Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 16 Drying

The next morning, the rain came suddenly, and after the heavy rain...

The floodwaters in the Chongtiansi courtyard had not yet receded, reflecting the charred remains of the west corridor. Blackened wooden beams lay scattered haphazardly among the rubble, and occasionally wisps of smoke rose from the ruins, only to be dispersed by the morning breeze.

There was a damp, cold, fishy smell in the air, mixed with the bitter smell of charcoal, as if the fire had not been completely extinguished.

Jia Xian squatted in front of the stone steps. Dawn was breaking, and the morning light shone through the screen wall, turning the puddles on the stone steps into a pale golden mirror. He took the manuscript paper out of his pocket, page by page, and spread it on the steps, weighing down the corners with pebbles.

The paper was soaked with sweat and rain, and had been baked by fire; some of the edges were brittle and would crumble at the slightest pressure. He unfolded it very slowly, each page like a dressing change for a wounded soldier.

The original triangular diagram was at the bottom, wrapped in two layers of oiled paper, with only a small corner scorched by the fire. He unwrapped the paper, revealing the triangular diagram; the paper was slightly damp, but the numbers were still there. He expanded layer by layer downwards, from the vertex "one" to the bottom "one, five, ten, ten, five, one," each number calculated by him three years ago using counting rods. He placed the original diagram separately on top, without weighing it down with a stone, for fear of damaging it.

He had memorized those numbers perfectly long ago. But he still wanted to look at them. To see them sitting quietly on the paper, not in fire, not in water, but right before his eyes.

He finished laying out the calculations. Then he took out something else from his pocket—the wooden plaque.

It was carved by Wang Shi. It's about the size of an index finger, carved from the branches of an old locust tree, with burrs on the edges. The two characters "Triangle" are carved very shallowly, with crooked strokes, like a child's scribbles.

Last night in the fire, he folded the wooden sign and the manuscript paper together and stuck them to his chest. Now there are still scraps of paper stuck to the wooden sign, and a drop of dried blood is hanging on the burr, which is from the blisters on his palm.

He wiped the surface of the wooden plaque with the back of his hand, but it wouldn't come clean; the bloodstains had seeped into the wood grain. He turned the plaque over, and on the back was a shallow knife mark—the engraver was testing his knife.

He held the wooden plaque for a while, then placed it next to the triangular diagram. The paper and the wood, side by side, sat on the stone steps, like two people sitting on the same bench.

There was someone behind me. It was the sound of footsteps, hard-soled boots making a splashing sound as they stepped into the puddles.

Jia Xian didn't turn around. He recognized the footsteps; they belonged to Shangguan. Shangguan was coming to inspect the fire scene this morning; he'd heard it from Registrar Lu last night. He simply continued squatting on the stone steps, pressing down a page of manuscript paper that had been blown away by the wind with pebbles.

The footsteps stopped three steps behind him. Zheng Tiju stood with his hands behind his back, a small water stain on the hem of his official robe, which had been splashed when he crossed the courtyard.

He watched Jia Xian squatting on the ground like a fool who would squat in the corner counting ants after sweeping the floor. Last night's fire burned down half of the Chongtian Bureau, and this morning this mad official was still guarding that pile of tattered paper.

He no longer knew how to describe this stubbornness; it wasn't anger, nor disgust, but a feeling of being offended. A tax collector, who had been burned once and nearly died inside, was now neither crying nor making a fuss, nor begging for help, but simply squatting in front of the stone steps drying his paper. This silence made him more uncomfortable than any lament.

"What's the use of these few pages?"

This time, he asked Jia Xian directly. Not in front of everyone, not to himself, but face to face. His tone was almost exactly the same as yesterday under the eaves, but this time there was an added layer of confusion; he genuinely didn't understand.

This mad official almost died in the fire, all for these few pages of paper. After the fire broke out last night, he had considered the possibility that Jia Xian might have burned to death in the archives; a thought flashed through his mind at that moment.

If this person had truly burned to death, the subsequent report would have required considerable effort to explain why an accountant was still in the archives at night. This thought preceded any sympathy. Now that the person was still alive, that lingering unease in his heart resurfaced.

Jia Xian placed the last stone on the ground.

He didn't stand up. He didn't look at Shangguan. He patted the dust off his hands, his voice soft and devoid of any emotion. His tone was the same as when he told Registrar Lu last night that "the draft wasn't burned"—not an explanation, not a rebuttal, not a plea for mercy, but a statement.

"I have no idea."

He paused for a moment.

"People in the future will know how to use it."

His gaze traveled across the stone steps, through the puddles in the courtyard, through the crack in the screen wall, and far into the distance. He didn't know that as he spoke, Wang Shi was standing a few steps away behind a pillar in the corridor. Wang Shi held a tea tray with a pot of freshly boiled water on it.

He neither moved forward nor retreated back into the kitchen. He simply stood behind the pillar, holding the tea tray steadily, the white blisters on his fingers still intact.

Shangguan did not get angry.

It wasn't that he didn't want to lash out, but that he couldn't find a reason to. Jia Xian didn't argue, didn't defend himself, didn't cry, and didn't beg for forgiveness. He simply said, "I don't know." But when he said, "People will know in the future," the certainty in his tone left Shangguan speechless, more so than any argument.

