It was a warm day on Mount Yuelu.

To the monkey, it was simply a warm day. There was but one mountain. It's brothers were mere hills.

The monkey had no name. Monkeys did not have names after all. But, all seeing things remembered the shape of what they witnessed. Even without words, monkeys knew their brothers and rivals.

If a great master who knew the secret of monkey speech were to ask his fellows, they would say this monkey was orange-crest. Not that he was called orange-crest. It was not a name. It was a sound, a sound for a certain monkey. A monkey with an orange-crest. Orange-crest is simply the monkey he was, for the hair upon his brow gleamed like the setting sun.

Orange-crest had a secret. Not a little secret, like how pie-bald knew of a hollow tree on the green hill, where he stored many kinds of nuts, treasures for the icy season. This monkey had a deep secret, one that was hard to know. He'd never tried to show his brothers the secret. But some had followed him like shadows, seeking the red-golden bounty the secret offered. They had watched him, as he made offerings and prepared the mash. But when they tried to mimic him, their brews had soured.

It was a good secret. Even he didn't know it all of it.

Since it was the right sort of warm day, orange-crest decided to make wine. The trees were heavy with many sorts of stone fruit. His brothers had eaten their fill, and they lay about in the sun. The birds circled low now. The more daring of them dipped low, feigning dives. The fat monkeys grumbled, palming stones, but none of them roused themselves to protect their trees.

There was bounty enough for all, in these lazy days. But appearances had to be kept. The birds could eat when the monkeys napped.

And only after orange-crest had finished his harvest.

Big-butt and red-eyes watched as orange-crest scampered about, gathering stone fruit. They'd thought him a fool, in years past. Now they grasped the shape of his secret. They'd even attempted it themselves, but their mashes had soured, or been eaten by birds.

Now they contented themselves to watch. Sometimes they bartered with orange-crest. Sometimes red-eye shadowed him, finding his trees and drinking them before he could. Other times, big-butt would simply follow orange-crest around, hooting threateningly until the smaller monkey let him drink himself into a stupor.

If the great master who spoke monkey had asked, they would not say this was fair, for the fruits of the orchard belonged to all monkeys. Monkeys did not know the word fair, and they were wiser than men. A monkey knew that the only way a fruit could belong to two monkeys is if they each ate half of it.

Orange-crest gathered as many stone fruits as he could carry. It was not many. Only enough for one small tree. He could not make a big tree with the fruits of the orchard. His brothers would see him making his many trips, and steal the fruits of his labor.

But orange-crest was not satisfied with another small tree.

He needed something new. He'd made many wines with the stone fruit. Sometimes the fruits were red as meat, flush with a juice almost like wine. He liked those best, but more often the fruits were pale, harder. Monkeys were not patient orchardists.

New things had given him his secret. All the monkeys knew the green skin-fruits were bad for poops. They made them runny and white and made belly's hurt. But orange-crest knew something else about them.

As a young monkey orange-crest had been small. One summer, the great fire in the sky had blazed especially hot, scorching the land. The trees of the orchard had only borne hard, shriveled little fruits, as much stone as fruit. All the monkeys had begun setting food aside for the cold season even earlier than normal. Some of them had spent their days digging for grubs. Others had climbed high on Mount Yuelu, looking for birds nests high on the cliffs, and the eggs deep within. All to save more of the normally abundant fruit for the cold times.

Orange-crest had gathered green skin-fruits along with grubs. They were not good, but he was small and weak, and the his larger brothers would not let him have any of the orchard fruit. Better bad fruit, than none at all. Runny white poops were better than an empty belly.

And then winter had come, and it had been warm. A second sky-fire had joined the first in the heavens, and Mount Yuelu saw no snows that year. It was no season of plenty, but no monkey starved. Orange-crest had forgotten about his tree full of green skin-fruit.

When he'd found the tree again later, the hollow within within was filled with mush. Green and white mush. Wiggly mush. Fat leaf-green worms with white-markings had wiggled all within the mush.

White was a dangerous colors. Sometimes very bad, sometimes very good.

Orange-crest had tried eating them anyway. There was no such thing as bad worms. Only good worms and better worms.

And these, he had discovered, were the very best worms.

