Chapter 3: The Nameless Servant of Spring

Before long, the day was drawing to a close, and the sun was sinking toward the land of the spirits in the west, yet Myeong’s work showed no sign of ending.

Having finally finished all his work in the northeastern garden that had begun first thing in the morning, Myeong hurried out of the garden with his short legs, unable even to wipe the sweat covering his forehead.

He placed the basket containing the fiery feathers and silver mane hairs in a corner of the pavilion, then picked up a dry cloth. Now he had to go to the shrine in the southeast and mop the floor.

****

In his haste, Myeong ran without properly watching where he was going and collided with a flower child who suddenly came rushing out of an alley.

Even though Myeong, with his small frame, was the only one who went tumbling backward, the flower child angrily dusted off his silk clothes and snapped at him.

“Hey! Where are you looking when you walk?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”

Myeong endured the pain in his backside, sprang to his feet, and bowed to the flower child, who was much taller than him. Ignoring Myeong’s apology, the flower child checked the paper flowers in his arms, worried that they might have been damaged.

“How annoying. Are you going to take responsibility if the flowers get ruined?”

“I’m really sorry.”

They were undoubtedly one of the gifts that would be presented to the God of Spring at the upcoming festival. Myeong, who had not prepared anything yet, hid the old rag in his hand behind his back out of embarrassment.

“Just my luck.”

After confirming that nothing was wrong, the flower child sighed and turned away. Perhaps he was on his way to practice for the festival, because he muttered a curse under his breath before walking past Myeong.

Myeong had overheard that on the day of the full-moon festival, the flower children would dance together while holding paper flowers.

He was a flower child born in the garden around the same time as Myeong. He wore beautiful silk clothes and had even been given a name, and now he was practicing for the festival.

Myeong, on the other hand, had not even been invited and stood there nameless, holding a dirty rag while dressed in worn-out hemp clothes.

The stark difference between them was impossible to miss, and Myeong silently tightened his grip on the rag.

‘I’m jealous.’

He was so terribly jealous that tears nearly sprang to his eyes.

‘Why am I…’

No. This feeling wasn’t right. Feelings that began with comparison always ended in resentment. Myeong had spent countless days drowning in tears, so he knew all too well where such feelings would lead.

Sometimes, the target had been himself. Sometimes, it had been the immortal who had picked him up. And, very occasionally, it had even been the God of Spring whom Myeong loved more than anyone.

Myeong gazed longingly at the flower child’s retreating back, then quickly shook his head and drove the thoughts away. How could a servant of spring dare to hate his master? It was absurd.

‘Enough with these pointless thoughts. I should hurry to the shrine and finish mopping. Then perhaps these bad feelings will be wiped away along with the dirt.’

Myeong greeted the sun as it traveled toward the western lands in the distance, then hurriedly continued on his way.

****

When he arrived at the shrine, an immortal was sitting on the wooden floor with his head bowed, dozing off. Not wanting to wake him, Myeong stood far away, silently mouthing a greeting before beginning to wipe down the wooden pillars.

Most of the immortals were away preparing for Spring’s festival, which made working much easier.

The immortals often tormented Myeong by burning his old shoes as kindling, deliberately tripping him, or stepping on his hands, so it was more comfortable both mentally and physically when they were gone.

As he wiped away the dust lodged in the cracks, Myeong began to think that he should probably start preparing for the festival himself.

No matter how overwhelmed he was with work and how little time he had left for sleep, this was the enormous primordial full moon that rose only once every five hundred years. He couldn’t simply sit around and do nothing.

Myeong, whose love for Spring was second to none, thought about the most precious things he possessed.

‘Hmm, a fluffy foxtail-grass wreath, a clumsy comb carved from juniper, a tiny pouch I barely managed to make from leftover scraps of fabric…’

He couldn’t bring himself to offer any of them to the God of Spring. Myeong let out a long sigh as he reflected on his impoverished circumstances.

‘Should I ask the Vermilion Bird for some feathers?’

But the Vermilion Bird belonged to the God of Spring, so the feathers were never Myeong’s to begin with. The Heavenly Horse’s mane was the same.

