“Go away!”

“Stop following us!”

“Stupid little orphan!”

Summer had laid siege on the spring bound Mountain. The trees of the Forest surged over their ancestral home, vibrant and buzzing with life, draping the Mountain in brilliant, bursting swaths of deep green. Down in the valley, the early afternoon sun warmed and woke the trees, enfolding all who travelled along the path to the river in a soft, mellow scent of earth and pine.

But the magistrate’s daughter, several paces behind the other village children, did not have the heart to see any of the beauty that surrounded her.

“We said stop following us!” one of the children shouted.

“Why?” she asked, still again. The word was a dry and twisted husk in her mouth from overuse. “Why can’t I join you?”

“Why do you think, orphan?” the blacksmith’s son sneered. He was the oldest of the group by at least two winters, and its accepted leader. “You’re nothing. You’re trash that even your parents didn’t want.”

“But they did!” She panted as she struggled to keep up with the bigger children. “They did! They just wanted to give someone who would never have a child the chance to raise one. My father told me.”

The other village children exploded with sharp laughter.

“I would say that too if I were him,” said one.

“It’s because he’s too fat and ugly to find a wife,” added another.

“Only a wifeless magistrate would want a daughter that her own parents threw away,” said the blacksmith’s son derisively.

The magistrate’s daughter blinked heavily, pained by the cruelty of their words.

“That’s not true,” she protested, but her voice trembled. “My father is not ugly, and I’m not trash.”

The blacksmith’s son laughed even harder, goaded by the sight of her crumpling countenance.

“My father is not ugly, and I’m not trash,” he taunted, mimicking her high voice and twisting his face into a cruel, ridiculous expression. “Of course you are, little orphan daughter!”

He started to dance in place and chanted the words to a rhyme that he had made up not long ago. The other village children laughed with delight, and clapped along as they joined in, hopping on one foot then the other.

Little orphan daughter left beside the road

Too ugly for her parents, they didn’t want her home

Along came a magistrate too homely for a wife

And found an ugly daughter who’d stay with him for life!

Trash begets trash so the wise man says

Filth begets filth is the lesson for today

If your parents hate you, there’s no need to be afraid

Just find an ugly magistrate and ask if you can stay!

Once finished, they cheered loudly and patted one another on the back. They pointed, laughing, at the subject of their rhyme, and the thick, slow tears that had begun to trickle down her face.

“Please,” she sniffed, her voice breaking. She hastily wiped her face. “Please, can’t we just play? I promise I won’t bother anyone.”

“You bother us by being there,” said the blacksmith’s son. He turned back down the path, and gestured to the others to do so as well. “That’s what it means to be trash, orphan.”

“But why?” she wailed.

“Because I said so!” he shouted. He turned and stepped near the magistrate’s daughter, hands balled into fists.

“Now you’re really starting to irritate me,” he growled. “I’m warning you, orphan. Go away.”

The magistrate’s daughter hesitated, too scared to speak or move.

The blacksmith’s son’s hand blurred and struck her cheek with a sharp blow that sent her head spinning. Before she could think to recover or cry, he planted a foot in her stomach and sent her tumbling down into the dirt, gasping. The rest of the village children hooted and jeered behind him.

“That’s what you get, orphan,” he panted. His eyes glared down at the magistrate’s daughter with a wild, flushed, almost pained look, but he kept his chin raised. “I’m warning you. If you keep following us or keep trying to play with us, you’re going to get worse.”

He turned back to the group of children.

“Let’s go.”

Breathless and disoriented, the magistrate’s daughter could only watch as the blacksmith’s son and the rest of the village children continued on their way down to the river, and left her behind without looking back.

--------------------

The candle’s flame stirred and sputtered in the quiet dark of the magistrate’s daughter’s room.

The magistrate bent low over his daughter, holding her head carefully in his lap. Between his hands, a large bruise lay splashed across the skin of his daughter’s pale cheek like a plum stain, startlingly visible even in the dim light.

He spread a sharp, pungent ointment over the dark skin as gently as he could manage. Sullen and red eyed, she made no sound of discomfort or pain, though she smarted and ached at every light touch.

“Oh, my beautiful daughter,” he said at last. His voice was heavy and distraught. “Oh, my beautiful daughter. Why must you continue to concern yourself with them and punish yourself so?”

Despite the many tears she had already cried that day, her eyes filled and overflowed, pouring down across her face and onto her father’s lap.

“They bring you nothing but pain and grief.” His voice twisted with anguish. “How many more times must you learn this? Why must you so pander yourself to them only to come back broken?”

Tears continued to stream from his daughter’s eyes and her shoulders shook. But she remained silent and did not reply.

The magistrate let out a long, tired, sad sigh. He drew a cloth from a bowl of hot water that he had brought in beside him, released the water from it with a slow twist, and washed her face and brow with the warm wet cloth.

“There now,” he said, his voice consoling. But her tears only grew larger, and she sobbed at the touch of his loving care.

“There now,” he said again, softer this time. “There now. Your skin will wrinkle if we allow so many tears to dry upon it.”

Patiently, he waited for her tears to stop, washing away each tear as it fell. When they ran dry, he dried her face with a fresh cloth, then ran his hand gently through her hair.

For a long, heavy moment, neither father nor daughter spoke. Though she laid with her head on her father’s lap and he ran his hand through his daughter’s hair, the air about them hung in a painful pall. The candle’s thin flame did not brighten the room so much as emphasized the smothering, surrounding darkness, and cast long flickering shadows across the lines of the magistrate’s solemn face.

When the magistrate finally spoke, his voice was low and quiet, as if the silence was a small, slumbering thing that he did not wish to rouse.

“We must at least bring this matter before the blacksmith,” he murmured to his daughter. “As I keep telling you, he is a man of worthy character. He would be deeply troubled by his son’s deeds, and bring the entire matter to a swift and peaceable conclusion.”

But his daughter shook her head quickly in his lap with a soft sound of disagreement.

The magistrate laid a hand across her brow. “My daughter, there is no shame in this course of action. It is the duty of every parent to guide their child. The blacksmith would only appreciate that we have brought his son’s troubled behavior before him. He would ensure that no ill repercussions return to you.”

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But his daughter shook her head still again. She made as if to speak, then stopped, waiting until she could be certain of her voice.

“Please,” she whispered at last.

The magistrate hung his head, frustrated to the brink of humorless laughter. Though he had planned to quietly visit the blacksmith the next day even if his daughter refused, he felt his will bend, then fold beneath the soft weight of her quiet request. He sighed, and ran his hand through her hair.

“Very well,” he sighed, still again. “Very well. But as both a father and a magistrate, I must tell you that I do not know much longer I will be able to continue my silence. Do you hear me, my daughter? Do you understand?”

She hesitated, then nodded just once. Her father patted her brow.

“Then that is all we shall say.”

With a grunt of effort, he replaced his numb, damp leg from beneath her head with a nearby pillow. His daughter, not turning, listened quietly as her father stood, slid open the door, and left the room. His soft, heavy footsteps faded into the distance, then grew as he returned to her room and kneeled again beside her.

“Here now,” he said quietly.

The magistrate set down before his daughter two beautiful, bright, red-orange persimmons, the likes of which she had never before seen. Just at the very peak of taut, lush ripeness, their delicate, sweet fragrance filled the room with a gentle, comforting spirit. Even by the dying light of the candle they seemed to her eyes as beautiful as any jewel worthy of the emperor’s crown.

Her father rose as if to leave, but slowed and stopped at the door.

“My most precious and beautiful daughter,” he said softly from the door. “Though you are no blood of mine, let it never be beyond a shadow of a doubt that I love you, and I always have ever since the moment I first held you in my arms. You are my greatest gift, and far above any measure of prosperity I could ever have hoped to achieve.”

Despite her numerous tears that day, his daughter’s eyes filled and overflowed, still again, as if for the very first time.

“Good night, my daughter.”

The magistrate stepped out, and slid the door closed behind him.

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Late the next morning, the village children set off once again beneath clear, cloudless skies to spend the hot afternoon on the banks of the river.

But the magistrate’s daughter did not follow immediately after them. Instead, that morning, she watched them from behind her door, waiting for them to disappear around the bend in the trail. Once they were gone, she disappeared back into the depths of her father’s house and emerged, nervously holding in her hands a small, cloth covered basket of woven bamboo.