His secret worms.

The worms that, when added to a pile of fruit, prevented it from souring. Instead, they made delicious delicious wine. Better than bloody stone-fruit. Better than fat eggs. And as an added bonus, they made more worms in the process! The worms were almost as good as the wine! He slurped up the sweet and pungent chunky soup and it made him feel warm and fuzzy and happy and like his head could fly with the birds.

On a steady diet of wine and worms, he'd grown big and strong. Almost as strong as big-butt and hard-hand. Well, not quite. He was far smaller, being young, and not a giant freak like big-butt. But being big was cheating. He was the strongest monkey of his size!

Orange-crest wiped his mouth. The thought of wine made it run wet. Silly mouth. Today wasn't a drinking day, it was a making day. Orange-crest deposited his stone fruit in a testing-tree. It had previously made one good batch, and one bad one. He would discover if it was a good tree or not. Any tree that made two bad batches in a row was a bad brewing tree, and would only produce worms for him, not wine.

Some trees killed even the worms, but this wasn't one of those. He could tell the poison-trees by their scent now.

He had fruit and he had a tree. He always had worms in one tree or another. But he still needed a new thing. Orange-crest scratched his eponymous poof of hair.

He'd tried other bugs. Beetles and dragonflies. Mixed results. They all kept dying and some of them tasted weird.

He'd tried other fruits too. Of the Seven Fruits of Mount Yuelu, stone fruit was the best. For eating and brewing alike. This was a known truth amount monkeys.

Worms were normally ground things. Maybe other ground things? Normal rocks were bad for wine, but maybe a good rock?

With an enthusiastic hoot, orange-crest set off down Mount Yuelu.

He turned over every rock he saw. Tiny wiggling white worms, he ate those. Never waste a snack. Thin-finger-roots did not want to come out of the ground. Only worth eating in bad years. He found many rocks, none of them were good rocks.

Orange-crest was wise in the way of rocks, and knew of several legendary rocks. The white-ocean-gem. The bound-gleaming-sunfire that the Monkey King had twisted and woven to make his crown. Even the cold-fire-within-stone that the hairless ones and great-ancestor-beasts coveted with hot blood and cold eyes.

Truly, he was a wise monkey. Unfortunately, he didn't find any of those. They were legendary after all.

Orange-crest searched all day, eating worms and grubs as he went. A few good beetles, for spice. One spider because it looked at him funny. Never trust a spider. Spare one's life and you'd find it creeping around in your fur later.

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When the sky-fire was low in the sky, he finally found a new thing.

The root was wiggling. Orange-crest tilted his said to the side. Roots did not locomote independently. Every-monkey knew that. It was a... worm-root? Worms were good. Roots were okay. Some were good, but this one wasn't fat like those. He grabbed it. It felt funny wiggling in his hand, as he clenched it tightly enough to squish a normal worm.

He licked it, sniffed it. It tasted like fire. Plant-fire. Not cold-fire or fire-fire.

Monkeys did not shrug. Shrugging was a thing for socialized beasts, and they were social beasts. Important difference. But orange-crest's mind did the same thing a man's does when his shoulders shrug. Information was evaluated, and discarded as inconsequential. This seemed to him as good a new thing as any other, so he snuck back to his tree, and added it to the mash.

He watched for a while, to make sure the worm-root could not wiggle out, then capped the end of the hollow. Bark artfully angled to allow in just enough rain and air. Leaves arranged to conceal the depth of the hollow.

Orange-crest went to bed satisfied, and slept the sleep of a stone-monkey-sage. Wise and virtuous, industrious and fed.

---

A year passed, before orange-crest remembered this tree. It had been a quiet year. The birds had warred with the bees, after the latter had found a new king. The Monkey King had brokered peace, by driving the Bee King from the mountain. Quick-fingers had borne a child, who was very annoying. Red-eyes had red-eyes again, and snapped at anyone who poked at him. He and big-butt had fought cruelly, when he snapped at the little one.

Strife between brothers was a shame, so orange-crest decided to drink that day.

Orange-crest usually drank alone, and today was no exception. His brothers were his brothers, but they were also lazy gluttons. Only in good years and bad years did he share.

