My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 6: From Now On, Call Him Sect Master

On the third day of the sixth month, at Dragon hour, the grass on the East Slope of the Back Mountain was covered in dew.

Fang Henian had left word before he passed: no grand funeral, bury him on the third day. Qian Duoduo was up before dawn, and it took him two tries to get the stove fire going.

A He had asked yesterday whether they should send word to town. Cheng Banshan said there was no need: the Old Sect Master had never cared for crowds, and if too many people came, theyʼd have to feed them. Qian Duoduo said nothing when he heard this. He wiped down the biggest pot on the stove, then put it back where it belonged.

Nie Bo had dug the grave pit yesterday, on a flat stretch near the top of the East Slope. It was perfectly square, the four corners cut straight, and the dug-up earth was piled to the side, covered with half an old mat. Three blue stones were laid flat at the bottom, faces up, all set level.

Above it stretched a row of graves belonging to past Sect Masters. The stone steles leaned every which way, and the inscriptions on the earliest ones had worn smooth. They looked no different from blank stone slabs.

The seven of them came up the small path behind the Ancestral Hall. The coffin was slung on two thick hemp ropes, Xu Yan at the front, Qian Duoduo at the back. The uphill path was narrow, and they switched shoulders three times at the bends. The ropes bit into their shoulders, and every few steps they had to shift their grip.

Cheng Banshan walked alongside, one hand steadying the coffin head. By halfway up the slope, sweat ran from his temples down his jaw, but that hand never loosened. The wine gourd at his hip clunked against the coffinʼs side with every step. He paid it no mind.

A He shoved his basket into A Suiʼs hands and ran up to help carry. Qian Duoduo freed one hand, planted it on the boyʼs head, and pressed him off to the side of the path. ”You canʼt lift it. Donʼt get in the way.”

A He wouldnʼt accept it. He stayed behind the coffin, holding up the rope for a stretch, and didnʼt let go until they reached the crest. The rope had left a red welt across his palm. He noticed it, looked at it, and wiped his hand on his pants.

Partway up, a patch of mud had turned soft from the dew. Qian Duoduoʼs foot slipped, his knee cracked against a rock, and the coffin tilted half a foot to one side. Cheng Banshanʼs hand pushed up from below, his foot grinding a half-circle into the grass, and he righted the coffin. Qian Duoduoʼs face went pale. He found his footing again, and his ”Iʼm fine” came out fast.

A Sui scattered paper money behind them. Qian Duoduo had told her to stop when they reached the East Slope, and she scattered it carefully—one bill on each side of the path, laid out as neat as planting rice seedlings.

Jiang Wan walked last. She hadnʼt unslung her sword, and her steps fell lightly on the grass.

At the pit, they lowered the coffin down, easing the ropes out inch by inch. When the bottom touched the stone blocks, it gave a dull thud. One end of the rope slipped free, and Jiang Wan caught it, coiling the end once around her wrist.

Jiang Wan stood on the rise at the far end of the pit, half a step higher than everyone else.

Cheng Banshan walked halfway around the pit, eyeing each of the three corners in turn, then crouched and measured the depth from the rim to the coffin lid with his hand.

”Just right,” he said. ”Half a foot deeper and weʼd have struck water.”

Nie Bo pushed the earth in one shovelful at a time. Xu Yan threw the first spadeful. The dirt struck the coffin lid, and the sound sank downward, hollow, leaving an emptiness in the ears.

His palms had long since blistered. That two-li mountain path with the coffin—the rope had rubbed the skin off both hands. Gripping the shovel hurt, and switching hands hurt no less. He remembered a winter when the Accounts Room had no fire, when his fingers had been too frozen to hold a brush, and Fang Henian had pressed his own hand warmer into him, saying that cold hands led to mistakes in the books. The hand warmer went back the next day, leaving behind only the words ”keep the books clear.”

Halfway through filling the grave, Qian Duoduo shoved his shovel into the ground, walked to the dirt pile, and crouched down. His back was to the pit, his shoulders shaking, his hands pressing and rubbing at his face.

