Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 4 was not called

Lu Mingyuan stopped at the gate. The pause was brief, lasting only about the time it takes to say a sentence. But it was the most weighty step he had ever taken in his life.

Rain streamed down his shoulders from three soaked puncture wounds. His hand, which had been clenching and unclenching repeatedly inside his sleeve, now stood frozen above the threshold. He wasn't waiting for "come back," he was waiting for "Mingyuan, come back." He was waiting for his uncle, just as he had when he was twelve, the day he broke his uncle's inkstone and, too afraid to return to the thatched cottage, hid behind a locust tree. His uncle found him then, but didn't scold him, only saying, "Mingyuan, come back for dinner." That year, his uncle's voice was still young, the locust tree hadn't been gnawed bare by locusts, and he hadn't been entrusted with the care of his orphan. That address, with "Mingyuan" placed first.

The thatched cottage behind him was like a well drained of its sound. The bamboo slips fell silent, the rain fell silent. He heard the string in his mind tightening inch by inch, and when his uncle turned his face away, he saw his uncle's eyes. Red. Not from staying up late, not from the wind, not a red he had ever seen at any other time in his life.

I'll call you "sir" one more time—not "sir," but my last loved one in this world. You're waiting for me to call you that. I know you're waiting.

He opened his mouth. A single word rolled through his throat, not "Mingyuan, come back." It was a forced breath, the word "Yuan" he had been clutching in his sleeve for so long, the word his mother had embroidered on the corner of the handkerchief before her death. He paused. No sound came out. He thought his uncle hadn't heard him.

He stepped out the door. Rain pelted his head.

Unbeknownst to him, behind the window covered with old paper, Chen Tongfu heard his breathy sound clearly.

Chen Tongfu didn't turn around. He reached into his sleeve and touched the old handkerchief. His sister had embroidered it; the character "远" (yuan, meaning far) was crookedly embroidered at one corner. His sister wasn't very skilled; the characters she embroidered were always crooked. He used to laugh at her, but she would say, "So what if it's crooked? It's still a character." Now, this handkerchief had been clutched in his sleeve for too many years; the embroidery thread had worn through, leaving only the needle's eye on the fabric. He gripped the handkerchief, his knuckles turning white.

He didn't call out. Not because he didn't want to. He heard Lu Mingyuan swallow the word back, the word his sister had called out while holding his hand when she entrusted her orphan to him.

He heard it, but he couldn't cry out. Because he was the teacher. If he cried out at that moment, he would be using his position as an uncle to retain a student. Then Lu Mingyuan would forever remain just a nephew, not a student who stood up to refute him. He could cry and rush into his uncle's arms, but he chose to stand below the hall and say in front of everyone, "The teacher has gone astray."

He had grown into an independent thinker, refuting his teacher's arguments. Chen Tongfu couldn't stop him at this moment, as his uncle would be an insult to Lu Mingyuan's act of standing up. He could only clutch his handkerchief, turn his face away, and hide his reddened eyes from him.

Outside the thatched cottage, Lu Mingyuan's footsteps faded into the distance. Chen Tongfu never heard those footsteps again in his life.

Chen Wangqiu stood under the locust tree. The rain poured down on him; the rain, which he had surmised about the world, wasn't truly cold, but he felt its weight. He saw it all: he saw Lu Mingyuan stop at the threshold, he saw blood seeping from the bottom of Chen Tongfu's hand, which was clenched tightly around his handkerchief. He himself didn't feel it; his fingernails had dug into his palm, drawing blood from the needle holes of the embroidery thread. The blood stained the crooked character "Yuan" on the corner of the handkerchief, seeping into the cotton thread and turning it a deep red.

The dull ache of the carving knife still lingered on Chen Wangqiu's hand, a result of the wood grain. Last night, he held Chen Tongfu's hand and carved three characters on a wooden plaque: "Inquiry into the ultimate learning." The plaque lay on the desk in the thatched cottage, beside Chen Tongfu. He didn't know how the inscription on the plaque would end up in Jia Xian's hands, but he knew where it would go. From Guanzhong to Bianjing, from a scholar who had missed a single word in the wind to a tax collector. Neither looked back.

The thatched cottage was empty. The disciples had already dispersed. Zhou Xiaoshi was the last to leave. He squatted outside the threshold, picking up the bamboo slips scattered on the ground one by one, wiping the mud off with his sleeve, stacking them neatly, and placing them inside the threshold. He didn't dare look at Chen Tongfu, but simply stacked the bamboo slips, then stood up, lowered his head, and ran out of the courtyard.

Chen Tongfu pushed open the old window that he had repaired countless times, and the wind rushed in, ruffling his graying temples. The locust tree outside the window was planted with his son when he was five years old. He remembered the day they planted it, his son hugged the sapling tightly and said, "Dad, when will it grow as tall as me?" He spread his arms to show him, but his son couldn't reach it even when he stood on tiptoe.

Now there was no one under the tree. The path his son had taken was the same one Lu Mingyuan had taken. Both of them had stopped at the corner; Chen Anbei stopped because his back hurt and he couldn't turn, while Lu Mingyuan stopped to wait for that call.

Chen Tongfu tightened his fingers, one by one, on the window frame. He had seen the words "No such person" for three years. This returned letter sat on top of the pile of bamboo slips; he refused to take it down, always adding a stack to cover it, then taking it back and placing it on top again. Now, he took the letter from the bamboo slips and placed it on the blue brick where Lu Mingyuan had just knelt. The brick still bore the marks of his knees, two shallow dents from the rain.

He placed the letter between the two dents and turned back to his desk. The sound of the carving knife piercing the bamboo slab rang out again. He turned over the bamboo slip that had the inscription "Our ancestors are not worthy of emulation" and continued carving on the back. The first cut went very deep, bamboo shavings spilling out. Just like when he had written his questions on the back of the reprimand letter before, that time the ink had seeped into Zheng Anmin's signature; this time, the carving pierced through both sides of the same bamboo slip. He continued, "Then I will ask."

There was no smoke from the kitchen. Aheng sat in front of the stove, which was cold. The dried locust leaf in her hand crumbled, falling into her palm. She placed the crumbled leaf on the edge of the stove, then got up and walked to the door of the thatched cottage.

She noticed that the letter was missing from the pile of bamboo slips; her husband had taken the returned letter from the pile. She didn't say anything, but stood by the threshold for a moment, then turned around and continued mending the window paper.

Chen Wangqiu stood in the rain, the rain passing through his body. The rain, which seemed to deduce the world, didn't actually soak his clothes, but he felt its weight. Each drop was like a drumbeat, striking the crack in his heart. He pressed his hand against the locust tree; the character "安" (peace) on its trunk was blurred by the rain, like a wound that hadn't yet scabbed over, bleeding anew.