My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 34: Looking at Your Right Hand

Two bowls sat in a bamboo basket, wrapped in a straw cover, an old cloth folded at the bottom for padding. They were the kitchenʼs coarse clay bowls, one with an old chip along the rim. Xu Yan came down the mountain before dawn. At the Mountain Gate, Nie Bo was sweeping; he pulled his broom aside and Xu Yan stepped through the half-step of space it opened.

Ten li of mountain road took one shichen. Dew soaked his trouser legs to below the knees, and the tops of his shoes went damp.

Only one chimney in town had smoke rising from it. The old woman who sold porridge was carrying her stools out one by one; she only nodded at the sight of him. He went west out of town, past fallow fields on both sides. No water in them, just cracks in the dirt, and last yearʼs stalks still standing along the ridges. Past three willows, their branches brushing his shoulders. Where the dirt road ended, there was the temple.

An old man with an empty carrying pole came toward him, walking slow. Seeing the basket in Xu Yanʼs hand, he tipped his chin toward the temple.

”That one still in there?”

”Yeah.”

”Passed by last night. No fire lit in there.”

”Mm.”

”Not cold in the seventh month.” The old man shifted the pole on his shoulder and went on his way.

The temple gate was half-collapsed, one door panel leaning against the wall. The third stepʼs stone had been worn bright by sitting. The man inside sat against the base of the wall, pulling apart handfuls of dry grass with his left hand, picking out the gravel and tile shards underneath and tossing them past the threshold. His aim was good—not a single piece landed back in the grass. A sword stood against the wall, sheathed, mouth of the sheath facing the door.

Xu Yan stopped below the steps, set the bamboo basket on the threshold, and lifted the straw cover. Steam pushed up.

”Two bowls. Hot.”

The man glanced up once, then lowered his head back to the grass.

”Take it back.”

”Just out of the kitchen.” Xu Yan sat on the threshold, back against the doorframe. ”Wonʼt be worth anything cold.”

The man said nothing. Handful by handful he cleared the grass, smoothed the layer with his palm, then brushed the chaff from his hands. He got up and went behind the temple, came back with an armful of dry grass, spread it along the wall over last nightʼs layer. Spread it flat, tucked the edges into the gaps in the wall, then sat back down cross-legged.

Xu Yan stayed on the threshold. It was worn low; sitting there, his knees rose above it. The sun crept over from the temple eaves inch by inch. The damp on his shoes dried halfway on its own, the rest taken by the sun.

The man took the cloth bundle from his chest and unwrapped it: one whole flatbread and half of another. He broke the half, broke it again into two, put one piece back in the cloth, and ate the other slowly, bite by bite. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The two bowls still sat on the threshold, their steam thinning and fading.

He suddenly got up and walked over, bent down and picked up the top bowl, lifted it to his nose and smelled. The steam from the rim brushed his face. He held it like that for a while, then set it back down, straightened it, and pulled the straw cover back over.

Wind came through the doorway, tilting the three cold incense stubs in the burner. An ant crawled up the threshold, circled the base of the bowl once, and crawled back down.

”Who are you.” He spoke first.

”Qingya. The mountain to the north.”

”Heard that sectʼs about to dissolve.”

”Not yet.”

The man looked out past the temple gate. The sun was climbing over the doorframe, falling on the threshold, on the rims of the two bowls. ”The sectʼs about to dissolve, so you come down the mountain looking for people,” he said.

Xu Yan didnʼt take that up. ”The dock work. How much a day.”

”Half a workday.”

”Three wen. Three flatbreads.”

”You keep count.”

”I keep books. Up on the mountain.”

The man smiled faintly, just skin moving before it settled back. ”Bookkeeper,” he said. ”Whatʼs a bookkeeper doing in a temple.”

”Delivering meals.”

”What for.”

”To get two bowls back.”

He had nothing to say to that. He matched the two corners of the cloth bundle, folded them over, tied a knot. All left-handed; he tucked the rope end into the knot, tucked it neat.

”Whatʼs your name,” Xu Yan asked.

He didnʼt answer, just tucked the bundle back into his chest.

”How many people on the mountain.” This time he was the one asking.

”Nine.”

”Nine.” He repeated it, slow, like weighing a thingʼs heft.

Xu Yan took out the account book, unwrapped the cloth strap, turned to the last page. The lines above had been written yesterday: cart hire to Linchuan, mule cart there and back, four pieces; Earth God Shrine, west out of town, past three willows. He added a line below: Seventh month, seventeenth day, two Spirit Meals, two bowls left behind.

”What are you writing.”

”Writing down the bowls.”

”Writing down bowls too.”

”I write down everything.”

”Then this arm of mine—write it in too.” There was no smile when he said it. His eyes rested at the edge of the ledger page, and he didnʼt glance at his own right hand.

”Iʼll write it down,” Xu Yan said.

And with that, he didnʼt close the book.

[Debit: Heritage, 1 point.]

[Balance: Heritage, 7 points.]

He looked up at the man.

[Audit: Huo Qing. Root Bone: Left-Hand Sword Bone, unused.]

[Audit: Right-arm meridians, severed.]

The wind flipped a page. Xu Yan pressed it down with one hand and kept it there for a moment before he felt the cold on the back of his hand.

Where the break was, the ledger didnʼt say.

He looked at the right hand. Thin back, thick knuckles, a callus pressed into the web between thumb and forefinger, thick and yellowed from years of gripping a sword. Along the forearm ran an old scar, white and bright, climbing up into the sleeve. The hand lay open on his knee, five fingers spread; when the wind came they shifted, and he didnʼt draw them back. The right cuff had a dark water stain, from a washing that hadnʼt fully dried. Yesterdayʼs salt rime was gone.

