Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 14 Fire

Fire is alive.

As Jia Xian turned the corner of the corridor, he saw its breath. The flames hung down from the broken beam of the west corridor, contracting and retracting like a uvula deep in a throat inhaling. With each contraction, the air in the corridor was sucked out for a moment, and then the flames suddenly spewed out, the heat wave carrying ash crashing down on him.

In those panting, flickering lights, he saw the file rack deforming, not burning, but twisting, as if the bamboo slips and wooden frame were curling into something else in the high temperature.

The file rack crackled in the fire. It wasn't the sound of wood splitting, but the sound of bamboo slips being chewed up by the fire. Each bamboo slip contained an observation, a date, and a number: the winter solstice of the third year of Chongning, the lunar eclipse of the first year of Daguan, and the conjunction of the five planets in the seventh year of Zhenghe.

The records of celestial phenomena over a hundred years were now being chewed out word by word from the bamboo slips by fire, turning into black ash that floated up to the ceiling.

Jia Xian saw the character "日" (sun) burn to ashes in the fire. The bamboo slip was licked through the middle by the flames, and the strokes of the character "日" lit up first. The fire followed the engraving, and because the engraving was thinner than the bamboo skin, it burned through first. The character "日" burned into a bright outline, and then the character "月" (moon) next to it lit up as well.

The sun and moon burned together in the blink of an eye. The ashes were swept up by the hot air currents, shattered into powder in mid-air, and sprinkled on his shoulder.

He didn't have time to stop for these words.

Half of the filing cabinet had burned down, the leaning wooden frame leaning against the wall like a row of fallen ribs. The firelight cast his shadow on the opposite wall.

He waded through the puddles. The rainwater that had seeped in from the leaky roof that afternoon hadn't dried yet, and a layer of black ash and charcoal floated on the surface. Each step he took splashed up a cloud of murky water. The water went over the soles of his shoes, and the brief coolness on the insteps of his feet was quickly evaporated by the heat before it could reach his ankles.

He stopped at the innermost shelf of the file cabinet.

The second compartment. Against the wall. Before leaving, the previous warehouse clerk stuffed a stack of unclaimed, worn-out files here; the musty smell was so strong that even rats wouldn't nest in it. Jia Xian pulled the stack out, the files fell apart, and a cloud of old dust rose up.

The dust, illuminated by the firelight, swarmed towards his face like a group of startled insects. He didn't flinch; his hand had already reached into the gap behind the file, his fingertips touching the oiled paper.

Two layers of oil paper. A dry feel. The fire hasn't reached here yet.

He pulled out the oil paper package and tucked it under his arm. As he turned, his fingers brushed against an old book beside him, a manuscript by the previous Grand Astrologer, recording daily events from the Chongning to Daguan eras.

This old record was the only set of experimental data he could borrow. He always put it back after reading it, never taking it out of the house or making any alterations. At this moment, flames were licking at this side from the cracks in the brick wall, burning the mortar in the cracks and causing it to crumble. The flames were less than a hand's width away from the old record. The corners of the paper had already begun to curl, turning yellowish and then charred brown.

He had no time to hesitate. This was the most familiar set of experimental data he knew best; whenever he doubted the formula he had derived, he would look for confirmation in this old book. He reached out and tucked the old book under his arm, folding it together with the oil paper package, pressing them tightly together through two layers of oil paper.

The moment I turned around, I heard a dull thud above my head.

That wasn't the sound of wood cracking; it was the sound of the fibers inside the beams being burned through in the fire—a deep, drawn-out sound, like a giant beast turning over in its sleep.

Jia Xian looked up and saw the crossbeam on the west wall bending downwards. The bending was so slow that he could see the flames on the beam tilting downwards, like a pot of boiling water overflowing from the rim.

He ran three steps forward.

A loud crash came from behind. The beam slammed down where he had just been standing, smashing through the floor and sending sparks flying that hit the back of his neck, drawing out a series of blisters. The water on the floor was splashed everywhere, the droplets carrying sparks landing on the wall and hissing as they evaporated.

Jia Xian was thrown off balance by the blast of air, his knee slamming into the overturned file shelf. The old injury ached in his kneecap, the pain seeping deep into his calf. He gritted his teeth and didn't stop, clutching the oil paper package tightly under his arm, his hand covering his chest—not the wound, but the triangular draft inside.

Thick smoke filled the corridor.

He couldn't see the exit. His eyes were stinging from the smoke, tears streaming down his face, a bitter, salty mixture of tears and sweat mingling in his mouth. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, which was still smoldering from the sparks that had landed when the beam struck the ground. Rings of sparks spread from the fabric towards the cuff. He rubbed the sleeve against the wall to extinguish the sparks; the brick surface was scorching hot.

The corridor was warped by the fire. The familiar corner was now half blocked by collapsed wooden frames, forcing him to squeeze through sideways with his back against the wall, which was scorching hot; he could feel the heat emanating from the cracks in the brickwork through his clothes.

Flames burst from the cracks overhead, baking the plaster on the ceiling until it bulged into large bubbles, like a wall growing festering sores.

He heard someone shouting.

The sounds were muffled and intermittent, muffled by the fire, making it impossible to make out whose name was being called. Perhaps the people outside were counting the number of those who had escaped, or perhaps someone was calling his name. He opened his mouth to respond, but his throat was choked by the smoke, and he couldn't make a sound. What he forced out of his throat wasn't a sound, but a burst of hot air.

The fire began to roll back. The air in the corridor was sucked away by the flames, and the flames suddenly retreated towards the ceiling, as if inhaling, and then suddenly exhaled, with heat waves carrying burning debris crashing down on us.