Shangguan was silent for a moment, then said, "The Chongtian Division doesn't tolerate idlers. You'd better watch yourself." With that, he turned and left, his steps quicker than when he came. The water he kicked up splashed next to Jia Xian's manuscript, just an inch away from wetting the edge.

Jia Xian stared at the water droplet that was just an inch away from landing. The droplet fell, creating a ripple on the puddle, and landed right next to the pebble holding the manuscript down. The pebble had a very fine scratch on it, made by a nail on the threshold when he had retrieved the last page from outside the threshold the day before yesterday.

The moment he picked up the pebble, Wang Shi happened to be coming around from the side door with a tea tray, blocking his view. He didn't know that these two things happened at the same instant. But now, looking at the pebble, he suddenly felt that the stone looked familiar, like someone's face.

He didn't dwell on it. He picked up the wooden sign and gripped it tightly in his hand, rubbing the splinters between his fingers. The splinters were still sharp, but less so than last night, probably because the blood had softened the wood grain.

Wang Shi stood behind the pillar, not going over. He placed the tea tray on the railing, the hot water in the celadon cup steaming. The chipped rim of the cup was pointing directly at Jia Xian.

He stood there for a while, then picked up the tea tray and walked back. Before entering the kitchen, he glanced back and saw Jia Xian still squatting in front of the stone steps, his sleeves fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. There was a scorched mark on his sleeve; the spark he had extinguished had burned through the fabric, revealing a hole the size of a mung bean underneath.

He pushed open the door and entered the kitchen. The fire was still burning, and the kettle sat steadily on the stove. He placed the tea tray on the cutting board, raised his hand to look at the white blister on the tip of his thumb. It hadn't burst yet; tomorrow it would turn into a light brown scab, lying side by side with the other scars.

Jia Xian sat on the stone steps until dawn.

He turned the manuscript pages over one by one to dry them. The ink on the paper had bled, and the edges of some numbers were blurred, but they were still legible. After each page dried, he put it away and moved on to the next. The triangular diagram draft was the last one he put away; the paper was already dry, and the scorch mark stopped next to the numbers in the seventh row, without touching it.

He folded the triangular diagram neatly and wrapped it twice more with oiled paper. He tucked the wooden plaque between the oiled paper and the draft. Then he pinned the oiled paper back to his chest. Through his clothes, he could feel the sharp edges of the wooden plaque digging into his chest, aligning with the "center of gravity" his father had marked. Three years ago, he pasted his calculations here. Last night, he pasted the draft and the wooden plaque here. Now, he's also tucking in the old, tattered copy of the record he salvaged from the fire.

The four items were all coarser and heavier than the others.

He stood up, his old knee injury clicking loudly. He stood for a while, holding onto the edge of the stone steps, until his leg subsided before taking his first step. He walked towards the guardhouse, pausing as he passed the ruins of the west corridor. The charred wooden beams still emitted their last wisps of smoke, which drifted northward in the morning breeze, towards the Bian River. Among the ruins were a few unburnt bricks, rainwater from the previous night seeping into their cracks, dripping down the scorch marks like tending to the wounds of the crumbling walls.

He didn't look at it for long. He turned and left.

At the door of the duty room, Registrar Lu was tidying up the debris blown in by the ashes from last night's fire. The broom swept across the threshold, raising ash that slowly settled in the morning light. He saw Jia Xian approaching and paused. Jia Xian thanked him, the hand that had helped him up last night. Registrar Lu said it wasn't necessary, then asked what to do next.

Jia Xian thought for a moment and said, "Let's rewrite the calculations first."

His tone was the same as usual. Just like saying, "It's time for night duty tonight." Registrar Lu paused, then started sweeping again. Swish, swish, the dust was swept down the steps, falling into the rain and turning into mud. Jia Xian pushed open the door to the duty room.

The door closed behind him. The window was open, and morning light streamed in, falling on his desk. The desk was empty; he hadn't finished copying the last page last night. The counting rods were still scattered on the table, black and white, arranged exactly as he had when he put down his pen last night. The bundle of calculation drafts, which was to be submitted to the Imperial Observatory, lay askew on the edge of the table, the hemp rope untied, like a half-finished wall that had been abandoned.

He took the oiled paper package from his pocket, placed it on the table next to the counting rods, and then sat down. He picked up his pen, soaked it in water, and continued writing from the last page he had been copying halfway through the night before.

Birdsong could be heard outside the window. It wasn't a magpie, but a gray sparrow, perched atop the screen wall, tilting its head to watch the smoke rising from the ruins of the west corridor. The smoke finally dissipated. Sunlight streamed through the burned eaves, shining directly into the courtyard of the Chongtiansi for the first time, turning the scraps of paper soaked overnight on the stone steps white.

The boatmen on the Bian River began to shout their work songs. The sounds came from the north of the city, crossing the streets and alleys, the screen wall, and the cracked walls of the Chongtiansi Bureau, reaching Jia Xian's duty room. He finished writing a line of numbers, his pen pausing slightly; this line of numbers happened to be the seventh row of the triangular diagram, the spot where the scorch mark had almost touched. He lightly drew a vertical line next to the number with the tip of his pen, as a mark.

Then continue writing.