Chapter 4 — The Talisman Painter Who Guards the Village

The Secret Behind the Paper Factory

"Draw that line again for me to see," Mr. Tám Mực said, pushing a new piece of bark paper to Diệp Sương, the surface of the paper still slightly damp because it had just been pressed this morning.

Diệp Sương, now eleven years old, sat cross-legged in front of the workshop porch as had become a habit for the past four years, picking up her pen without hesitation. She was no longer the child who drew by pure instinct like she used to be—four years of practice under his guidance had given her a solid foundation: straight horizontal lines, rounded curves, and the way to mix ink dark and light depending on the purpose. But the part that "appeared in her head" that day, the strange intuition that stunned Mr. Tám Mực that first morning, was still intact, even clearer with each passing year.

This time, it drew a shape that was different from the familiar An Mien talisman — a closed circle with jagged lines radiating from the center, looking like a flower with thorns.

Mr. Tám Mực stared at the drawing and was silent for a long time, to the point that Diệp Sương had to ask.

"Did I draw it wrong? I don't know why my hand drew this picture. I was just thinking about yesterday when Mr. Tu's dog was bitten on the leg by something, the swelling never went away."

"It's not wrong," he replied, something different in his voice, "but it's also not something I've ever taught you. I've never taught you this form."

"So what is it?"

Mr. Tám Mực stood up, went into the house, and returned a moment later with a thin book. The cover was worn, and the paper inside had yellowed over the years. It was the first time Diệp Sương had seen the book; during the four years she had studied with him, she had never seen him take out a book—everything he taught was oral, demonstrated by hand.

"This is something I bought from a street bookseller, many years ago, when I was young and still dreamed of entering the sect," he said, turning the pages carefully as if afraid they would crumble under his fingers. "It's not an official book of the Tông Vân Các, it's just a patchwork notebook of a self-taught person like me, copying down a few basic spiritual talismans that he overheard here and there. But in here—"

He stopped at a page and pointed to a drawing that was almost identical to the one Diệp Sương had just drawn. "This is a purification talisman. Used to clean out evil and toxic energy that has accumulated somewhere — including poisoned wounds, like Uncle Tu's dog just said."

Diệp Sương widened her eyes at the drawing in the book, then looked back at her own drawing on the piece of bark paper. The two images were almost identical, with only a few small differences in the curvature of the jagged lines.

“But I've never seen this book before,” he said, his voice filled with confusion. "How did you draw something like that?"

Mr. Tám Mực closed the book and put it down next to him, looking at Diệp Sương with a seriousness that was rarely seen in him. "That's exactly what I haven't dared to tell anyone, not even Mrs. Chín Lài, for the past four years. You're not just drawing with your emotions like a normal child playing with a pen. You're tapping into something deeper — a kind of intuition about spirit talismans that even the most well-trained people take years of hard practice to acquire, if they ever get it at all."

*

From that day on, Mr. Tám Mực began to teach Diệp Sương in a completely different way. No longer just basic stroke practice sessions, but sessions where the two of them leafed through old books, comparing each drawing in there with what "appeared in" Diệp Sương's head every time he presented a hypothetical situation.

"If someone had a high fever of unknown cause, what would you draw?"

Diệp Sương closed her eyes for a moment, then picked up her pen and drew another picture.

"It's almost like purifying talismans, but simpler," Mr. Tám Mực nodded, comparing it to the book. "This may be a mild variant used for humans, not for skin wounds."

"What if a little monster disturbs the barn?"

This time, Diệp Sương's drawing was much more complicated, with many overlapping lines forming a closed cage.

Mr. Tám Mực flipped through the book and searched for a long time before seeing a similar picture, his lips pursed tightly. "This... this is close to the talisman, a talisman used to control and imprison. But the way I drew it was different from the book — I added soft strokes on the outer edges, not in the original book."

"Is it wrong to draw like that?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I don't know enough to say for sure if that's right or wrong. But I think, maybe it's not wrong, just different. You draw homemade ink from kitchen ash, from tree sap, not an official spirit made from precious minerals. Maybe that's why your "preserving" charm is different from the "suppression" charm that this book records."

Diệp Sương did not fully understand the profound meaning of his words at that time, but she remembered very clearly the phrases "hold" and "suppress" that he had just used, as if they were two fundamentally different things, even though both had the same purpose of preventing danger.

