Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 114: Journey to Shangping
Shangping, Meixian District, Guangdong, southern China, 1890
The daily steamer to Guangzhou leaves Hong Kong at dawn, its whistle echoing across Victoria Harbour as the city dissolves into mist. Rebecca stands at the rail, her notebook tucked beneath her arm, watching the shoreline shrink into a pale blur. Her breath is steady, but her pulse carries a quiet tension ... not fear, but anticipation. She has left Evergreen Valley behind, left the orchard and the familiar hills, left the life she once believed would contain her entire future.
I drift beside her, unseen by the other passengers, sensing the faint hum of the bracelet’s fragment. It is quiet, but awake ... as though it recognizes that we are moving toward something important.
The air smells of coal smoke and salt. Sampans weave between larger ships with practised grace. The steamer pushes forward, cutting through the water with a steady rhythm. Rebecca leans on the rail, her hair pulled back in a loose knot, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
She whispers, “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
I hover close. “You are.”
By late afternoon, the steamer glides into the Pearl River delta, the water turning a soft brown as we approach Guangzhou. The city rises slowly ... tiled roofs, narrow alleys, foreign buildings perched along the riverbank. Shamian Island gleams pale against the dusk, its European façades stark against the older districts.
Rebecca disembarks with her belongings and satchel held close. The air is thick with humidity and voices ... Cantonese, English, French ... blending into a restless chorus. She stays two nights in a small guest house near the river, its courtyard shaded by banyan trees. She writes letters home to send later, copies glyphs she already knows, and walks the narrow streets with quiet curiosity.
On the second evening, she stands on the riverbank, looking at lanterns across the water.
“It feels like a threshold,” she murmurs.
“It is,” I say softly.
At dawn, she boards an eastbound river boat. The craft is small, its wooden hull worn smooth by decades of travel. The boatman pushes off with a long pole, guiding us into the slow current of the Dong River. Guangzhou recedes behind us, replaced by villages perched along the banks, terraced fields rising in gentle steps, and distant hills softened by morning haze.
Rebecca sits beneath the canvas awning, her notebook open, copying the curves of symbols representing lunar nodes, while the river carries us deeper inland. Children wave from the shore. Fishermen haul nets heavy with silver fish. At night, the boat ties to simple docks, and she sleeps on a straw mat, listening to the river breathe beneath the hull.
I drift near her, feeling the Solar fragment on the inside surface of the bracelet hum faintly. It is not a warning ... simply recognition. The river is carrying us toward something it remembers.
By the fourth day, the hills grow steeper. The river narrows. Bamboo groves line the banks, rustling softly in the wind. The boatman points toward the north. “Meixian,” he says. Rebecca’s pulse brightens as they reach the boat’s destination.
Rebecca disembarks at a small landing where porters wait with sedan chairs and pony carts. She chooses to walk part of the way, her boots crunching on the packed earth as we follow a winding path through rice terraces and quiet hamlets. The air smells of soil and incense. Ancestral halls rise from the hillsides, their eaves curved like protective hands.
Rebecca pauses often, taking notes, sketching symbols she sees carved into lintels or painted on shrine doors. She is not rushing. She is absorbing. She is listening.
I drift beside her, sensing the faint resonance of the Lunar fragment we seek growing stronger with each step.
By late afternoon, we reach Shangping.
The village rests in a gentle valley, its houses clustered around a stone bridge and a narrow river. Beyond it, a forested hill rises and atop it sits the temple that will become her home.
Rebecca stops at the foot of the hill, breathing in the scent of pine and distant smoke.
“This is it,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “This is where the your research has brought us.”
She climbs the hill slowly, lantern light flickering in her hand. The temple is modest ... grey brick walls, curved roof tiles, a courtyard shaded by a single camphor tree. A monk greets her with a nod, recognizing the letter she carries from the missionary school in Guangzhou. She is given a small room, a place to sleep, and a place to work.
The letter explains the purpose of her visit, and the monk brings her something wrapped in cloth. When she opens it, Rebecca can scarcely believe her eyes. It’s a small gold bar engraved with the Maya glyph for the moon, and smaller symbols she doesn’t immediately recognise.
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