Then the left hand. Soft at the web, clean palm, not a single callus.

The sword at the wall: the cloth wrapped around its grip was stiff with hand sweat, wound tight and dense, worn bright on one side only. The bright side faced the right hand.

The sun had climbed higher. The bowlsʼ shadows shifted inward past the threshold.

”What are you looking at.”

”Your right hand.”

He put the right hand behind his back.

”Itʼs ruined,” he said. ”Staring wonʼt bring it back.”

Xu Yan closed the ledger, wound the cloth strap around twice, tucked it away. ”How long since it was ruined.”

”Forgot.”

”Nobody in town hires a man with a ruined hand.”

”Some do.” He said, ”The dock still needs people.”

”Half a workday.”

”Half a workdayʼs still money.”

Xu Yan stood, the bamboo basket in hand, bottom empty. He bent and pushed the two bowls another half foot inward, then laid the straw cover back over them, its corner resting on a bowl rim.

”Take it away.”

”The bowls belong to the kitchen,” Xu Yan said. ”Iʼll come get them tomorrow.”

The man didnʼt speak again. Didnʼt pick up the bowls, didnʼt push them off either.

Xu Yan went down the three stone steps. At the willows he turned to look back: the two bowls sat inside the threshold, straw cover over them, and the man inside had sat back down facing away from the door, right hand still behind his back.

It was past noon by the time he got back up the mountain. The kitchen pot was scrubbed clean, turned upside down on the chopping board. Qian Duoduo was squatting at the door, picking over a bunch of greens. He stood up when he saw the empty basket.

”The bowls?”

”Left them at the temple.”

”Both?” He set the greens down. ”Those two are the thickest pair in the kitchen. Clay. Doesnʼt burn your hands with hot soup.”

”Iʼll get them back tomorrow.”

”And if he wonʼt give them up?”

”Only returns them if theyʼre washed,” Xu Yan said. ”If he washes them, heʼs already returned them.”

Qian Duoduo didnʼt quite follow. He opened his mouth, then picked the greens back up. ”His hand—what happened to it.”

”Broken.”

”Been broken for years, Iʼd say.”

”Donʼt know.” Xu Yan set the basket by the stove. ”The ledger doesnʼt say.”

Cheng Banshan came over from the Medicine Hall, wine gourd in hand, and stopped at the kitchen door. ”If he wonʼt eat your food, heʼs not accepting your kindness.”

”The food was hot.”

”Hot or cold, same thing.” He set the gourd on the table and dragged a bench over to sit. ”A man with one ruined hand fears gifts most of all. If you give, he has to remember you.” He unscrewed the gourd and took a drink before asking, ”Did he eat.”

”No.”

”Did he keep the bowls.”

”He kept them.”

Cheng Banshan picked up the gourd and started back toward the Medicine Hall, pausing at the wall. ”He kept the bowls—that door hasnʼt closed.” He hung the gourd back at his waist. ”Go again tomorrow. Donʼt mention the hand.”

Bai Xiaoman came over from the Front Courtyard, hugging the formation diagram with five slots drawn on it. She stopped by the wall and asked whether they were still going to Linchuan.

”Weʼre going,” Xu Yan said. ”Three stones, three hundred pieces.”

”Then save up for this side first.” She pressed the diagram tighter to her chest and left.

A Sui came out of the kitchen with a bowl of cold rice, pushed it into Xu Yanʼs hands, and said Qian Duoduo said he hadnʼt eaten at noon.

”Why wonʼt that person eat?” she asked from below the steps.

”He doesnʼt take food from people.”

”Then isnʼt he hungry?”

”He is.”

A Sui thought for a moment. ”Will he eat tomorrow?”

”Iʼll bring more tomorrow.”

In the Front Courtyard, Shi Po stood doing pillar training with the threshold stone on his shoulders, the stone rising and falling, falling steady.

”Sect Master,” he said, ”going back tomorrow?”

”Going back.”

That night in the Accounts Room, Xu Yan looked over the dayʼs writing. The last lines sat side by side: the cart fare, the templeʼs location, the man in the temple, two Spirit Meals. Below ”one man in the temple, right hand ruined, carries a sword on his back,” he added a name: Huo Qing.

No other entries on the books that day. Only two bowls, still out.

He thought of the empty sleeve in the Medicine Hall, swaying by the furnace day after day, all these years.

He trimmed the lamp wick once. Wind moved through the treetops on the Back Mountain. The copper bell didnʼt ring.

The next day he went down the mountain again before dawn, the basket empty this time.

The sun was just clearing the willow tops when he reached the temple. The steps had been swept, the chaff gathered against one side of the wall. In the exact middle of the threshold sat the two bowls, one stacked on the other, upside down, bottoms to the sky. The straw cover was folded into a square and set beside them.

They had been washed. No grease on the rims, the outside water spots dried, only a ring of damp where the bottom bowl touched the threshold. The mud on the well platform behind the temple was fresh; sloshed water had seeped into the dirt, spreading all the way down to the base of the steps.

He crouched and flipped the top bowl over to look. The bottom was clean—not a single grain of rice stuck to it. The bowl beneath, with its old chip in the rim, had been scrubbed white as well.

The man in the temple sat on the grass, back to the door. The sword stood at the wall, sheath mouth facing inward. The cloth bundle was still tucked at his chest, still bulging, same as before.

Xu Yan stood, put the bowls into the bamboo basket one by one. Bowl touched bowl, they chimed once.

The man on the grass didnʼt turn around.