With the sun bright and warm above her, the magistrate’s daughter slowly followed the trail that led to the river, fighting to contain the hope that slowly rose in her heart with each step. But her thoughts fluttered and soared beneath the cheerful vigor of the day’s beauty. She imagined herself removing the cloth with a flourish, and the looks of wonder and delight that would unravel across their faces at the sight of her gift. She imagined the slow but warm welcome that would ensue, and how they would call for her from the front of her house as they waited for her before they left each day. Rounding the final bend, she heard the shrill, sharp sounds of children playing in the river’s cool waters and broke into a wide, excited smile.

“How many times do we have to tell you to go away?” shouted the blacksmith’s son, as soon as she appeared. His loud, harsh voice caught the group’s attention and they turned to watch the magistrate’s daughter as she approached.

Her smile faltered at his harsh greeting, but held.

Just wait, she thought, just wait.

He just had to see what she had brought. Then the rest would follow.

“I have something to share!” She held her basket high, her voice bright and cheerful.

“Something to share?” the blacksmith’s son echoed scornfully. He stepped out to meet her, eyeing the basket with suspicion.

Before she could react, he lunged forward and snatched the cloth off the top to reveal the two ripe, perfect persimmons that she had received from her father just the night before. Beneath the clear bright light of the midday sun, the fruits gleamed and shone like orbs of fire. Even in the open space of the riverbank, she could smell their rich, subtle fragrance and saw that the blacksmith’s son could as well.

“I thought we could let them cool in the river before sharing them all together,” she said, careful to keep her voice pleasant and warm. As she spoke, she looked around at the rest of the children’s faces and felt as if she could almost see their eyes lighting up at the thought of the sweet, chilled fruit.

The blacksmith’s son, speechless, reached slowly into the basket, and picked up one of the fruits in his hands. Only the magistrate’s daughter saw the quick look of wonder and curiosity that swept over his face before it twisted and hardened into a mien of sharp scorn, bitter fury, and something darker entirely.

“You thought we were going to let you join us because you brought some stupid fruit?”

He clenched his fist hard over the tender persimmon, and it crushed in his hands with a soft bursting sound, encasing his hand in the fruit of its sweet, syrupy innards.

The magistrate’s daughter flinched, visibly, at his words. She stared in shocked disbelief at the sodden mess of fruit in his hand. Her bright, sunny smile cracked and shattered like hurled pottery, and despite a trembling, visceral effort to hide her grief, her face crumpled beneath the sudden cruel truth of her reality.

But the blacksmith’s son’s mouth thinned and curled at the sight and he scowled at her with a strange, horrible look of revile that the young child would never forget.

“You thought this would make us want to be your friends?” He flung the messy remains onto the stricken, motionless child with a contemptuous swipe of his arm. “How dimwitted are you, orphan? You thought fruit would help?”

He snatched the second persimmon from the basket, dropped it at his feet, and stomped his foot down over it, sending juice and innards splattering out onto the mud of the riverbank.

Wounded as she had never been wounded before, the magistrate’s daughter could only watch and cry helplessly. The blacksmith’s son seized her by the hair with a vicious jerk, and she screamed, dragged back into the moment by the cruel pain.

“You want to play so much?” he breathed. He strode into the shallows of the river, dragging the magistrate’s daughter behind him by her hair, and threw her out into the deep waters.

Overpowered, the magistrate’s daughter tried to scream as she slapped painfully into the surface of the river, but the cold river frothed and churned as it enveloped her, filling her eyes, her nose, and her mouth with a rush of sound and shocking sensation. She flailed, searching for a purchase, a hold, anything to help her escape. Finally her feet found the loose ground of the river’s bottom and pushed.

She came up out of the water, gasping, and sobbed wretchedly, wishing with all her heart that she were rather at home, enjoying its quiet, dry comforts and the sweet fruit her father had given. She fought her way back towards the river’s edge and away from the current that threatened to drag her under. But her heart sank with a cold wash of terror as she heard low urgent murmurs, even a cry of alarm, and saw the blacksmith’s son dislodge a rock the size of his fist out of the mud.

“I told you didn’t I?” He hefted the stone in his hand, and his eyes shone with a wild, flushed, determined light. “I told you it would be worse the next time you bothered us again, didn’t I?”