Jiang Wan walked over, took the shovel from his hand, and threw three spadefuls into the pit. Then she drove the blade into the earth and pushed the handle toward Qian Duoduo.

He stood and took it, eyes red, and went back to filling.

The earth was leveled. Nie Bo patted it down with the back of his shovel, evenly and firmly, and finally shaped the mound into a round. The soil was fresh, and every press of the shovel left a mark.

Cheng Banshan drew a thin wooden tablet from his robes and crouched, laying it across his knee. He took out a brush and a small ink box. With only one hand, he had to brace the tablet against his knee, his palm pressing down on the ink box lid.

The first strokes bled into the wood and blurred together. He tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve, scraped the characters off, dipped the brush again, and wrote slower.

At the last stroke, his hand paused before he lifted the brush away.

Xu Yan crouched nearby, watching. The wood drank the ink slowly, and the writing came out gray, but each stroke was clear enough.

Jiang Wan took the tablet and set it in the earth before the grave, pressing down with both hands until the soil gripped it. Then she tapped it twice on each side with the pommel of her sword. A patch of mud clung to her knee, and some had gotten on her forehead. She didnʼt wipe it.

”The ancestral tablet will be set up back on the mountain,” Cheng Banshan said. ”The one in the Ancestral Hall—Iʼll inscribe it when the time comes.”

A Sui brought over the bamboo basket. Inside were a bowl of plain porridge and a pair of chopsticks. She crouched and arranged them, then looked up. ”Just one pair of chopsticks?”

”One pair,” Cheng Banshan said.

”How long do I leave the porridge out?”

”Leave it,” he said. ”Leave it until it spoils.”

A Sui nodded, tucking that away in her memory.

Qian Duoduo took the remaining paper money from the bottom of the basket and lit a small fire in front of the grave. The grass was wet, so the flame started weak. He crouched beside it, shielding it from the wind with his hand, feeding it one bill at a time. The ash swirled upward, then settled onto the fresh earth before it could fly far.

Cheng Banshan pulled the gourd from his waist, uncorked it, and poured the wine slowly from the head of the grave down to its foot. The smell of liquor rose and drowned out the dew. When it was empty, he shook the gourd, listened, and hung it back at his hip before crouching before the grave.

”Old Sect Master,” he said. ”Youʼve gone and left a whole mountain of people in the hands of a bookkeeper.”

Two paper bills at the graveʼs edge shifted, half-turning over, then settled back into place.

Cheng Banshan straightened, turned, and looked at the remaining few.

”Listen well,” he said. ”There is no Old Sect Master on this mountain anymore.”

Dew from the grass climbed up their trouser legs. Their feet were soaked through.

”From now on, call him Sect Master.”

Qian Duoduo was first. His voice came out rough, as if something were caught in his throat. After he said it, he looked startled, wiped a hand across his face, straightened his back, and said it again. This time it carried.

A Sui followed, louder than anyone, and a pair of birds burst from the grass on the slope. A He was half a beat slow, his voice drowned out by his sisterʼs. Unwilling to be outdone, he said it a second time.

Jiang Wan didnʼt.

She knelt before the grave and bowed three times, pressing her forehead to the earth. Her knees sank into the wet grass, and when she rose, deep prints remained. She stood, tightened the sword across her back, and walked down the mountain path, steps quicker than they had been on the way up.

Cheng Banshan watched her retreating figure, hefted the empty gourd once in his hand, and said nothing.

Xu Yan drove his shovel into the earth. The blade sank half a foot.

”I accept,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

”Accepted means I take responsibility.” He straightened the shovel handle. ”When I canʼt manage, curse me.”

”What good would cursing you do?” Cheng Banshan said.

”Itʼd stop me from forgetting.”

The way down was easier. The grass was trampled flat, and the soles of their shoes found purchase. The sun slid out from behind the ridge to the east, and the mountain path ran bright one stretch, dark the next.