He didn't really remember this tree. He knew it was a testing tree, because he remembered all the good trees. The wine smelled sweet and strong as he uncovered it, a frothy chunky pool of red nectar. He mentally upgraded this tree to a good tree.

He stuck a hand in, testing the wine. He knew he did something new with this one, but he couldn't remember what.

Orange-crest felt something. His eyes widened, as he withdrew a hand clenching the fattest worm he'd ever seen. It was twice as long as his hand! As fat as the little one's head had been when quick-fingers announced him! It wouldn't even fit in his mouth! The one strange thing is that it was blue. Orange-crest couldn't remember what he'd put in this tree, but he was pretty sure he usually used the green worms. He didn't think he'd ever seen a fat blue one like this.

Orange-crest beheld this King among wine-worms, and his monkey brain made a decision.

He chomped down on it's head.

Worm-juice, no, worm-wine, splattered all over his fur. It tasted like wine and plant-fire and meaty worm. He ate it in three great bites. Orange-crest moaned in satisfaction, leaning back against the tree. His body felt warm and tingly and he hadn't even started slurping wine yet!

Flush with vigor and wild energy, orange-crest forwent a leaf ladle and stuck his whole head in the tree. He licked and slurped and gulped, gorging himself on wine and worms until his stomach was full enough to bursting.

Had a great master of wine brewing come upon orange-crest in prior years, he would have snorted, and proclaimed the monkey a rank amateur at brewing. Sure, it was impressive for a monkey to brew wine at all, but even calling it wine would have been a great stretch. Even after fermenting for a year, it was often quite sweet.

Monkeys, he would have said, were clearly lightweights, if they thought that they could get drunk on something barely stronger than a wheat beer. This batch though, he would have said, this batch had potential. Even if it was a grievous waste of a near hundred-year old ginseng.

Orange-crest knew none of this. What he did know, is that his head felt good-funny. The world swam in meaning and danced in moonlight. He'd thought himself a connoisseur of the many mental states wine could introduce, a veritable libationist among monkeys. He now understood that there were heavens above heaven, levels of bibulousity he could scarcely have comprehended before this auspicious eve.

Orange-crest knew none of these words either, but his newly liberated mind was making the mental twists and turns that would approximate them, freed from the confines of monkey-speech and human language alike.

Suffice it to say, any with eyes to see would have looked upon this monkey, and declared with all the authority of an edict of the heavenly court, that he was a very drunk monkey.

Orange-crest stumbled down the mountain, enjoying the way he could tilt the world by tilting his head. Profound nonsense streamed through his monkey-brain, fueled by the fire in his belly. Guided by this wisdom, he took many turns with the bold certainty of a man or monkey who had no idea where he was trying to go.

Then, just as he was about to lie down to watch the stars, he stumbled upon something new.

The new thing was white. Blindingly white. White as fresh fallen snow, with a black crest. It was shaped like a monkey, but it's fur was beyond strange. Flowing and shifting, seemingly detached from it's skin, yet clinging all the same. Orange-crest tried to track it's arcane geometry.

He blinked. A spark flickered in orange-crest's drunken mind. This was a hairless one! Normally they had short gray and brown spotted fur, but this one had strange long white hair-stuff. But they were hairless ones, so it wasn't hair at all. Maybe hairless one was a bad name, this one had hair on it's head after all, strange and long and bound as it was.

"How dare they, the obstinate fools! A single failure, and they deny me any further disciples! Who are they to declare that I am unfit to teach! I'll kill them all!" The hairless one hooted.

Orange-crest watched him from a tree. That was a lot of hooting.

"One idiot disciple fails to leave the tempering bath at the appropriate hour and suddenly my entire bodily cultivation practice is proscribed because he can't lift his arms above his head anymore? How is that supposed to be my fault! How can a man hope to challenge the heavens if he cannot follow simple written directions!"

Oh dear. Had the hairless one lost his mate? That was a lot of hooting. Well adjusted monkeys usually did not hoot that much when they were alone.

"A little is good so a lot must be better? Are you retarded? Did your mother try to drown you as an infant and fail halfway through? Maybe you should have drunk the tempering solution and let it temper your innards then! Did your grandfather copulate with a pig? I'll poison that eggless merchant prince! I'm a daoist and he thinks gold can dictate my future? I'll poison his whole worthless family!"

