Chapter One: Distant Peaks Congealing Sound
At the highest layer of the scroll, a few traces of distant mountains emerge from the seeping of pale, blue-gray ink-as if someone had exhaled onto the Xuan paper. What blurs out are the shapes of mountains, yet they also resemble the floating tentacles of a jellyfish in the deep sea. Drawing closer, a heterogeneous nature surges within the texture of the hemp-fiber strokes: in the shadows of the rocks, translucent mechanical fish swim about. Their scales are rust-stained copper plates, and their tail fins, woven from gold thread, sway slightly, shaking off speckles of light and dust.
In the dark recesses at the bottom, a mechanical octopus extends its tentacles from the "rocks." Its arms were originally mere cracks in the crags, but now they twist into spirals of screws and gears. Within its suckers dwell lifeforms that are part-fish and part-bird, emitting a faint humming sound in response to some distant vibration.
As the viewer, you suddenly hold your breath. You recall a poem you chanced upon last night: "When mountain bones turn to scales, the sound of the sea is born from the marrow of stone." In these faint shadows of distant peaks, the breath of the ocean has long been hidden.
Chapter Two: Plumage Roosting on Perilous Cliffs
Halfway up the mountain, a platform has been hewn from a broken cliff, where a pavilion made of thatch stands. Its roof of woven bamboo strips trembles slightly, like paper crumpled by the wind. On the steep rock wall beside the pavilion, a giant bird struggles out from the "mountain stone"-its left wing is still a whale's back covered in barnacles, while its right wing has already unfurled iron plumage of the steam age. Amidst the faint clicking of interlocking gears, a tar-like liquid drips from its tail feathers, searing marks onto the rocks.
Further down, a mechanical eagle has completely transformed: its body is forged from stainless steel, its beak carved with ancient beast motifs, and its talons grip the mountain rocks. Every feather vibrates with the mountain wind, creating the sound of metal clashing. In the shadows of the remaining rocks, tangled wires, hinges, and aged rubber hoses are spread about, like the exposed vessels within a giant beast.
Scattered leaves flutter down from the corner of the pavilion. You suddenly hear a very faint sigh, mingled with the drone of the mechanical eagle: "Listen to half a melody more; autumn has already deepened."
Chapter Three: Wondrous Branches in a Transformed Realm
Further down, the branches of ancient trees pierce through the clouds. Those trees, dyed in thick ink, have now congealed into spirits-some trunks are encased in brass scale-armor, while their crowns resemble bursting steam pipes, exhaling "white smoke" composed of countless translucent small fish. Some roots are coiled into rusted wheel hubs or overlapping continuous tracks, turning with difficulty under heavy resistance.
Most peculiar of all is that crooked tree: its crown has transformed into a Chinese pavilion with flying eaves and bracket sets. Its vermillion pillars are wrapped in cables, and from behind the window lattices, a palm-sized figure peeks out-neither fish nor bird, covered in fine silver scales, it stands on tiptoe clutching the windowsill, staring at the flowing river below.
"What is that sound?" A husky whisper comes from the hollow of the tree. "Listen, that balanced noise has developed a rhythm of alternating lightness and weight." The little fish-man flicks its tail: "That is the sound of a human heartbeat."
Chapter Four: Stream Sounds Knowing the Mind
At the foot of the mountain, a stream winds around a log cabin. The cabin is built from coarse raw timber, half-submerged in the water. The pilings are covered in moss and coated in a transparent slime that shimmers with the luster of mother-of-pearl. The door is ajar, revealing a reclining figure-a youth in a white shirt, wearing headphones, his eyelashes casting soft shadows.
His fingertips tap his knee to the melody-an arrangement of random noise and musical tones. The entire mountain's illusion grows in rhythm with his heartbeat: the mechanical octopus gains two more segments on its tentacles, the giant bird's iron plumage receives its final rivet, and the pavilion where the fish-man stays suddenly lights up with a warm yellow glow, casting a silhouette of two people sitting opposite each other onto the window paper.
"Who am I?" At some point, the little fish-man has swum to the creek's edge, its silver scales reflecting the moonlight. "Am I the sound in your ears?" The youth takes off his headphones, and the stream water suddenly washes over his ankles. Looking at the full scroll of flowing machinery and landscape, he says: "You have always been here-as the shadow of the mountain, as the flower of the tree. You are waiting for a frequency that resonates with you; once it rings, you grow fins and wings."
It suddenly understands: "Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly, and the butterfly also dreamed it was Zhuangzi. Whether one calls it real landscape or illusory machinery, it is but the mind-mirror reflecting objects, each seeing its own form." Amidst the sound of the stream, the ethereal music continues.
The Verse Sings:
