1
Hunter Shi appeared at Tomás's door before sunrise.
Not knocking. Just... standing there. When Tomás opened the door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, the man was leaning against the wall, looking at the sky, saying nothing.
Shi? - Tomás asked - What...?
Shi pointed to the fields, then to Tomás, then made a walking motion.
Tomás understood. Work. Together. Now.
He grabbed his notebook, tucked it inside his robe, and followed.
They walked through the village while the sky slowly turned from black to gray to pale orange. No one else was awake yet. The houses were dark, the square empty, the Shenmu silent.
Shi led him past the communal fields, past the small gardens behind houses, to a patch of land Tomás had not seen before. It was farther from the village, closer to the forest edge, and it looked different from the other fields. The plants here were not in neat rows. They grew in clumps, scattered, as if someone had thrown seeds randomly and let nature do the rest.
Shi stopped at the edge of this field and looked at Tomás. Then he pointed to the plants and said one word:
Yěshēng.
Tomás wrote it immediately: Yěshēng. He looked at the plants, then back at Shi, questioning.
Shi made a gesture with his hands: wild. Not planted. Just... here.
Tomás nodded. A wild field. Or maybe a semi-wild field, where the villagers let certain plants grow on their own instead of cultivating them. He had seen something similar in Chile, in traditional Mapuche farming, where they would leave areas fallow or semi-wild to maintain soil health.
He walked into the field, crouched, and began to examine the plants.
2
The first plant he recognized: lánhuā, the blue-flowered one. But here, in this wild field, they were different again. Taller than the ones near the village, with deeper blue flowers and leaves that were almost... fuzzy. He touched one. The fuzz was soft, like velvet.
He looked for the pale variant he had seen near the sandy soil, but it was not here. Only the tall, fuzzy ones.
He took out his notebook and wrote, in Spanish:
"Lánhuā silvestre. Más alta, hojas aterciopeladas, flores más azules. Misma especie? Variedad? El suelo aquí es más oscuro, más húmedo. Cerca del bosque. Sombra parcial."
Then, in English:
"Wild lánhuā. Taller, velvety leaves, deeper blue flowers. Soil darker, more humid. Partial shade from forest edge. Hypothesis: these are the same species as village lánhuā, but growing conditions affect morphology. Need to compare soil samples."
He looked around for something to carry soil. Nothing. He would have to come back with pots. Again.
Shi watched him from the edge of the field, saying nothing. But his eyes followed every movement, every note Tomás took.
After a while, Shi walked over and crouched beside him. He pointed to the lánhuā and said:
Hǎo.
Good. Tomás nodded.
Then Shi pointed to a different plant, growing near the forest edge. It was a bush, about waist-high, with small white flowers and thin, delicate leaves. Shi said:
Bù hǎo.
Not good.
Tomás looked at it more closely. The leaves had tiny holes, as if something had been eating them. Some were yellowing at the edges. He touched the soil around its base. It was drier here, sandier, even though they were only a few meters from the humid area.
He pointed to the holes, then to the forest, and made a questioning gesture: insects?
Shi nodded. He made a gesture of something small, crawling, many of them. Then he pointed to the plant and made a cutting motion, as if removing it.
Tomás understood. The plant was sick, or infested. The villagers probably removed it to protect the others.
He wrote in his notebook:
"Bush with white flowers near forest edge. Leaf damage (holes), yellowing. Soil dry, sandy. Shi says 'not good.' Possibly pest infestation. Need to identify insect and plant species."
He looked at Shi and asked:
Shénme míngzi? What name?
Shi thought for a moment, then said: "Báihuācóng." White flower bush.
Tomás wrote it down. Báihuācóng. Another plant to study.
3
They spent the morning like that. Shi would point, name, and give a simple judgment: good, not good, useful, not useful. Tomás would observe, write, and ask the occasional question.
He learned that some plants were left alone because they attracted helpful insects. Others were removed because they competed with the useful ones. A few were protected because they only grew in certain conditions and the villagers wanted them to spread.
It was not scientific agriculture. It was traditional knowledge, passed down through generations, based on observation and experience. But it worked. Tomás could see it in the health of the field, in the variety of plants, in the way everything seemed to have its place.
At midday, they sat on a large rock near the forest edge and ate. Shi had brought food: flatbread and dried meat, shared without ceremony. They ate in silence, looking at the field.
After a while, Shi spoke. It was the longest sentence Tomás had heard from him:
Nǐ wèishéme xiě? Why do you write?
Tomás thought about how to answer. He pointed to the field, to the plants, to his notebook.
I want to understand. I want to remember. So I write.
Shi looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
Hǎo - he said - Good.
And that was all.
4
In the afternoon, Shi showed him something interesting.