*

One afternoon, while they were engrossed in the pages of old books, Mrs. Chín Lài suddenly appeared at the workshop door, carrying a basket of just-picked vegetables, her eyes stopping on the open book on the table.

"What did you teach her?" she asked, her tone not exactly reproachful but somewhat probing.

Mr. Tám Mực was a bit confused, but quickly regained his composure. "Mrs. Chín Lài, I think it's time you know. This girl..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...has a rare talent. Not the naughty, childish kind of drawing anymore. I'm afraid that if no one teaches her properly, that talent could become a danger, to herself and to those around her."

Mrs. Chín Lài put down the vegetable basket, walked closer, picked up the piece of paper Diệp Sương had just drawn, and turned it around in the late afternoon light. She was illiterate, did not know the spirit talisman, but she saw in it something that neither Mr. Tám Mực nor Diệp Sương saw - that drawing, although complicated and strange, still carried a certain gentleness, without the coldness of something created to punish or destroy.

"What did you draw this for?" she asked Diệp Sương.

"To keep, grandma," he replied, remembering Mr. Tám Mực's words. "Not for suppression." Mrs. Chín Lài nodded slowly, put down the piece of paper, then looked at Mr. Tám Mực. "You go ahead and teach her. But I have one condition."

"You just say it."

"Don't teach her to forget the reason why she started drawing. I'm not familiar with words or spells, but I know one thing: everything starts from love. If you study and lose the root of that love, the higher you learn, the more dangerous it is."

Mr. Tám Mực looked at her, then at Diệp Sương who was sitting quietly listening to the conversation of the two adults, his eyes sparkled in an indescribable way - both proud of being recognized, and a little scared of the vague responsibility that was gradually forming around him.

"I promise," he said, his voice firm.

*

That night, after leaving the paper factory and returning home, Diệp Sương lay awake and could not sleep. She thought about the old book, about the drawings in it that strangely matched what naturally appeared in her mind, about the question that no one—not even Mr. Tám Mực or Mrs. Chín Lài—could fully answer: why did she have that ability? Why, in the entire Tùng Lĩnh Village, among all the children she knew, was she the only one like that?

She did not know that the answer, or at least part of it, lay in a trail of half-burnt coal on the floor of the ruined house years ago, something that Mrs. Chín Lài kept secret in her heart, never telling anyone, not even the child to whom the secret belonged.

She only knew that, from that night on, every time she picked up a pen, she was a little more careful, a little slower, trying to remember the root of her love that Mrs. Chín Lài had just mentioned—like a silent prayer she made to herself, even though she was too young to fully understand its meaning, and too far away to know that prayer would follow her throughout her life, through so many events and so many losses, until the end of a journey that she could not yet visualize.

The next morning, when Diệp Sương went to the paper factory as usual, she saw Mr. Tám Mực had woken up very early, sitting at the table with an old book open, next to a pile of brand new bark paper, much higher than usual.

"Today I will show you everything I know," he said, his voice unusually serious. "No more hiding anything. I'm not a member of the sect, what I know is just the scraps I've picked up, but you deserve to see it all, no matter how little it is."

That whole morning, the two of them flipped through the pages of the book. Mr. Tám Mực told Diệp Sương about ancient ink-trading trips, the charmers he had briefly met at big markets, how they mixed ink with minerals taken from places near strong earth veins, and the difference between the sect's methodical "suppression" style and the fragmentary folk style people like him had picked up. Diệp Sương sat and listened attentively, occasionally asking questions, her hand constantly scribbling experimentally on leftover pieces of paper, as if wanting to engrave every word he said into her own ink.

"You know," Mr. Tám Mực said at the end of the session, his voice suddenly low, "I'm not young anymore, my ability to grind ink is getting weaker over the years. I don't know how long I can teach you. But I hope, no matter where you go in the future or who you learn from, you still remember those mornings at this small paper factory, remember that there was an old paper maker who believed in you, since you were only six years old and didn't know how to hold a pen properly." Diệp Sương looked up at him, her eyes stinging even though she did not fully understand why he had said such sad words on a beautiful morning. She could only hold his hand tightly, like an unspoken promise that, no matter how far the road ahead took her, she would never forget where her first strokes of ink began.