Hangzhou, the Southern Song's vibrant heart south of the Yangtze, was a city that revered not only wealth and beauty but also the profound weight of scholarship. Beyond the bustling markets and scenic shores of West Lake, nestled within walls draped in flowering vines, lay the venerable White Cloud Academy (Baiyun Shuyuan). For generations, it had nurtured promising minds, its reputation built on rigorous classical training and the serene, scholarly atmosphere of its ancient grounds. At the very center of this atmosphere, both literally and figuratively, stood the Academy's soul: the Grand Scholar Tree.
It was a colossal Sophora japonica, centuries old, perhaps planted by the Academy's founding masters. Its massive trunk, gnarled and grey like the beard of a wise elder, rose towards a sprawling canopy that cast dappled shade over the main courtyard. Its leaves, delicate clusters of vibrant green, rustled with what seemed like quiet wisdom on the breeze blowing off the nearby lake. Stone benches rested beneath its branches, worn smooth by generations of students who had sought inspiration, clarity, or simply respite in its calming presence. The tree was more than just flora; it was considered the Academy's guardian spirit, its lingqi believed to foster intellectual acuity and moral integrity. Studying beneath its boughs was a privilege, thought to subtly enhance understanding and calm the restless mind.
Recently, however, the nature of the tree's influence seemed to have shifted, subtly, insidiously. Students preparing for the upcoming prefectural examinations still sought out the benches beneath its shade, and indeed, many reported experiencing unprecedented clarity, finding complex texts suddenly illuminated, elegant phrases flowing effortlessly onto their practice scrolls. Insights arrived with startling speed, connections between disparate philosophies revealed as if by whispered secrets. Yet, this intellectual boon came intertwined with a strange, pervasive melancholy.
The courtyard under the great tree, usually a place of quiet focus or spirited debate, grew hushed, subdued. Students studying there found themselves prone to sudden, inexplicable fits of weeping, tears welling up for sorrows they couldn't name. A profound sense of world-weariness, far exceeding normal examination stress, settled upon them, leaching the joy from their breakthroughs. Their brilliant essays often carried an undercurrent of deep pessimism or existential despair, beautiful in their articulation but chilling in their sentiment. Shared dreams became common amongst those who spent most time near the tree – dreams filled with grey mist, the sound of distant, mournful bells, and the overwhelming feeling of ancient, unresolved grief.
The tree itself began showing subtle signs of distress. Its vibrant green leaves developed faint yellow edges, out of season. And strangest of all, small droplets of a clear, unusually bitter sap began to weep intermittently from fissures in its ancient bark, leaving dark stains on the stone benches below like tear tracks.
The Academy's Headmaster, Qin Fangyuan, a man whose life was dedicated to classical learning and rational thought, initially dismissed the students' emotional states as pressure and the tree's condition as natural aging or perhaps a minor blight. He was a scholar of impeccable reputation, his face framed by a neat white beard, his eyes usually sharp and discerning behind round spectacles. But as the phenomena persisted, as more students succumbed to the pervasive melancholy even while producing work of startling brilliance, as the tree continued to weep its bitter tears, even Master Qin's rationalism began to fray. He felt the change himself – a deeper weariness in his bones, a subtle dimming of his own intellectual fire, a recurring taste of bitterness at the back of his throat when he walked through the courtyard.
Among the students, none experienced the tree's strange influence more intensely than young Mei Lan. Possessed of a keen intellect and an unusually sensitive spirit, Mei Lan had always felt a deep connection to the Scholar Tree, drawing inspiration from its quiet strength. Now, while her understanding of the classics deepened at an astonishing rate, she was plagued by overwhelming waves of sorrow that felt distinctly not her own. She began having vivid flashes, almost like waking dreams, while studying beneath the branches: seeing the courtyard not as it was, but as it might have been centuries ago, glimpsing shadowy figures in older styles of robes, hearing fragments of desperate arguments, feeling the crushing weight of unjust accusation. She saw, repeatedly, the image of a scholar, his face obscured by shadow but radiating intense despair, standing beneath the tree, clutching a broken brush. She tried to confide in her peers, but they were too caught up in their own mixture of enhanced brilliance and melancholic confusion. She hesitantly spoke to Headmaster Qin, who listened with troubled sympathy but offered no explanation beyond recommending rest and calming teas.
It was Old Wu, the Academy's gardener for over fifty years, whose hands knew every root and branch, who provided a crucial piece of lore. Xuanzhen, travelling through Hangzhou after resolving a matter involving a disturbed tomb complex nearby, had sought out the famed White Cloud Academy, drawn by his respect for scholarship and a subtle feeling of energetic dissonance he sensed from a distance. He encountered Old Wu tending the moss around the base of the Scholar Tree, his movements slow, reverent, yet tinged with sadness.
Xuanzhen, introducing himself simply as a travelling Taoist scholar, gently inquired about the tree's health and the atmosphere of the Academy. Old Wu looked up, his eyes, cloudy with age, holding generations of unspoken knowledge. "The Tree grieves, Master Taoist," he whispered, his voice like rustling leaves. "It has done so before, long ago, but not like this. Not so... contagious."
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He recounted a story passed down through generations of Academy gardeners, a tale the scholars preferred to forget. Centuries ago, during a period of intense political persecution under a previous dynasty, a brilliant scholar named Su Lingfeng, known for his integrity and sharp critiques of imperial excess, taught at the Academy. Falsely accused of treason by powerful court rivals, stripped of his rank, his name disgraced, Su Lingfeng sought refuge beneath the Scholar Tree he loved. There, overwhelmed by despair and the weight of injustice, he ended his own life, staining the ground beneath the tree with his final, bitter tears and perhaps, Wu hinted, using a ritual dagger that bound his resentful spirit to the place. "They say his final sigh entered the wood," Wu murmured. "His sorrow became part of the Tree's spirit. Usually, it sleeps. But sometimes... when the world outside grows harsh, or when too many anxious hearts gather beneath its branches... the old grief stirs."