It sounded like angry hooting, but orange-crest was a kind and generous monkey in a good mood. Maybe he would share his wine with the angry hairless one.

"Ooo! Ooh! Ek kek! Ooh! Oooooook ek!" Orange-crest hooted back.

"Can't lift his arms above his head! I'll give him something to cry about! I'll-" The hairless one cut itself off, looking for orange-crest.

"Oo! Oo!" He hooted, hopping on his branch.

"You dare mock me monkey! Don't think I won't kill you too!"

The branch wiggled like a worm, and orange-crest wobbled atop it. Why was the world so wobbly?

Orange-crest fell, hitting the soft loam with a dull plop.

"Oo." Orange-crest intoned weakly. He was alright. The earth loved him, even if the heavens were being mean and wiggly.

"Are you... drunk?" The hairless one frowned. "What am I doing, talking to a monkey. A drunken monkey. I am being mocked by a drunken monkey."

Orange-crest cooed. Yes, hairless one, let go of your anger.

"Perhaps I deserve the jeering of a drunken monkey. Where did I go wrong?" He mused in a softer tone. "I dedicated my life to the dao of medicine, but now I spent all my hours teaching spoiled brats how to temper their skin? Perhaps it is I who strayed from the path, holding luxury above virtue. But I need the support of the sect to acquire ingredients, and disciples to test my new formulae upon. Is it truly arrogance to be unsatisfied with merely retreading paths walked by our ancestors, to wish to offer the world something new and marvelous?"

Orange-crest stood. Even the earth was betraying him now, dodging and weaving beneath his feet like the little one when he wanted something you held. But he was a monkey whose heart could encompass all things, and he loved it still. He wanted to pet the earth, reassure it that it was loved, but the hairless one needed his wisdom more urgently!

He growled. How dare his legs deny his will? They were his legs! He owned them like he did his secrets! He commanded them, marshalled the fire in his gut to spread forth and burn out their unsteadiness.

"No. It cannot be! A monkey, sure. Drunken, I can accept. Monkey-wine is a rare but known phenomena. A daoist, among monkeys? A bridge too far!"

More hooting. Couldn't the hairless one see he was busy wrestling with the recalcitrant wine?

He made it! It made him feel warm and good! How dare it disobey him and make him feel wobbly! Bad wine! But also good wine? Maybe it was like green skin-fruit wine? Bad to drink, but good for making wine worms? Bad-good?

But it tasted so good it had to be good! Orange-crest's drunken monkey brain strove mightily with the dao, and in fighting it became aligned with it.

His legs obeyed, and he toddled over towards the hairless one. He would show it to another wine tree and they could become brothers!

"The beast cycles qi! A cultivating monkey! The heavens do not mock me, they show me the way! The dao does not abide in the minds of men alone, disciples are everywhere for those with eyes to see!"

The hairless one really liked the sound of his own voice. Melodious as they were compared to his brothers, this was far too much hooting.

"How hard can it be, to teach a monkey that already discovered cultivation? Men take years to learn what he already has, surely a daoist of my surpassing knowledge can teach him words and manners? The mortals of the emperor's court dress them in robes and teach them simple tricks. What limits are there on what a true master could accomplish?"

The hairless one smiled at him like a strong monkey might at a female in heat, eyes hot, all teeth and non-food-hunger. Orange-crest shivered. He didn't like that.

"Rejoice, little one. This is the start of a partnership that will shake the very heavens. Together, we will show them all. These fools who mock me will discover that they are less even than common monkeys, unfit for their human incarnations!"

"Ook?"

The daoist made a profound gesture, and orange-crest's limbs refused to move. Uh oh. This was a new thing, and it did not seem like a good one. He hoped it was one of those bad-good things, not a bad-bad thing.

Orange-crest marshalled the fire in his blood, but he could hardly breathe, let alone move or cry out. Panic filled him. He remembered the Monkey King's warnings. The hairless ones were mighty and capricious, driven by strange hungers.

"Come along, little monkey. A whole new world awaits."