CHAPTER 6: THE JADE SHAMBHALA

                         

                      🍁🍁AUTUMN 🍁 🍁 

The Floating Lanterns of the Seventh Month

The playful dramas of the morning garden had faded into a quiet, reverent dusk as the seventh lunar month arrived on Yun Shan Ridge. The air turned crisp, carrying the scent of damp pine needles and the faint, unmistakable aroma of joss paper burning in distant valley courtyards below. 

It was the season of the Hungry Ghost Festival—a time when the gates of the underworld swung open, and the veil between the living and the departed thinned to a mere whisper.

While the townsfolk below locked their doors early out of fear of the wandering shadows, Xiu-Ying prepared The Jade Shambhala not as a fortress, but as a quiet, respectful harbor. True to her status as a phantom to the modern world, she understood that the spirits passing through the mountain mist were much like the weary human travelers who stumbled onto her porch–lost, exhausted, and starving for a moment of genuine warmth.

Inside the kitchen, the brass pots no longer caught the bright morning sun; instead, they gleamed under the soft, flickering amber glow of oil lamps. Xiu-Ying sat at the dark timber counter, her fingers mindfully folding sheets of gold and silver joss paper into perfect, uniform pyramids. 

Beside her, the air was dense with the sharp, protective smoke of sage and wild Mugwort smoldering in a small clay brazier on the floor. The herbal smoke curled lazily ensuring that only peaceful, well-meaning energies could cross the threshold.

Moon Glow’s hoity-toity morning swaggers had settled into the quiet vigilance of a nocturnal sentinel. The silver shadow sat squarely on a velvet cushion by the open screen door, her ears twitching as she watched the first fireflies rise from the backyard patch of patchouli. Cats saw the world without the filter of human blind spots. She didn't growl or arch her back at the shifting shadows in the mist; she simply blinked her eyes slowly, acknowledging the silent, translucent travelers moving along the ridge path.

On the stove, a wide ceramic pot of sweet Red Bean and Longan Soup simmered slowly, its rich, sugary steam cutting through the bitter edge of the mugwort smoke. 

Xiu-Ying ladled the warm, ruby-red broth into small porcelain bowls, placing them gently on the outer window sills alongside a small plate of the sun-dried wild peaches."To those who are passing through," Xiu-Ying whispered softly into the evening air, her voice a gentle, soothing frequency in the absolute silence of the mountain. "Take your rest, accept the offering, and find your way back to the light."

She looked at her hands, lightly dusted with the ash of the protective incense. she was simply a keeper of the gate, honoring the fragile, beautiful cycle of life, death, and everything that lingered in between.

Xiu-Ying sat back down at the timber counter, the sweet, earthy steam of the red bean and longan soup wrapping around her face like a warm shroud. The house was entirely silent, save for the steady, rhythmic purr of Moon Glow guarding the threshold. 

Under the dim amber glow of the oil lamp, she looked down at her own hands, lightly stained with the dark juices of the backyard patchouli and the silver dust of the dried mugwort leaves. These hands were strong now—capable of carrying heavy ceramic pots, harvesting wild roots, and building an unassailable sanctuary from scratch. 

She reached down, her fingertips lightly brushing Moon Glow’s plush coat. The silver shadow looked up, her Kiwi-green eyes wide and entirely knowing.. Xiu-Ying took a slow, deep breath, letting the warm, sweet scent of the longan broth fill her chest. 

****

The autumn moon was a gigantic ivory saucer rising above the towering tree tops. Her backyard was a silver shine as she lounged on the recliner and twirled a stray creeper of jasmine that was swaying in the breeze. Her Jade Buddha statue adorned with lotus at his feet was a reassuring presence directly facing her with his eyes half closed. 

Xiu was in an utter state of flashbacks of her younger days even as the croaking pond frogs and the cicadas interrupted her thoughts. 

Moon Glow appeared at her feet and leaped onto her belly with a questioning 'meowwwr?' Then laying her chin down looked up at Xiu with pleading green pools of eyes. As she stroked the cat's fuzzy crown, a white barn owl swooped down out of nowhere and landed on the pear tree beside her with a 'Hooo--whit---tooo---whoo'.

