Chapter Three: The Earthworm (Please Leave a Comment!)

After reading the scriptures, he drifted off to sleep without realizing it.

When he finally woke, Chen Yu stretched lazily, thus drawing the curtain on today’s midday nap.

He headed to the kitchen, scooped a ladle of icy well water from the vat, refilled his waterskin, and fastened it to his waist.

Looking up, he found the sun too bright, almost excessive, so he donned his conical hat for shade, lest he collapse from heatstroke in the fields.

“I really don’t want to work,” he muttered, yet he still grabbed his earthen basket and set out from the temple toward the fields.

The afternoon’s labor wasn’t much, and the cloudless sky foretold more sun-drenched days to come.

But Chen Yu was a man of plans—if he’d decided to accomplish a certain amount today, he couldn’t rest until it was done. So he set out early, determined to finish his work under the blazing sun.

Most importantly—he couldn’t afford to jeopardize tomorrow’s wild fishing trip. That was a serious matter.

Before leaving, he didn’t forget the bamboo tube filled with earthworms stashed by the column; he took it along, since he’d be digging and channeling the earth, and might add a few more little siblings to the tube.

One extra worm now might mean several more tomorrow.

Chen Yu thought longingly of his luck for the next day’s fishing.

The temple? It could do without him for a day.

After all, the place was so remote that it was rare to see a single devotee in ten or fifteen days.

Morning rituals?

He was a half-baked, makeshift Daoist; no need to follow every rule.

Offerings?

At worst, he’d light two extra sticks of incense before heading out in the morning.

He trusted the Venerable Lord above wouldn’t mind.

In front of the courtyard, two rows of peach trees stood tall.

Passing by, Chen Yu eyed them up and down. The trees were already sprouting new buds, leaves tender and green, a sight that delighted the eye.

These peach trees had their own story. The first master of the temple planted them, but after many renovations and changes, most of the old trees either died or were moved. The ones thriving now were planted by the former abbot when he first entered the temple, and some by Chen Yu’s predecessor when he took over as head.

In other words, there was an unwritten rule at Yunhe Temple: every new abbot planted a few trees out front, perhaps hoping that one day the entrance to Qingtai Mountain’s Yunhe Temple would be lush with a forest’s shade.

Yet fate is fickle. Not only did most old plantings perish, but even the few planted by the old abbot and Chen Yu’s predecessor nearly died. If Chen Yu hadn’t arrived in time, the entrance would have been nothing but bleak desolation.

Hoping for summer peaches and to keep himself busy, Chen Yu spent his early days here not only cooking and experimenting with food, but also rising early and toiling late to save the peach trees.

Perhaps it was fate, for in the end he wasn’t sure what he’d done, but the peach trees survived against the odds.

They offered both shade and peaches—a blessing, no doubt.

...

Clang!

Tossing his basket aside, Chen Yu picked up the iron hoe leaning nearby and slung it over his shoulder, not bothering to change out of his work clothes. He wore them all day and cared little if they got soaked or soiled.

He strode to the marked spot, settled his stance, and struck the earth with the hoe.

With a dull thud, clods of dirt turned over, broken apart and pushed aside.

Gradually, a shallow trench formed at his feet, while the earth piled high on either side.

He swung his arm, hooked the basket’s handle with the hoe, dragged it in front, and pressed it down with his foot to keep it steady.

His hands never stopped moving—the hoe scooped up the soil, and with swift, practiced motions, he filled the baskets to the brim.

Again and again, until both baskets were heaped full.

He wiped his brow, hoisted the baskets, and carried them to a far corner to dump the dirt.

Returning, he dug on.

Time slipped by, and before he knew it, dusk had fallen. Chen Yu set down his hoe, having just emptied the last load of earth.

“Done for the day!”

He dusted off his hands, a smile on his face as he surveyed the new ditch encircling the field. At last, it was finished. Next would be turning the soil and sowing the seeds, but there was no rush—those tasks would wait until after the “Pingyu” rains.

Until then, he could rest well.

But as he picked up the bamboo tube, now nearly brimming with worms, he remembered another important task.

“Almost forgot,” he muttered, gathering his basket and hoe and heading back to the temple.

Back in the courtyard, he fetched two buckets of water to wash away the sticky grime. Feeling refreshed, he changed into a dark blue Daoist robe, tied up his hair, and secured it with a bamboo hairpin.

The hairpin—once known as a jade pin in temple tradition—was, along with the five volumes of Daoist scriptures and his present, well-kept robe, a relic passed down through Yunhe Temple’s history.

Unfortunately, the jade pin had been lost years ago during an old abbot’s journey down the mountain, along with two senior brothers and a junior disciple.

Yunhe Temple’s decline truly began from that day.

Before then, though its fame was modest, the temple still commanded respect in dozens of villages and towns below, and even within Shiya County. The incense offerings were never abundant, but neither were they scarce.

Now, a whole month might pass without a single visitor.

Luckily, Chen Yu didn’t care, nor did he cling to such things. Without the jade hairpin, a bamboo one would do just as well.

Were it not for the chance that a devotee might come up the mountain unannounced, he’d have long since shaved his hair completely, and spared himself the trouble.

Suppressing these thoughts, Chen Yu clicked his tongue. To be honest, if he were to shave his head, don a Daoist robe, and sit beneath the solemn statue of the Dao Ancestor reciting scriptures and chanting for devotees, the image would be absurd.

Shaking off these wayward thoughts, he picked up the bamboo tube, borrowed a dish from the kitchen, and overturned the tube. With a few shakes, a plump, crimson earthworm fell onto the plate.

He screwed the lid back on and returned the tube to its place.

Chen Yu’s gaze fell upon the worm.

After a moment’s thought, he gently touched the creature’s dirt-streaked body with his fingertip.

The earthworm wriggled, shying away from the light.

But Chen Yu paid it no mind. Closing his eyes, he sank his spirit deep within, and after a fleeting haze, a thread of white light—like a sudden sunrise—flared into being.

It shimmered like rain, like mist, silver brilliance swirling endlessly.

Nothing showed on the outside, but within the hazy depths of his consciousness, a great wave surged.

Mist rose, torrents crashed.

Countless illusory lights soared from the sea within, most vanishing instantly, but a precious few were caught by a mysterious force and gathered into a single corner.

They condensed, solidified.

They became bright points of light, quietly suspended.

Chen Yu manipulated a single point, drew it toward himself, and with a thought, channeled it through his fingertip into the earthworm.

After a long moment, he opened his eyes.

He exhaled—a long, slow breath—and rubbed feeling back into his tingling fingers, which felt as though they’d been plunged into ice water in the dead of winter.

After a few squeezes, he looked at the worm on the dish—previously, though plump and red, its segments showed dullness. Now, its color gleamed like fire, flawless and bright. Its body was smooth, the earthy smell gone, the usual white rings disappeared. It looked less like a common worm and more like a piece of crimson jade artfully carved.

The transformation was extraordinary.

Of course, with experience, he knew the real changes were just beginning. Even if he hadn’t invested much this time, the worm would need time to digest what he’d given it.

Still, it was only a worm—it would not become a dragon.

Chen Yu put it away, planning to check again tomorrow. If he wasn’t satisfied, he could always feed it to the fish.

Surely, such a plump and radiant worm would attract plenty of big fish.

At the very least, tomorrow’s bait was secured.