In a time long ago for some, not long for others, there was a young priestess that lived in the twin city of Fenghao. She was considered wise beyond her years, if a little cold, and known for the infallibility of her readings. Her fame grew to the point that the King himself consulted her on all matters of importance, and he even provided her a small house in the royal gardens, so that he might have ready access to her prophecies at all times.
It was spring, and lotus pads floated on the surface of the tranquil pond, while swallows chirped and spun in the sky above. The priestess sat in a pavilion on the water studying with her husband, who was a man of letters. A brilliantly colored koi breached the water nearby and made bubbling noises, opening and closing its mouth.
“And here is the character for ‘fish,’” said the man, drawing a flowing line of ink on a piece of parchment, “since you seem more interested in that one than in our lessons.”
The priestess darted her eyes back from where she had been gazing at the margin of the pond. “Nature is the best teacher,” she said smoothly. “I’ve learned much by observing the movement of the goldfish through water.”
“And what have you gleaned from your study?” The man arched an eyebrow.
“See how greedily it gulps at the water’s surface?” said the priestess, pointing, “and yet, if it were to attain the realm that it so craves, it would surely perish.”
“Just as we often seek our own destruction,” mused the man. “This was to be a class on writing, but I fear we are verging on philosophy.”
Suddenly, there was a shaking that scared the fish away, and the two looked toward the massive gong that indicated the King’s arrival.
“I apologize,” said the priestess. “It seems I’m needed.”
“Remember your letters,” said the husband. “Written in the cracks, they are often ambiguous, but they are always there.”
The priestess passed over floating wooden walkways toward the garden entrance, before kowtowing in front of the King and his advisors. “This humble one asks how she may be of service,” she intoned.
The King was beside himself with excitement. “I have heard that in the mountains to the west, there is a heavenly garden tended by none other than the Queen Mother herself. The fruits there are said to bestow immortality upon those who consume them. Tell me how to reach this place.”
“Your Majesty does this one great honor by this question,” said the priestess, holding her gaze downwards to avoid being blinded by his radiance. “I will consult the oracle bones at once.”
The priestess led the King and his entourage to the ceremonial cauldron and lit the ceremonial fire. Then, in another room, she changed into her ceremonial robes and brought out the ceremonial turtle, whose name was Slowpoke. He was the twenty-seventh ceremonial turtle, and they had all been named Slowpoke.
In those days, fresh turtle shells were considered the best substrate for accurate fortunes. Therefore, the King required that all readings be done with turtles that were slain in front of him. The priestess did so, prying the plastron off with forceps and washing it thoroughly with fresh water. The King tapped his foot impatiently, but he too recognized the importance of a clean reading.
By this time, the fire had heated the bronze cauldron so that the bottom glowed red-hot, and the priestess held the flat white shard over it until cracks began to form. She waited a moment longer, then drew the oracle bone out before it became too brittle.
She peered at the characters, copied some onto a scrap of parchment, and nodded to herself.
“Well?” demanded the King.
“Yes,” said the priestess. “These unworthy eyes see that in the mountains west of here, there is indeed a garden where peaches of uncommon sweetness are grown, purported by some to grant the power of immortality. However, this is a great exaggeration, spread by the savvy owners of the orchard to attract high prices for their crop. In fact, the high sugar content means they should only be consumed in moderation, Your Majesty.”
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The priestess couldn’t help but notice the King turn to stare daggers at one of his eunuch advisors, who cringed. “We will be having some words,” said the King to him. “The rest of you are dismissed.” The band of men and half-men scattered, leaving the priestess to tidy up the ashes of the reading.
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The King’s next visit was that summer. The heat was oppressive, although the water of the pond dispelled it slightly. The priestess spent much of her time in the water, and was surprised to hear the gong that signaled the King’s arrival. She darted into her living quarters to change and dry her hair as much as she could, before approaching the entrance of the shrine.
The King’s entourage was one member smaller than it had been before, and the priestess couldn’t help but notice a few of the advisors glaring or leering. It wasn’t often that she noticed the emotions of others, so she decided their hatred of her must be quite strong indeed.
