Orchid Heart Longing - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When Father came to strip me of my wedding dress, his eyes were gleaming with an eerie light, and his smile was both ethereal and hideous.

“Yulan, my girl, Father dreamed of the Bodhisattva.

“Once we lend a helping hand to that Scripture Pilgrim, wealth and a chance at immortality will be within our grasp.

“Your younger sister’s fate is too weak; she cannot bear such immense fortune. Today, she shall marry in your place. In the days to come, you will be the one to inherit this divine providence.”

As he spoke, Father reached out impatiently to tear the pearl flowers from my hair. The ornaments, tangled with broken strands of my hair, were tossed onto the table.

In disbelief, I clutched my throbbing scalp and asked through tears, “Father, how can this be? Marriage is a sacred bond; how can it be swapped like child’s play?

“I don’t want any of that nonsense about immortality. I only want to marry Brother Kangnian.”

Brother Kangnian had studied for two years and worked as a bookkeeper in town. He was one of the most handsome and refined young men in Gao Family Village.

We were childhood sweethearts. As soon as we came of age, he couldn’t wait to come to our house to propose, vowing that he would marry no one but me.

I pleaded, weeping, “Father, I won’t switch. How could people not notice two living souls being swapped? We’ll be the laughingstock of the whole village.

“Father, you have always doted on my younger sister. If this is such a good thing, let her keep it.”

I meant every word. As the saying goes, one would rather be a pair of mandarin ducks than an immortal. I only hoped to live an ordinary life with Brother Kangnian.

But Father turned a deaf ear to my words. He waved his hand, signaling the makeup woman to begin working on my sister, while he looked me up and down.

He smiled with satisfaction. “You two sisters look so much alike, even your figures are similar. Once Cuilan is married off and the deed is done, they’ll have no choice but to accept it.

“Yulan… oh no, from now on, you are Cuilan.

“Cuilan, my dear youngest daughter, Father will recruit a husband for you.”

With that, he flicked his sleeves and left, that same crazed smile still plastered on his face.

As for me, I was locked in my bridal chamber. A heavy lock was snapped shut, and molten copper was poured into the keyhole.

He was terrified I would ruin this marriage.

Outside, the blare of suona horns filled the air, festive and joyous. Inside the room, I leaned against the door and wailed, but neither heaven nor earth answered me.

I was kept prisoner. Food, water, and waste all passed through a small hole in the corner of the wall.

I cried until I was exhausted and slept, then woke up and cried again. I lost track of how many days and nights passed.

Every time Mother came to deliver food, I begged her to let me out.

Separated only by a wall, Mother’s voice sounded as if it were coming from the ends of the earth.

She only ever said one thing: “Good girl, don’t cry. Just listen to your father.”

I sat by the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the door, my heart filled with desolation.

Immortals? Swapped marriages?

It all felt like a ridiculous, nonsensical dream.

Days inside the room were an agonizing ordeal. I could only distinguish day from night by the light filtering through the cracks.

I don’t know how long it had been, but I was starting to lose my mind from the isolation.

Driven to desperation, I would stand a stool upright and talk to it. After all, a stool has four legs, which isn’t much different from a person.

On the third day of talking to the stool, a stack of books appeared at the head of my bed.

I was utterly baffled. My chamber door was sealed with copper; there wasn’t a soul in the room besides me. How were these books delivered?

I held the books and discussed it with the stool for a long time, racking my brain without coming up with an answer.

I was nearly driven mad by the confinement, so having books to read was like finding a priceless treasure.

I decided to stop thinking about it and began reading with great interest.

Rather than books, they were more like personal journals of daily life, recording the owner’s journey of studying medicine and some of their insights. They were easy to understand and quite engaging.

In the first volume, the handwriting and prose were childish. Some entries ended with notes like:

“Father returned from gathering herbs; the fruit is sweet.”

“Accompanied Grandma to treat Ah Ling; the Bean Cake is fragrant and sweet.”

They were clearly written by the journal’s owner during their childhood, recording simple medicinal uses and observations from house calls with their elders, filled with a sense of innocent charm.