“No!” she half sobbed, half screamed. Terrified, she raised her hands before her. “Stop! Please! Stop!”

Through the haze of her tears, she saw his dark figure shift slowly, then snap with a sudden, sharp movement.

The rock struck her head with a shattering, deafening impact that thundered in her ears and filled her nostrils with the scent of iron and blood. Her vision swam with jagged red and black tones. She heard the sounds of screaming and shouting, as if from a great ways off, but was neither able to look nor move as she slipped bonelessly beneath the surface of the water.

But instead of pulling her out and away from the river’s edge, the waters stopped and gathered themselves around her. They pressed in around the half conscious child, invisible, unseen, and held her where she had fallen.

She would not remember it later, but for a very brief moment the magistrate’s daughter felt for all the world like an infant in her mother’s arms, and felt a very faint, muted pull of a long forgotten memory.

The waters of the river washed away the remnants of fruit from her small body and the blemishes from her hair and clothes. Sliding over her, they closed the gaping, bleeding wound on her head with a soft touch, gathered her halo of blood, and sent it away with the current.

“Be strong, little sister,” a voice whispered, clear and sharp in her ears. “Do not mind your wounds. See now, I tend to them. Do not pale at the sight of your blood. See now, I wash it away. Do not let him poison you. They that wound what they cannot heal inflict upon themselves the deepest scars of all.”

But before the dazed, fading child had the chance to think or even absorb what she had heard, there was an approaching sound of distant thunder, and two long familiar arms dove towards her through the river’s surface above.

The next thing she knew she was being pulled and then carried out of the river in the arms of someone whose shoulders and gait she instinctively recognized. Exhausted and broken beyond belief, she wrapped her arms tightly around the figure and hid her face in their neck as they emerged from the river, and stopped on its bank.

The riverbank that had been a hubbub of noise just moments ago was completely quiet. Not one body stirred, not one bird sang. Even the river seemed to slide by with a hushed, bowed air.

“Follow me.”

The magistrate’s low voice snarled with a cold, glacial fury that she did not remember having ever heard before.

But as they made their long way back to the village, followed by the hesitant tread of a much smaller pair of feet, the magistrate’s daughter felt the thought slip quickly and quietly away, overwhelmed by a warm, pounding darkness that grew and blanketed her with the sweet, intoxicating bliss of a deep, dreamless sleep.

-----------------------------------

Once back in the village, the magistrate led the blacksmith’s son to his father’s shop still holding his sleeping daughter in his arms. He recounted all that his beloved daughter had confided to the blacksmith in the presence of his son, and made no effort to lower his voice or hide his words despite a quietly gathering audience.

The blacksmith’s countenance darkened with each tale, and grew incensed as the magistrate finally described the events of that day and what he had witnessed with his own eyes. Seeing the truth of the matter reflected in his own son’s frightened face, the blacksmith punished his son severely with a rod of thick bamboo, then and there, as the entire village watched on. Then, with his son weeping beside him, he prostrated himself before the magistrate, put his head in the dirt, and begged forgiveness.

The magistrate, having seen in the blacksmith true surprise, outrage, and sorrow at the sudden knowledge of his son’s actions, forgave the blacksmith in the presence of all that had gathered. He declared the matter a fact of history, trusting the blacksmith to do what was wise and necessary.

When the magistrate’s daughter awoke the next morning with a bandage wound tightly around her head, the blacksmith dragged his son out before the magistrate’s house and repeated the entire affair, punishing his son in her sight before falling on his hands and knees before the child in true, heartfelt repentance.

But the magistrate’s daughter could not find within her the power to speak words of either forgiveness or fury, and stared with dull, shadowed eyes as the blacksmith bowed again and again, and the sun rose higher and higher into the sky.

In the moons that followed, the blacksmith’s son began his apprenticeship in his father’s shop, and would remain by his father’s side until he was no longer a child.

The magistrate’s daughter, still recovering from her wounds, did not leave the confines of her house and, as time passed, began to quietly study the arts of literature, calligraphy, and mathematics at the urging of her father, though it was contrary to the customs of the land.

Neither she nor the blacksmith’s son would ever return to the spirit of the child they had once been, ever again.