Near the edge of the wild field, where the forest really began, there was a small depression in the ground. It was damp, almost muddy, and in the center, a plant grew that Tomás had not seen before.
It was low, close to the ground, with thick, fleshy leaves arranged in a rosette. The leaves were green, but at the tips, they had the same golden dots as the Shenmu. Small dots, faint, but definitely there.
Tomás's heart beat faster. Golden dots. Like the Shenmu. Like the leaf he had picked his first day.
He crouched close, examining the plant with intense focus. The leaves were succulent, like aloe or sedum. The golden dots were not on the surface; they seemed to be inside the leaf tissue, glowing faintly from within.
He looked at Shi and pointed to the dots.
Shénme? - he asked - What?
Shi looked at the plant, then at Tomás. He seemed to consider the question carefully. Finally, he said:
Líng.
Tomás wrote it immediately. Líng. The same word Wei Chen used for spiritual herbs, for spiritual beasts, for the power of plants.
He pointed to the plant again.
Líng? This plant has líng?
Shi nodded. Then he made a gesture of warning, of danger. He pointed to the plant, then to himself, and shook his head. No touch. No eat.
Wèishéme? - Tomás asked - Why?
Shi pointed to the golden dots and made a gesture of something spreading, growing. Then he touched his own hand and made a face of pain, of sickness.
Poison. Or something like poison.
Tomás wrote frantically in his notebook:
"Plant with golden dots! Succulent, rosette form, growing in damp depression near forest edge. Shi says it has 'líng' but is dangerous. Golden dots similar to Shenmu. Possible that líng = something that can be both beneficial (Shenmu) and harmful (this plant)? Need to investigate carefully. Do not touch without protection."
He looked at the plant again, memorizing every detail. Then he stood and thanked Shi.
Xièxiè. This is important.
Shi nodded, accepting the thanks without comment. Then he pointed to the sun, already low in the sky, and made a walking motion. Time to go back.
5
That evening, Tomás sat by the fire with his notebook, writing and rewriting his observations.
Wei Chen found him there.
You look... - the scholar searched for the word - ...excited?
Tomás looked up, smiling.
I found something. A plant with golden dots. Like the Shenmu. But Shi says it's dangerous.
Wei Chen's expression changed. He sat down quickly, closer than usual.
Where? Where did you see this?
Tomás pointed toward the forest. "Near the wild field. A damp place. Small plant, leaves thick, with dots inside."
Wei Chen was silent for a long moment. Then he said, quietly:
Língzhī cǎo. Spirit grass. Rare. Dangerous.
Tomás wrote the name: Língzhī cǎo. Spirit grass.
What does it do? - he asked.
Wei Chen struggled to explain. He touched his own chest, then made a gesture of energy flowing, growing. Then he made a gesture of losing control, of sickness, of death.
Too much líng. The body cannot... hold it. You eat it, you die.
Tomás nodded slowly. An overdose. Too much of a good thing. That made sense, in a way.
But the Shenmu - he said - has the same dots. And it's not dangerous?
Wei Chen shook his head.
Shenmu is different. Old. Wise. The dots on Shenmu... they are not for eating. They are for... - he searched for the word - ...for watching. For knowing that something sacred is here.
Tomás wrote that down too. He did not fully understand, but he recorded it anyway. Maybe later, with more data, it would make sense.
He looked at Wei Chen and asked:
Can I go back? To see it again? To study it?
Wei Chen hesitated. Then he nodded slowly.
But careful. Very careful. Do not touch. Do not eat. Just... look.
Deal - Tomás said.
Wei Chen smiled at the word. "Deal," he repeated.
6
That night, Tomás could not sleep.
He lay on his straw bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the golden dots. They appeared on the Shenmu, on the leaf he had picked his first day, on this new plant. They seemed to be a marker for something. Something important.
He took out his notebook and, by the faint moonlight, wrote a new entry:
"Golden dots. Observed in:
Shenmu (sacred tree, village center)
Unknown plant (first day, slope where I woke up)
Língzhī cǎo (spirit grass, near forest edge)
Common factor: all have 'líng' according to locals. But Shenmu is safe, língzhī cǎo is deadly. So 'líng' is not good or bad by itself. It depends on something else. Concentration? Form? Purpose?
Hypothesis: Golden dots are visible indicators of líng. Like... like how chlorophyll indicates photosynthesis. If I can understand what líng is, maybe I can understand the dots.
Need more data. Need to find more plants with dots. Need to observe, compare, analyze.
But careful. Very careful. As Wei Chen said.
Esto es más grande de lo que pensaba. This is bigger than I thought."
He closed the notebook and put it under his bed. Outside, the wind moved the leaves of the Shenmu, and for a moment, he imagined he could hear the golden dots whispering.
But that was silly. Dots don't whisper.
He closed his eyes and, eventually, slept.