scarce all too soon.

Food would never be scarce, so long as they existed, declared the next, a lazing shadow that lay across a mountainside like a divan. The Tiger God looked down imperiously upon the others, and when the others turned voices of annoyance upon them, the flick of their tail was a crack of thunder. Let none doubt their resolve, for like the Wolf God, they had wayward kin in need of punishment.

Let it all be washed away like the floods of old, declared a burbling voice, a shadow in the waters, the River God, that degenerate offspring of the fallen old gods, and he received contempt from his fellows as was customary.

The weakest of their number, even the bold and stupid Eagle God, thought him foolish.

And so, none paid mind to the smallest of their number. Cunning and cruel, the Spider God watched his fellows in silence as the march began.

As the music rose, the view upon the stage panned up into the clear blue sky.

***​

“What a founding tale you southerners have.” Bai Meizhen observed the play of illusion and music with some amusement.

“It’s convenient,” Bao Qingling said sourly, her expression neutral. “Their number means the playwright always has enough figures to spread undesirable traits across, though there are commonalities.”

“Who would dare alter a founding tale?” Xiao Fen asked.

“We aren’t the Bai. The original tales are long lost. Your friend merely chose the orthodox Cai version.”

“I wonder about that,” Bai Meizhen mused, a smile playing on her lips.

Ling Qi was rarely orthodox.

***​

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Words died down as the glittering blue sky of the stage panned down to a brighter set. As light rain fell upon the stage, a soft background of strings and bells transformed into the patter of rain.

Under the rain, a new voice rose in a strident song. Tall and athletic with dusky skin and androgynous features and garbed in the royal finery of an age long past with hides dyed in dark greens and blacks and wearing a headdress of horns, Tsu sang the first lines of the scene, his hands thrown out wide before an audience of phantoms, the gathered and fearful people of the forest.

And despite the song and illusion, it was clear it was their hostess.

***​

A tall, thin young man frowned up at the stage, brows furrowed, and lips pressed together in a thin line.

“You are displeased, Sir Meng,” said his companion, a young woman with fang-like tattoos on her cheeks and rough hide garb. She leaned against the broad side of a stag.

“How can I not be?” Meng De replied. “There is a reason that the great Diviner is portrayed as a voice offstage in such plays. It shows immense ignorance to do otherwise. It puts all of this shallow imitation in the light it deserves.”