Moon Glow startled, turned his head and made off for the base of the pear tree. Another animated altercation started between the two. Xiu looked on as the Owl glared at Moon Glow and started shifting from one foot to another restlessly like it was hopping mad all the muttering at him. It looked like it was holding a grievance against her pet. Moon Glow for once looked down sheepishly and didn't whisper a meow 

Now what has this bungling mutt done and is sorry for? I'm going inside to let them settle it. The owl is a runt and cannot fly away with this humpty Dumpty Moon Glow in its talons. 

Yet all her protective instincts on high alert, she called out to Moon Glow. "Cut it out Sim bu bu! Inside! Now! You, Owl ....scram " so saying she flicked a feather toy at the owl who flew away into the depths of the valley with a last owl swear at Moon Glow.

*****

The heavy cedar wood door of the back enclosure did not swing easily; it required a deliberate, grinding push, its oiled iron hinges letting out a deep, satisfying groan as it opened into the backyard.

Inside, the frantic rustle of the village market down the mountain was instantly replaced by the slow, rhythmic drip of water sliding off the serrated leaves of the native mountain mint patch.

Xiu-Ying stepped onto the damp, flat river-stones that wound like a gray spine through the thick moss. Her long, quilted indigo sleeves were tucked neatly into her sash as she walked past a weather-worn stone lantern, its granite hollows now dark and cool, holding nothing but the ash of yesterday’s twilight taper. 

A few steps further, tucked into the root-knots of an old pear tree, sat a small jade Buddha, its translucent green surface polished smooth by decades of high-mountain rain, catching a single stray beam of the overcast fading autumn light.

She knelt by the edge of the tiny stone basin. Down in the clear, still water, three pale purple lilies floated silently, their thick, waxy petals holding tiny, perfect spheres of morning dew that rolled toward the center with every low breath of the alpine wind.

Moon Glow did not follow the stones. The three-year-old silver shadow had already leaped onto the flat, mossy cap of the high enclosure wall, her white tail sweeping in a lazy, unhurried rhythm against the grey slate. She peered down into the water lilies and the Koi fish in the backyard pond for a second, her Teal eyes tracking a silent water strider.

Xiu-Ying dipped a small bamboo ladle into the clear pond, pouring a slow stream over the roots of the mint patch, letting the sharp, peppery aroma rise from the wet earth.

 *****

A heavy, leather-bound volume lay open on the long wood workspace, its thick parchment pages stained with old butter drops and hand-written English script. 

Xiu-Ying’s fingers, dusted with white rice flour, turned the page before she reached for a deep clay baking dish.Instead of a traditional iron wok, her hands guided a heavy, iron-handled skillet packed with the dark, rich meat of wild mountain quail—slow-simmered in rice wine and wild mountain peppercorns—before she buried the savory stew beneath a thick, golden blanket of ruffed, mashed taro and mountain yams. 

When the iron door of the charcoal oven creaked open, the rich, savory steam of her alpine Shepherd’s Pie rolled out, smelling comfortingly of deep earth, wild poultry, and toasted roots.

On the cooling rack sat a wide, deep-dish Apple and Wild Plum Pie, its crust hand-crimped and golden-brown, venting thick ribbons of sweet, cinnamon-spiced steam that curled up to meet the cedar rafters. Next to it, a bubbling Peach Cobbler—made with the last of the sun-dried wild peaches from the spring harvest—oozed a thick, ruby-red syrup against the dark grain of the counter, while a wide ceramic pan of Wild Mushroom Risotto simmered slowly on the corner brazier, the local short-grain rice absorbing the rich, creamy broth of mountain broth and wild shallots.

Moon Glow did not care for the baked fruit or the simmering rice. The three-year-old ragdoll sat on the edge of the low stool, her eyes locked onto her own wide porcelain saucer. Xiu-Ying reached into the cooling larder and pulled down a small clay ramekin. Inside was Moon Glow’s exclusive evening meal: Slow-Poached Quail and Mountain Trout.

Xiu-Ying had hand-shredded the tender, pale bird meat into clean, bite-sized strips, drowning them in a thick, clear, and naturally sweet gel made from boiling down the bones of fresh mountain trout.

Moon Glow stepped down with deliberate, slow-living precision, sniffed the edge of the white clay, and began to lap up the rich fish broth with a steady, rhythmic sound, her white tail sweeping a lazy, content path across the clean floorboards.

To Be Continued...

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