The blast of air sent Jia Xian stumbling forward, his knee hitting the blue bricks, causing his old injury to throb and his entire leg to go numb. As he fell, he held the oil paper package high, preferring to break his arm rather than let it touch the sparks on the ground.

He lay on the ground, hearing the fire chewing wood above his head. The bits of wood fell on his back, each one burning hot, like someone was sprinkling red-hot iron filings. He remembered, pressed his palms to the ground, and the hot bricks blistered his hands.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand up, continuing to walk outside. Each step he took was on the floor, which he couldn't tell was solid. Some of the blue bricks had been loosened by the fire and wobbled under his feet, beneath which lay glowing red-hot wooden beams.

Turn the last corner.

He saw the doorway. The sky outside the doorway was reddened by the firelight, but it was the sky, not the wall, not the ceiling, it was the sky. The night wind blew in from the doorway, blowing on his face, cooler than water, it was the feeling of being alive.

He rushed in that direction.

His sleeves were still steaming, and the blisters on the back of his neck had burst, mingling with the sweat that had just dripped down. The moment he stepped out of the doorway, his legs buckled, and his old knee injury finally gave way, unable to support his weight.

He didn't fall; he grabbed the doorframe with one hand. The doorframe was hot, but he didn't let go. He pulled himself out by the doorframe, stumbled a few steps, and fell to the ground. The water on the ground splashed up and drenched his face; it was cold, and he was finally able to exhale the breath he had been holding in for so long.

He looked up. The stone steps were still there, the courtyard was still there, the screen wall was still there. The crack on the screen wall that he had seen before was now radiating the warm glow of the firelight from behind, like a gilded knife mark embedded in the shadow of the screen wall.

He knelt at the foot of the stone steps, with an oil paper package and a half-burnt old book tucked under his arm. His cuffs were still smoking, the blisters on the back of his neck had burst, and the blisters on his palms had been rubbed raw on the blue bricks, with blood and cold water dripping down.

He placed the oiled paper package on his lap and unwrapped the two layers of oiled paper. The draft of the triangle diagram was still dry, with only a small corner scorched by the fire. The yellow scorch mark was on the blank space in the lower right corner of the triangle diagram, just grazing a number in the seventh row.

He had pushed that number over and over again before; the ink was darker than elsewhere, and the scorch mark was only slightly off-center. The scorch mark was shaped like a charred sycamore leaf, imprinted on the paper, seemingly about to crumble at the slightest touch. The paper was brittle from the fire, but his fingers were extremely light, even lighter than when he touched the burn on the back of his neck.

He took the triangular diagram from the oil paper package, folded it, and pressed it to his chest. Through his soaked clothes, he could feel the paper being warmed by his body heat. Just like when his father taught him to write, pointing to this spot and saying: "This is the center of gravity of a person. If the center of gravity is there, the person won't fall."

He opened the old record that was half burned. Half of the previous Grand Astrologer's manuscript had been burned, and the remaining pages had scorch marks on the edges, with some pages stuck together and unable to be opened.

He gently turned a page. "On the winter solstice of the fourth year of Chongning, the sun traveled half an inch south of the ecliptic." This line of text was still there, not burned by the fire. Half an inch south was exactly the point he was going to use to explain the precession of the equinoxes. He closed the old book, placed it on his lap, and wiped the dust off the cover with his sleeve.

He didn't notice that further down the corridor beside him, another broken piece of wood fell from the ceiling and crashed into the puddle, scattering sparks everywhere. The firelight illuminated his back, casting a long shadow that stretched all the way to the puddle below the stone steps.

He knelt on the ground, holding the things he had rescued. His body was still trembling with fear in the fire, and now he was finally releasing that pent-up energy.

Someone was calling his name in the courtyard. It was his colleague, Clerk Lu, the one who had pulled him up at the corner of the corridor and then pushed him away. Clerk Lu ran over and saw him kneeling at the foot of the stone steps, soaked to the bone, his clothes covered in soot stains, and embers still smoldering on his cuffs.

He reached out to help, but Jia Xian looked up, his eyes red from the smoke, yet his gaze was incredibly bright. His first words weren't about pain, fear, or nearly dying in the fire.

"The original manuscript wasn't burned."

His voice was hoarse, but his enunciation was clear. These two words weren't spoken to Clerk Lu, but to his father, to the man who had touched his chest and spoken of "center of gravity." Clerk Lu didn't reply; he simply helped the mad official to his feet. The action was exactly the same as the one he'd pulled in the opposite direction in the corridor earlier, except this time he didn't let go.

When Jia Xian stood up, his old knee injury gave way, and he almost fell. He grabbed Lu, the registrar, by the shoulder, while his other hand clutched his chest, where the triangular diagram draft, his father's "center of gravity," and the half-sized old record he had just snatched from the fire lay. The three items were stacked on top of each other. He covered the center of gravity.

A dull thud echoed behind them as the last half of the wall finally gave way, crashing into the puddles in the courtyard. Water splashed several feet high, sparks flew everywhere, and extinguished with a hiss as they landed on the water's surface, like a sudden rainstorm arriving early to end its work.

Jia Xian didn't look back at the fire. He rewrapped the oil paper, tucked the old record under his arm, and slowly sat down on the stone steps. Registrar Lu stood beside him, wanting to say something, but opened his mouth without uttering a sound.

Behind them, the west corridor of the Chongtian Division had been burned to a skeleton, with charred wooden beams lying haphazardly in the rubble. Occasionally, wisps of smoke would rise from the ruins and be dispersed by the night wind.

In the distance, the watchman struck the third watch. The sound of the clapper came from the other side of Bianjing City, across the fire, across the post-rain mist, and across the cracked screen wall of Chongtiansi, one strike after another, sinking into the night.