Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 9 Sickbed

The summer Chen Tongfu fell ill, a severe drought struck Guanzhong. The wells dried up.

That well was dug by Chen Tongfu's father when he was young. It took him three zhang (approximately 10 meters) to reach water, and the well walls were covered with moss. Every summer the water level would drop a little, but it had never dried up. This year it was dry. The mud at the bottom of the well was cracked into a tortoise-shell pattern, and dead earthworms, curled up like hemp ropes that had been scorched by fire, were embedded in the cracks.

Every morning, Zhou Xiaoshi would fetch water from ten miles away. He was still a teenager, only tall enough to place the carrying pole on its shortest setting. The iron hooks at both ends of the pole were too long, causing the buckets to drag on the ground. He had to wrap the hooks around the pole twice to barely lift the bottoms of the buckets off the ground. He would carry two half-buckets of water back ten miles without taking a break, because if he did, he wouldn't be able to stand up again.

Blisters formed on the soles of his feet, which burst and he rubbed again, eventually developing calluses. He poured the water into the vat and went for another run. He grew thinner from running, his cheekbones protruding, his wrists as thin as bamboo poles, and his sleeves dangling loosely. More than half of the disciples in the thatched cottage had already left. After the reprimand letter from the Guanzhong Provincial Education Commissioner was posted on the doorposts, no one dared to come and listen to a reprimanded person lecture.

The few who remained weren't there to guard Mr. Shou; they were there to help carry his coffin after his death. Zhou Xiaoshi didn't leave. He carried water to brew medicine for Mr. Shou, and when the well dried up, he would fetch water from ten miles away. He wasn't very literate, but he recognized the three characters Mr. Shou had carved on the bamboo slips: "Keep asking."

The thatched cottage was quiet. Not the kind of tranquil quiet, but the kind of quiet that makes your throat feel choked. The empty bird nest in the locust tree outside the window swayed gently in the wind, but no birds returned. The window with its refuted paper had a hole that Aheng had torn bigger, and through the hole, you could see the locust tree outside. The tree was planted by her son, and the character "安" (peace/safety) on the trunk was still there.

The rebuttal had been posted on the locust tree for more than half a year. The paper was soaked by rain and dried by the sun. Lu Mingyuan's signature was long gone. When the wind blew, only half of the strokes remained in the corner where the paper had rotted first, like a seal that had been torn in half.

Aheng sat by her husband's bedside. She had lost a lot of weight these past few days, not from exhaustion, but from staying up all night. Every night she kept watch by the light, only daring to close her eyes after her husband had fallen asleep. She could hear him coughing in his sleep, each cough sounding like it was being squeezed out from between his bones, and after he finished coughing, he would gasp for breath for a long time, his shoulders heaving.

In his dream, he was still asking, his lips moving, though it was unclear whether he was asking about the border wall or the Green Seedling Law. He had never called his son by name. Sometimes she wished he would call out, "Anbei." But he never did.

The thatched cottage was filled with bamboo slips, covering half the room. They contained information about farming seasons, the Green Seedling Law, the location of the border wall, and whether or not ancestral rules should be changed. Each bamboo slip was carved by Chen Tongfu over the years, with both sides covered in deep engravings and ink that had seeped into the bamboo flesh, making them impossible to wipe off.

He had Zhou Xiaoshi move the bamboo slips to his bedside, and then ran his fingers over each one. His fingers started with the first character "农" (farmer) carved on the first slip, and moved to the last unfinished stroke on the last slip—a stroke only half-carved, drawn out and then drawn back, like a sigh choked. He stacked the slips neatly, tied them with hemp rope, and then said to Zhou Xiaoshi, "These are for you."

Zhou Xiaoshi knelt on the ground. His knees hit the blue bricks with a thud. His knees had been swollen from carrying water these past few days, and when he knelt down, the bones cracked against his flesh, but he didn't feel any pain. He reached out his hands to receive the bundle of bamboo slips, receiving them with both hands, like a beggar receiving a bowl of rice.

The bamboo slips were heavy; the weight of half a room's worth of questions pressed down on a child's hands. His hands trembled, not from the weight, but from fear. He feared he wouldn't be able to pass them on. He feared he would die on the escape route, that the bamboo slips would rot from the rain, be eaten away by insects, and be burned as firewood.

"Sir, I will definitely pass it on."

Chen Tongfu looked at him. Zhou Xiaoshi's cheekbones were prominent, his eyes sunken. His father's border soldier lineage gave him a strong frame, and his mother's experience of being forced to death under the Green Sprouts Act gave him a stubborn temperament. But now, kneeling before the sickbed, his knees were swollen, and his hands were trembling. Chen Tongfu looked at him for a long time, then shifted his gaze to the locust tree outside the window. The tree was planted by his son, and the character "安" (peace/safety) on its trunk was still there. The hole in the window paper framed the tree, and the empty bird's nest in it.

