Epilogue
The swallow, feathers a rich loam brown, the color of new beginnings, of new growth, of fertility, flew across the waters of the South China Sea, sunlight gleaming upon her. Far below her, she saw a watercraft, an ancient chûn becalmed.
She spiraled slowly down, fluttered to land on a broken spar of wood, cocked her head. She looked at the blood stains, the puddled robe pinned beneath splintered wood, listened to the quiet. Slowly, her feathers turned to bone white, the color of mourning.
She fluttered from her perch, turned to a mature Han woman in a bone-white pien fu stepping to the scarred deck. She picked her way carefully through the wreckage, tugged and pulled the trapped robe free.
Carefully, reverently, she brushed dirt and splinters and dried blood from the robe, folded it carefully, green to the outside, yellow to the inside. She tied it in a neat bundle with its sash, placed it with care in the bow of the chûn, knelt before it. A single tear welled in one eye, lingered, rolled down her cheek.
She knelt for minutes, an hour, perhaps more. Then stood, looked toward the mainland. Slowly, her pien fu returned to the rich loam brown. And suddenly, a phoenix was flying toward China, toward a new beginning, heralding a new spring upon the land.