8 Distress (1/2)

The broken shards of my soul were packed into a rough sphere. A mysterious vine seemed to be keeping them together. Qi oozed from the cracks, trickling into drops which steadily dripped down.

How did this happen? When father sent his qi into me, the container was still there. I gathered my strength and tried to force the pieces back together.

The vine grew in a flash and cocooned my soul. Thorns spiked out, and pain coursed through my body. I withdrew the pressure and the vine began to shrink.

The vine had stopped me from reaching my soul. I tried to touch it once more, but the vines repelled me again with a sharp pain. I was ripped from my meditation.

I just had to leave it for now. Despair washed over me. I didn't know if my soul would repair. I didn't even know if I could cultivate again.

The tension in the air started to make sense. Father seemed distraught. He slumped in his seat, and his eyes seemed empty.

The ride back home was long and winding. Every silent minute filled me with solemn dread. The carriage finally stopped, and we stepped out.

I finally got a good look at my house. It was perched on a mountain top, lying low to the steep terrain. It was surrounded by a layered stone wall, punctured by many small windows and one circular doorway.

We passed through the doorway and followed a gravel path to the open courtyard. Auburn wood decking lined the inner path of a U-shaped structure.

The decking was raised about a foot above the serene garden on wooden posts. A solitary bench sat facing out into the courtyard. It overlooked gravel circles and lush greenery, dotted by vibrant purple flowers.

A winding path of flat stones led to two sets of steps. Mother carried me up one set into the nursery. She lay me down in my cot, kissed my forehead, and left the room.

My parents argued outside my door. After a minute or so, the arguing stopped, replaced by mother's soft tones of consolation.

I lay back in my cot and tried to think of a solution to my problem. For now, I couldn't touch my soul. The Soul Becoming World Technique was a dead end.

I tried to do some light meditation instead. The tiny droplets of qi leaking from my soul were enough. I could explore my body, but qi barely trickled behind me.

I felt a bit guilty for cultivating again after all that had just happened. But what else could I do? Cultivation was my purpose in this world.

Over the next few days my routine changed. I wasn't taken to the study anymore. Instead, mother would sit on the bench with me in her lap.

She would point out everything in sight, gently sounding out their names for me. I had little hope of cultivating right now, so I relished the information.

Each day mother seemed more at ease and more joyful. Our time together was relaxing. Her pleasant voice became the soundtrack to my life.

At times she would bring a tray of food into father's study. Whenever she did this, her kindly face seemed to fall. It would take some time on the bench for her to brighten up again.

I couldn't help but notice that I hadn't seen father for days. He was probably locked up in his study, but I didn't know what he was doing.

I missed spending time in his study. I missed watching him write. I missed him.

That night my door creaked open and I heard shuffling. Out of instinct, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. There was a thud beside my cot, followed by rumbling breath.

I cracked open one eye and peeked out the corner. In the pale moonlight, I saw father. He was slumped on his knees beside his cot.

His robe was wrinkled, and his belt hung low in a loose knot. His face was dishevelled, and he had a course layer of stubble. He placed his head in his hands and began to whimper.