Can Spirits Travel?

“Did you know, evil spirits can only travel in straight lines?” 

If he sealed his lips, would it blow any quieter? It was uncommonly harsh, even for the North where winters were expectedly brutal. These days, he grew nostalgic for the southern provinces where he had once convinced his parents to take him to an opera house. They had gone in the middle of autumn, when humidity clung to his clothes like a second skin. 

He imagined himself in the audience, seated beneath the crimson flames of fire-breathing. There had been an actor, an older woman with flowing water sleeves. Mid-dance she’d met his eyes with painful intensity, a testification of sorts that softened upon removing her headpiece. It’s sorrowful, he thought, how beautiful things carry the weight of life’s burdens. 

“Eh? Xia-ge, why are you still back there? Did you hear me earlier?” 

The wind continued to roar. He stretched out a little further. 

“Mm, I heard you. Does that mean those spirits can’t get to us?” 

“Yes! But stop leaning over the edge or you’ll fall into the water!!” 

Curious, Nova peered down at his reflection. As always, his appearance was plain. No beaded headdress, no powdered cheeks—just scrawny arms wrapped in a tiny fur coat. Underweight, his aunties called him, but he felt like a heavy stone sinking past the surface of a stream. 

Counting his exhale (three . . . four . . . five seconds) he glanced to the side. He asked, knowing full well how his friend would react, “but what if I wished to see them?” 

Yuwen whirled around, her gray eyes widening in surprise. The two of them were alone, standing on a battered bridge that twisted from one angle to another. 

“What if I wished to see them?” Nova repeated softly. He looked back at the water, how calm it was. At some point, unbeknownst to him, the wind had stopped its howling. He wondered what might happen if he dove into the river, mother’s fur coat and all, but his nose was already runny. “And who even determines whether spirits are evil or not?” 

“Hah,” said Yuwen, shuffling her feet together. “Are you really a human?” 

Quite frankly, Nova was unsure how to respond. A simple yes or no wouldn’t suffice. Yuwen, with all of her pretend bravery, was surely awaiting some witty reply. 

“What do you think?” he asked instead. 

To his own ears, he sounded earnest. These days, when the breeze blew away false grins and pleasantries, his throat was left dry, beaten and torn with the labor required to be agreeable.

Yuwen’s gaze darted around, searching for humor in his expression. Finding none, she took a wary step back. “Well, the townspeople do. They tell us what’s good and what’s not.” 

“That doesn’t mean—” 

“—Even my shushu who doubts everything told me to beware hungry ghosts.” 

Without commenting on how she had evaded his question, Nova considered her words in silence. It was true, the townspeople spoke of superstitions in a manner that warded any skepticism. Rarely did the children openly oppose them. And yet, he never understood why the elders had answers to seemingly everything (why the seasons changed, how to make an ink brush, when to harvest the wheat) and still spoke of . . . of nothing. At least, nothing that answered the questions he struggled to form in the first place. 

“Xia-ge,” Yuwen started, her tone laced with suspicion. “Have you met a ghost before?”

Of course, he hadn’t, but he shrugged anyway. Yuwen, a cautious girl at heart, sprinted off with a yelp. Nova stood there, watching amusedly as her blue-clad figure dashed into the forest. 

When he finally caught up, the other was panting on a dirt track. They exchanged a quick and amused look when a familiar face suddenly rounded the corner. 

“Liu yisheng!” Yuwen cried out.

Soil stained the cheeks of their new arrival, but the man wore a remarkably clear smile. All the children knew Jin Liu, a mellow physician who loved to grow camellias. Weeks ago, when Nova had fallen ill, a potted flower appeared on his windowsill. 

“Liu yisheng, Nova says he can speak to ghosts!” 

“Ah? I never said—” 

“Xiao huozi,” Dr. Liu interrupted, and his tone was reminiscent of the way teachers spoke to students who spun wild tales. Nova hated it. “I would advise you to be careful. The ability to see the deceased comes with it a life of sadness and adversity.” 

“Oh,” muttered Yuwen. Something in her expression—a mix of sympathy and scrutiny—made him wish he were back on that battered bridge. “You must have poor luck then.”

Poor luck, spirits, camellias. Nova suddenly felt tired, like he had been fighting waves on a rocky shore only for one to pull him under in the end. Tired, so very tired. 

He mustered a smile. “I guess I do.” 

When he returned home that evening, Dr. Liu greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. The physician was chatting with his parents; his mom by the family altar, his dad in the kitchen—both laughing with their hands clasped together. 

It was early in the morning when he reached for his instruments. Nova loved waking up before the sun, if only to watch how soft light wrapped around the room, fell on scattered scores, and tuned old strings that were far beyond repair. 

He’d been given a life here, music to practice, and a family to play for. 

Truly, he was luckier than most.