‘Then perhaps I could weave some flowers into a wreath?’

No. If he happened to pick the wrong flowers and carelessly plucked one that contained a Human Realm life, he had no idea what kind of disaster might befall him…

‘Or should I go find something precious, like the other immortals?’

Some said they were bringing things from the land of autumn…

Normally, servants of a season could not remain away from the place where they had been born for long. Enduring the power of an opposing season with their fragile bodies was an extremely difficult thing to do.

Lost in thought, Myeong eventually lowered his head and let the corners of his mouth droop. There was nothing he could give to the God of Spring.

‘No.’

Like the soft earth of the east and the warm spring breeze, the God of Spring was famous among his servants for having a gentle nature. Myeong had been born in the land of spring and had never once left it, so this was essentially the entirety of what he knew about Spring.

Still, it was reliable information.

‘So the kind God of Spring will be happy no matter what I give him. Perhaps he might even take me into his arms. This will be my first meeting with Spring, and if he finds out that I don’t have a name, perhaps this time he’ll finally give me one…’

‘What if he marvels at how much I’ve grown and says, “When did you get so big?”’

Unable to contain the happiness welling up from his fantasies, Myeong wiggled his bottom excitedly.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Ah!”

The immortal Yuseon had apparently woken up at some point and was watching Myeong’s little body bouncing around as he spoke. Startled, Myeong hurriedly turned around and found Yuseon standing there with his arms crossed.

“You’re awake? I’m sorry.”

“No, no. I should go back to my quarters and sleep. You should finish up soon and go home, too.”

Yuseon, who managed the shrine, was one of the few people who did not mistreat Myeong. He yawned widely and stretched.

“Um, Lord Yuseon…”

When a flower child accumulated merit and grew stronger, they could become an immortal. Yuseon probably had more wisdom than Myeong as well. So Myeong mustered the courage to ask him a question he normally would never have dared to ask.

Yuseon wondered what had prompted the boy who normally hid in a panic at even the sight of an immortal’s shadow to ask such a question, but he nodded for Myeong to go ahead.

“What should I give the God of Spring?”

“…What?”

“Huh?”

Yuseon let out a hollow laugh at Myeong’s brazen question. When he repeated the question in disbelief, Myeong only widened his eyes and tilted his head.

“Why would you give a gift to the God of Spring?”

“Because there’s going to be a festival. I want to give something to the God of Spring, too.”

“You don’t need to.”

Yuseon had no idea where to begin. Grabbing his head, he furrowed his brow, unsure how to explain it. No matter how nameless Myeong was, Yuseon didn’t want to hurt him unnecessarily.

‘Why did he have to ask me of all people?’

Perhaps it would have been better if he had asked another immortal. Yuseon felt a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought that he had somehow ended up playing the villain.

“Why not?”

When Yuseon remained silently quiet, Myeong couldn’t bear it any longer and carefully urged him to answer.

“You don’t have a name, Myeong. You aren’t a servant of spring.”

“…What?”

‘I’m not a servant of spring.’

At Yuseon’s words, Myeong was so shocked that he forgot to breathe, his entire body going rigid. Then he threw the old rag he was holding far away and sprang to his feet, hurriedly continuing to speak.

“But I was born in the garden. Why am I not a servant of spring? If only the God would recognize me…”

“Myeong.”

“…Yes. I’m listening.”

At Yuseon’s calming tone, Myeong suppressed his agitation and looked at him.

“Even if you were found beneath a chrysanthemum, how are we supposed to know whether you were born from a flower, born from a weed, or left there by someone else?”

“…”

“Besides, it’s difficult to sense any spring energy from you, Myeong.”

At those words denying the very circumstances of his birth, Myeong could no longer stop his tears from falling.

‘Then why do they make me do so much work? Why do I have this desire to serve the God of Spring? If that’s the case, where did I come from?’

Countless questions surged up from deep within him, but Myeong could not bring himself to speak. He was afraid that if he asked, the answer might be that there was no place for him in this land of spring.

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