"It's useless," he said. "Keep it."

He didn't say, "We must find someone to follow in my footsteps," nor did he say, "Someone will understand these things in the future." He said, "It's useless, keep it." He wasn't being sarcastic; he genuinely didn't know if his questioning was worthwhile. He didn't know if anyone would see these things later, if anyone would continue to ask questions, or if they would become a river. He only knew that he had written them down, and he wouldn't let them be burned. Keep them.

Zhou Xiaoshi carried the bamboo slips out. The slips were too heavy for him to carry, so he made three trips to move them. On the last trip, he returned to retrieve the bamboo slip that had been under the returned letter. That slip was inscribed with the five characters "Ancestors are not worthy of emulation," and both sides were engraved with questions. The bamboo was pierced through two layers, the ink seeping from the front to the back and back again, the questions on both sides mixed together, making it impossible to distinguish which was on the front and which was on the back. He placed this bamboo slip on top, wiped the dust off with his sleeve, and stepped out the door.

Aheng didn't cry. She touched each bamboo slip her husband had given to Zhou Xiaoshi again. She couldn't read, but she recognized the carving techniques he used: light strokes meant he was thinking, heavy strokes meant he was angry, a slipped stroke meant his hand was trembling, and a broken stroke meant he was heartbroken. She wrapped the bamboo slips in an old cloth and put them into Zhou Xiaoshi's basket. Then she turned and went out to the porch.

On the pillars under the eaves, there were still marks her son had carved when he was five years old. He used a carving knife to measure his height on the pillars, adding one mark each year. He passed away when he made the tenth mark. Aheng squatted down and covered her mouth with her sleeve. She squatted there silently. Only her shoulders trembled.

She didn't want anyone inside to hear; he had been panting on his sickbed for too long and had finally fallen asleep. She covered her mouth with her sleeve; he had taught her not to cry out loud. The padded jacket was tucked away at the foot of the bed; she had secretly placed it there, and he didn't know. The jacket was made the autumn of the year her son left home; the new cotton hadn't been worn yet, and he said he would wear it when he came back in winter.

Later, the returned letter arrived, and the padded jacket was at the bottom of the trunk. Every autumn, she would take it out to air it, pat it, and then put it back. This year, she didn't put it back.

She squatted for a long time. When she stood up, her knees were covered in dry dirt. She wiped her hands on her apron, turned, and went inside. She didn't look at her husband's face; her back was to him, and she looked out the window at the locust tree. The character "安" (An, meaning peace) on the tree was blurred by the rain, like blood seeping from a wound again. "Tongfu," she said, "I take down and read our son's letter every night after you fall asleep."

Her shoulders didn't tremble. Chen Tongfu opened his eyes and looked at her back. Her back was already a little hunched, her shoulder blades supporting the faded gray cloth shirt, the fabric so thin it was translucent. The silver hairpin was still in her hair, the only piece of jewelry she had brought with her as part of her dowry. After wearing it for so many years, it had a dent, filled with indelible stove ash.

He didn't know how many times she had taken down the letter and read it every night after he fell asleep. He didn't know that she recognized the four characters "no such person found". He didn't know many characters, so he asked her to learn them, but she learned them on her own. She recognized the character for "person" and the character for "nothing", and she knew the meaning of the two characters together.

He assumed she couldn't reach the letter he'd placed on top of the bamboo slips, but he didn't know she took it down and read it every night. He didn't know she'd just squatted under the eaves, touching the ten carvings on the pillar again. He didn't know she'd placed a bamboo slip with only three characters carved on it before her son's cenotaph—three crooked characters, she couldn't write many words, she'd used his old carving knife from the corner of her desk to carve on the scrap bamboo: Anbei Leng.

All he knew was that she had said those words with her back to him. He pulled his fingers out from under the covers and pressed them against the pillow. Tears fell, not flowing, but dripping. One by one, they seeped onto the rough cloth pillowcase, leaving a small, dark, damp stain.

The first drop landed on the swollen spot on his wrist from the day he carved "Agricultural Seasons." The second drop landed on the corner where his son had accidentally splattered ink while grinding it for him. The third drop landed on the spot he habitually rubbed with his fingers after putting down his brush, a spot that had been worn smooth and shiny. The letter had been sitting on top for too long, and the crease was almost broken.

He didn't speak. The last thing he looked in before he died was that window. There was a hole in the window paper, and through the hole, you could see the locust tree outside. The locust tree was planted by his son, and the character "安" (peace/safety) was carved on its trunk. An empty bird's nest hung from its branches. No birds returned that spring.