Willow's Haunting

by Nick Yee

This river has a spirit name, but like last autumn's leaves, this name changed hues, faded and slowly slipped into oblivion as the years coursed by. Long ago, there was a wandering minstrel who became mesmerized by the beauty of a local silk merchant's daughter. He was so in love with her that he forgot to love himself, and he traded away his songs to the fox spirit for a chest of silver. When he realized the value of what he had given away, he came to this river and tried to sing the song of Long Sorrow. But he could remember neither the words nor the melody, and so instead he knelt down by the water and cried. His tears trickled into the river for the entire night; and when morning came, a willow tree stood where the minstrel had wept. They called this river the Willow's Haunting.

Perhaps the willow's tears had coalesced into jaded leaves. And perhaps he was afraid he had no more tears to cry out, and so he clung onto them desperately with his weary tresses. But the zephyr did not ask these questions, and his most gentle whisperings would cast tremors along the willow's tired branches. The morning dew would weigh down the willow's frail limbs until they touched the ground. And at night, each leaf chanted its own name incessantly - sorrow, jealousy, anger, desperation - until the cacophony filled the emptiness inside. It was with this torture as his only companion that the willow watched the sun rise and set over the horizon.

And despite the gnawing agony that the leaves burdened him with, the willow would not let them go. He held onto these wearied sorrows because he believed it was all he had left of her, even though he realized now that he never really loved her. He believed that these memories brought him warmth, but as the days passed, the willow only grew colder, because the Northern Wind stole the willow's breath while he dreamt. And the colder the willow became, the more desperately he clung onto his tattered petals, because without them he would be naked to the zephyr, the morning dew and the Northern Wind.

Trembling alone in the night, the willow wove impossible dreams, and the mottled jade gave way to fiery gold. Enchanted by the beauty of these fleeting fires, he let the winds sap his remaining warmth away. When winter loomed over the lands, the willow finally realized that his leaves would never keep him warm because they held the pain that he was trying to forget.

And so the willow wept again. The white crescent watched as the river became a shimmering flow of woven silver and gold. The Northern Winds slipped through the willow's naked limbs, unable to take hold. And the nakedness that the willow had been afraid of gave him the warmth that he had yearned for. When morning came, the willow tree had disappeared. No one knows whether the river gods took the minstrel away, whether the minstrel wandered until he found the song of Long Sorrow, or whether he finally found his way home. They called this river the Willow's Haunting, but this name has been forgotten.