Xuanzhen listened, the pieces falling into place. The Scholar Tree's spirit, usually a benevolent force fostering clarity, had absorbed the intense, unresolved trauma of Su Lingfeng's unjust death. The recent influx of students, their minds highly focused and stressed by the impending examinations, had inadvertently resonated with this ancient grief, amplifying it, drawing it out. The Tree, in its distress, was weeping literal bitter sap and unintentionally 'sharing' its absorbed sorrow, along with enhanced intellectual energy (perhaps Su Lingfeng's own brilliant scholarly residue), with those attuned to it. It wasn't a malicious haunting, but a profound imbalance, a spiritual sickness born of ancient injustice stirred into the present.
He sought out Headmaster Qin, sharing his insights and Old Wu's story. Master Qin listened, his scholarly skepticism finally yielding to the weight of evidence and his own unease. "Su Lingfeng... yes, his name appears in obscure Academy records, noted only as 'departed under unfortunate circumstances'," he admitted, his face pale. "We... we never spoke of it. An embarrassment. A tragedy best forgotten."
"Forgetting does not heal, Headmaster," Xuanzhen said gently. "It merely allows the wound to fester unseen. The Tree, and your students, are now feeling the effects of that unresolved sorrow. To restore balance, the grief must be acknowledged, cleansed, and released."
The solution required a delicate ritual focused on both the Tree Spirit and the lingering echo of Scholar Su Lingfeng. It needed to honour the Tree's role as a guardian of learning while gently separating and releasing the ancient trauma it had absorbed. Headmaster Qin, deeply concerned for his students and the Academy's spirit, readily agreed to assist.
Xuanzhen chose a quiet afternoon, when the courtyard was empty, the light soft and diffused. He asked Master Qin, Old Wu, and young Mei Lan (whose sensitivity made her a crucial participant) to join him beneath the Scholar Tree. He requested simple offerings: clear spring water in a jade bowl (representing purity and clarity), five different types of incense representing the Five Phases (to restore elemental balance), and a blank silk scroll with high-quality ink and brushes.
First, Xuanzhen addressed the Tree Spirit directly. He bowed respectfully, acknowledging its ancient presence, its role as guardian, its connection to generations of scholars. He spoke of the sorrow it carried, recognizing it as a burden absorbed out of proximity, not inherent nature. He lit the Five Phase incense, letting the blended smoke curl upwards through the branches, visualizing the elements coming back into harmony within the Tree's energy field, soothing its distress.
Next, he focused on the lingering echo of Scholar Su Lingfeng. He guided Mei Lan to gently touch the tree trunk, asking her to relay the images and feelings she had experienced – the shadowy figures, the broken brush, the overwhelming despair. As she spoke, her voice trembling but clear, Xuanzhen sprinkled the clear water around the base of the tree, chanting mantras of purification and release for wronged spirits. He asked Headmaster Qin to speak words acknowledging Su Lingfeng's brilliance, the injustice he suffered, and formally apologizing on behalf of the Academy for forgetting his plight.
Then came the crucial step. Xuanzhen unrolled the blank silk scroll. He asked Master Qin, as Headmaster, to write Su Lingfeng's name upon it with reverence. Then, he guided Mei Lan, asking her to take a brush and, allowing the residual impressions she felt to guide her hand, to paint not a portrait, but a symbol – an image representing Su Lingfeng's release, his vindication. Hesitantly, Mei Lan dipped the brush. Her hand moved, seemingly guided, painting not a figure, but a single, elegant crane taking flight from a broken inkstone towards a clearing sky. It was a symbol of transcendence, of the spirit freed from earthly injustice.
As Mei Lan completed the final stroke, a profound sense of peace settled over the courtyard. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the Scholar Tree, sounding now like a soft, contented sigh. The faint weeping of bitter sap ceased. The heavy, melancholic pressure in the air lifted completely, replaced by the Tree's original aura – calm, clear, profoundly wise, and benevolent. Mei Lan felt the borrowed sorrow release its grip, leaving her feeling clear-headed and peaceful. Headmaster Qin felt the weight lift from his own spirit.
Xuanzhen instructed Master Qin to hang the scroll, bearing Su Lingfeng's name and Mei Lan's painting of the crane, in a place of quiet honour within the Academy's library, transforming the forgotten scholar from a source of sorrow into a respected memory, a symbol of integrity enduring beyond injustice.
In the days that followed, the atmosphere in the White Cloud Academy returned to normal, but subtly enhanced. The students still found clarity studying beneath the Scholar Tree, but the insights came without the accompanying despair. The tree itself looked healthier, its leaves regaining their vibrant green. The bitter tears ceased to flow.
Xuanzhen departed Hangzhou, leaving the Academy and its ancient guardian restored to balance. The Scholar Tree's Bitter Tears served as a poignant reminder of how places, especially those dedicated to learning and contemplation, could absorb the deep emotional imprints of human history. Unresolved injustice, forgotten grief – these could linger for centuries, subtly poisoning the present, until acknowledged, cleansed, and finally transformed through acts of remembrance, compassion, and symbolic release. The pursuit of knowledge, Xuanzhen reflected, required not only sharp minds but also clear hearts, willing to confront the sorrows of the past to ensure a healthier future.
