The Apprentice J. M. Strother “I must leave, Master. I am a failure,” Quan Li admitted. Mo Shuh sighed. It had to be Shan Tzu again. His most gifted apprentice – and constant source of trouble. “Where would you go, little one? What would you do?” He still called her “little one” despite her age. She was now his oldest apprentice. But when she had come to him she had been his youngest – his little one. Others came and went, found their shén xin, learned their skills, and moved on. But not Quan Li. Her powers were as raw now as the day she come through the Dragon Gates. “I do not know, Master. Go back to my village? Work in the fields.” Mo Shuh shook his head. She would never make it to her village, not on bandit infested roads. She would be captured and sold into slavery, or raped and killed. A fate that would no doubt amuse Shan Tzu. Not one he was about to let happen. “You cannot let Shan Tzu upset you.” He waived her silent. “We all find our shén xin in our own time and way. Have patience. Besides, what would it say of me if one of my students left without attaining mastery? For it is a poor teacher who is not surpassed by his students.” “It is not the failing of the teacher, Master. I just do not have the gift.” “You do,” Mo Shuh said in a firm voice. “I feel it in you. You've just to discover it for yourself – to set it free.” “But I have tried!” “Then quit trying!” This confused her. “You study so hard, work harder than any of the other apprentices: copying scrolls, reading, studying herbs. But you press too hard.” “Relax a little. Quit trying to draw your shén xin out. Let it flow. It cannot be forced, but will come when the spirit is ready. You shall have your moment of inspiration. Quit trying so hard.” “You will not let me go?” “I will not.” Now the tears flowed. Humiliated, not even allowed to leave in disgrace, Quan Li ran in despair – she cared not where. But she could not leave, for the way was barred to her. The school was in a deep mountain valley – the only way out through the Dragon Gates. And without permission she could not pass. “Quan Li! Wait up!” Li Na called out to her. “I've been looking for you.” Li Na, Quan Li's best friend, was now the last person she wanted to see. Quan Li turned abruptly and dashed out a side door. She heard a surprised cry from Li Na, cut short by the closing door. She dashed across the yard into the orchards, past small knots of students being instructed in silviculture. On she ran, heedless of calls to stop. At last she collapsed at the edge of the orchard, her sides aching too much to go on. She cried until she heard her name called. They were searching for her. They were close enough that she could pick out individual voices. Li Na, calling out plaintively. Shan Tzu, feigning concern. He sounded the closest. She fled for the woods beyond the clearing. She was not about to give Shan Tzu the satisfaction of finding her like this! She climbed through the woods, scrambling up steep ravines. The voices behind her grew fainter, until at last the sounds of the forest overwhelmed them completely. At length she came upon a stony crag overlooking the valley. She sat, despondent, looking out at her home. The school lay below her like toys on a table. Tiny figures moved about in everyday chores. Life continued. Had they already forgotten her? She could die up here. No one would miss her. “I will not go back,” she resolved aloud. Then I will die here, she realized. And what would that accomplish? Her shén xin would still evade her. Li Na would be sad. Mo Shuh disappointed. But Shan Tzu would be pleased. Very pleased. She stood, angered at that thought. He will not have the satisfaction! Swallowing her pride she began her long descent back towards the valley. There was nothing gradual about the coming of night. One moment sunlight streamed through the canopy in horizontal shafts – the next moment it was gone. She was unable to continue. Cold, hungry, and miserable Quan Li huddled in the lee of a large tree. She had been foolish to come up here, alone. Night sounds of the forest frightened her. She imagined a tiger with every twig snap. She startled at every bird call. Something scurried overhead. Despite the darkness she rose and began feeling her way down slope. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. She was able to pick her way down, with care. She came to an unexpected escarpment and nearly toppled to her death. Leaping back she was encouraged at what she saw. The lights of the dormitories, so close now. She was almost home! She worked her way around the cliff, found a narrow path, and scrabbled down. The trees thinned. Now she ran through the darkness, forgetting to be careful. Suddenly she was out of the woods! She came up short, with a gasp! Tiny flecks of light rose before her, drifting soundlessly on the night air. Tiny lanterns that winked on, then off. A myriad of fireflies was raising from the grass and scrub, floating like a million tiny paper lanterns on new years eve. She stepped out into their delicate beauty. She walked in a dream, held out her arms to them, laughing in wonderment. They were so beautiful, so bright in contrast to the moonless night. She moved her arms gently, like a symphony conductor. The fireflies swarmed about her, began to fly in concert with her. She was indeed directing them, she realized, in a symphony of light. They moved as she moved. They were one. She had found her shén xin.