“If this lowly one may inquire,” began the priestess, “what happened to the advisor the other day?”
There was a scoff from somewhere in the King’s presence, and one of his advisors said, “You dare to ask? After your actions—”
“Quiet.” The King’s voice was low, and the priestess felt a thrill of fear at someone who could dispose of an advisor so easily. Had he been exiled, sent out into the wilderness? Or subjected to the thousand cuts? Or crushed under the Thumb of Heaven, which was said to be the King’s new favorite toy?
“This one patiently awaits the Son of Heaven’s query,” said the priestess, her head bowed low.
“Cheng Ji passed away,” said the King, and his voice had tears in it. “My beloved. I don’t know what to do.”
The priestess was stunned. It was like hearing that a god had been stabbed and red blood had come out. “W-well,” she said. “This one is very sorry to hear that. This one is unsure what the King would request of her—”
“Just tell me what I should do,” said the King.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The thirty-eighth Slowpoke was shortly dispatched, bled, and cleaned. The flames were built up, and the reading was done. The priestess’s hands shook as she looked at the cracks. They seemed ambiguous and unclear to her, and tears threatened to cloud her vision even further.
“Your Majesty, the reading is unclear…” A glance upward at the advisors told the priestess all she needed to know. She had to give them something, or it would be her head on a platter. “...but it is resolving before me now. Your Majesty must concern himself foremost with the repair of his heart, for a nation’s spirit reflects the spirit of its ruler. Time and distraction are the cure—a month of hunting and fishing may help to take one’s mind off of troubles. Trust in your advisors to keep the ship steady, for they are good and wise.”
She hoped that this peace offering to the advisors would regain their friendship.
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Winter saw the little pond freeze over, and the shrine maiden and the husband had tea as they watched snow drift by the window. When the gong came, they thought they had misheard at first, but then the sound became insistent, and she sighed and composed herself to meet the emperor. The ceremonial robes were not made for winter, and she wrapped her robes tight to herself as she crossed the floating wooden walkways.
The King was alone, and the priestess knelt before him, holding in her shivering. The robe soon started to soak through with snowmelt.
“I took your advice,” said the King. “Good advice, and I felt better for it. But I still felt hollowness inside. So I turned to my advisors and asked them, ‘What's the best distraction for missing a dead woman?’”
The priestess felt a premonition of fear.
“Another woman,” the King said, as if he’d unlocked the mysteries of the universe. “So I come bearing not a question today, but a gift. The gift of myself.”
The priestess began to shiver.
“Look at me,” demanded the King, and she did so. “You are lovely, you know, and still youthful. I would be kind to you, and you would have everything you ever wanted at your fingertips. Bracelets of the finest jade, servants to cater to your every whim, and for food, only the tenderest cuts of meat.”
“I’m vegetarian,” the priestess said.
“Don’t be smart with me,” snapped the King.
The priestess was at a loss for words. The best she could manage was a whispered “Please… my husband…”
“Alright, I get it,” sighed the King. “Run along to him, then.”
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The priestess was not entirely surprised when, a day later, palace guards kicked in the door of their little house in the gardens of the shrine and dragged her and her husband to a pagoda in the center of the royal palace. It was the tallest building in the city, with balconies stretching up into darkness. The center of the floor was marked by an enormous circular dent. Looking up, she saw a log of enormous girth dangling from a thick rope, with myriad upon myriad of dark rings recording its great age.
It was said to have been shipped in from a distant forest where the lumber was as hard as steel. According to legend, it had taken multiple generations of woodcutters a hundred years to fell the tree. Nowadays, it hung mostly as a symbol of the King’s potent authority, but it was also useful for executions in a pinch.
The priestess and the husband were bound back to back, kneeling in the center of the floor, so that they could not see each other. She reached for his hand to hold, but he jerked it away. Raising her head, she saw the full moon framed by the doorway of the pagoda. Then there was an echoing snap from high above, and the Thumb of Heaven came down with the force of a falling semi-truck.