Aside from her father and grandmother, the notes frequently mentioned a child named Ah Ling.

Ah Ling was born into a wealthy family. Every time the owner of the journals accompanied her grandmother to see him for a consultation, she managed to snag quite a few snacks.

As the subsequent volumes progressed and the owner grew older, the content became increasingly profound and difficult for me to read.

Fortunately, there was one volume dedicated to interesting anecdotes and strange occurrences from her medical rounds. The owner had compiled all the patients and conditions that had left a deep impression on her into a series of short stories.

Reading them like a collection of folk tales proved to be quite a distraction from my boredom.

The owner’s thoughts were wild and unconstrained; she even held many rebellious ideas regarding the social norms between men and women.

I felt a sense of fear while questioning her views, yet I couldn’t stop myself from reading on.

The remaining volumes were copies of the Herbal Classic, complete with the owner’s annotations and her own discoveries of medicinal herbs. She had used a brush to meticulously sketch the shapes of leaves and stalks, listing their medicinal properties, flavors, and preparation methods in great detail beside them.

The Herbal Classic was extremely thick. The first half was relatively normal, consisting of common herbs, but the handwriting suddenly changed in the second half, and the content grew increasingly fantastical.

It read: [Moon Splash Grass. Prefers shade, tastes sweet. Grows in the Cold Pool; thrives where there are flood dragons. It becomes medicine when it captures the brilliance of the moon; without the moon, it is a mere weed. If consumed by rabbit demons, it can draw out the power of lunar essence.]

Beside the text was a drawing of a thin, long-leafed grass. Its edges were traced with gold powder, making it look as if it were truly glowing.

However, I treated the second half of the book as a collection of tall tales for my own amusement.

How could there be a plant that becomes medicine just by being shone upon by the moon, yet remains an ordinary weed without moonlight?

In addition to that, there were records of flowers that cried at night, fruits that looked exactly like human infants, and demon cores that could bring the dead back to life.

During the days I was locked behind those doors, I relied entirely on these books to keep me going.

At first, it was just to pass the time and keep myself from going mad with loneliness.

But as I read further, I began to find genuine joy in them. Through the medium of the books and journals, it was as if I were watching the owner grow from a young child with tufted hair into a graceful young woman.

I experienced her innocent childhood and her confusion when she had her first period.

I saw her medical skills grow more refined by the day, and felt her shyness and pride the first time she was called the Little Miracle Doctor.

The owner of the journals was devoted to medicine, never ceasing her research into what she learned. Not only was she hardworking, but she was also exceptionally gifted.

Her father specialized in internal medicine, while her grandmother was skilled in treating women’s ailments. They taught her everything they knew, and she took the best of both, showing signs that the student would soon surpass the masters.

Influenced by her elders, she possessed a benevolent heart. If poor people came for treatment, she would see them even if all they brought was a handful of wild vegetables.

As time passed, the reputation of the Little Miracle Doctor spread far and wide.

I also saw her grow up alongside the child named Ah Ling.

Ah Ling was of a weak constitution and had been pampered since childhood. After he grew up and recovered, he became something of a dandy, often sneaking into the clinic in his spare time to steal hawthorn and tangerine peel pills.

Ah Ling had a face like white jade and the beauty of a young girl; he was also quite vain.

The phrase constantly on his lips was: “If I cannot be beautiful, I would rather die!”

Every time Ah Ling had a new robe tailored, he made sure to go out and show it off. By the time he reached the clinic, his arms would be full of flowers and fruits given to him by the bold women following in his wake to court him.

To save herself some trouble, she eventually developed a specific type of hawthorn pill just for Ah Ling. They were nourishing and satisfied his cravings, intended for him to eat at home so he would stop coming to the clinic to cause trouble.

Unexpectedly, these hawthorn pills later became a sensation across half the city and were given the name Ah Ling Fruit.

I followed the owner of the journals through her joys and sorrows, growing up alongside her. She felt like a friend I had known for many years, becoming my only solace in that tiny space.