A Sui walked at the front, backwards, facing Xu Yan. ”Sect Master, are they really going to take the Mountain Gate?”

A He clamped a hand over her mouth. She bit the back of it. He hissed and grabbed for her ear, and the two of them tangled together in the middle of the path, each hanging onto the otherʼs sleeve.

”Stop fighting,” Qian Duoduo said, too occupied to separate them.

Xu Yan went over and pulled them apart. ”She can ask.”

A Sui rubbed her ear as she straightened. ”Then... are they really going to take it?”

”The accounts arenʼt settled yet.”

She thought about it, then nodded. ”Then settle them fast.”

A He swatted the back of her head. ”You think settling accounts is like counting stones?”

”Iʼm fast at counting stones.”

Cheng Banshan snorted from behind. ”She counts stones better than her brother counts anything.”

A He shut up.

Qian Duoduo still had a handful of paper money left in the basket. He glanced at it halfway down. ”Thereʼs some left.”

”Keep it,” Xu Yan said. ”The ones scattered along the Mountain Gate road—sweeping them up will be a chore.”

Qian Duoduo wrapped the bills in the oiled paper and tucked them into the bottom of the basket. ”Iʼll sweep when we get back.”

”Have Nie Bo do it.”

”Then Iʼll stoke the fire and get the pot on the stove.” Qian Duoduo paused. ”Those two havenʼt had breakfast yet.”

When the roof of the front courtyard came into view, Cheng Banshan slowed and fell into step beside Xu Yan.

”You accepted fast,” he said.

”A call has to be answered.”

”There are seven people on this mountain right now.” Cheng Banshan hung the gourd at his waist; the empty vessel swung. ”You accepted that call. If one fewer remains from now on, thatʼs on your books.”

Xu Yan walked on through the grass, clods of mud dropping from his shoes with each step.

”If one goes missing,” he said, ”Iʼll go find them.”

Cheng Banshan didnʼt ask anything more.

By Snake hour, they had reached the Mountain Gate.

Two bamboo poles leaned against the wall. The mourning banner had been taken down and rolled into a bundle, stuffed beside the door of the low hut. Xu Yan stopped to look: the rope ends were untied, but the knot was still there, cinched dead tight. The whole rope had been pulled free of the poles, the knot untouched.

Nie Bo was sweeping the paper money off the front step.

The dew had soaked the paper, gluing it to the blue bricks, and the broom couldnʼt move it. He worked at it with the broom tips, prying up one bill at a time, shaking each into a bamboo crate before going for the next. One was wedged in the crack of the threshold; he crouched and teased it out with the frontmost bristles.

Xu Yan walked to the threshold and stepped aside half a pace. Nie Bo kept sweeping right up to his feet, finished the area inside and out, propped the broom by the door, and carried the crate back to the low hut.

Xu Yan stood beneath the Mountain Gate and looked back at the mountain path. That patch of fresh soil on the slope was still visible, lighter than the ground around it.

The wind came up from Luoxia Town, carrying the rank smell of the river.

He turned and walked in, his feet pressing on the damp blue brick. In the front courtyard, Qian Duoduo was already at the kitchen door, stomping mud from his shoes, while the crackle of the fire came from inside. A He and A Sui had carried their squabbling over to the well platform, and the well rope creaked.

Qian Duoduo straightened and called over: ”Iʼm putting in an extra measure of rice today.”

Xu Yan answered him.

He pushed open the door of the Accounts Room. Inside it was darker than outside. The old ledgers heʼd been reading last night still lay open on the table, and the ink in the inkstone had dried to a thin crust.

It came to him suddenly: from this morning until now, he hadnʼt written a single line in the books.

He sat on the stool, dripped water into the inkstone, ground a bit of fresh ink, and turned to the page that was still half blank. He dipped his brush and wrote a new line: Third day of the sixth month—burial.

He set the brush down and looked at that line.

From the front courtyard, a voice carried all the way through and through the door, clear even through the wood: ”Sect Master—the porridge is ready!”