My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 39: A Name Written with the Left Hand

The dew on the stone steps hadnʼt dried yet, but the broom got there first.

Nie Bo swept upward from below the Mountain Gate, one stroke pressing over the next, pushing the nightʼs fallen leaves to the edges of the steps. Halfway up, the broom paused. He turned sideways, leaving half the step clear, then kept sweeping downward.

Someone was coming up from below.

A sword strapped to his back, climbing one step at a time. The slope was steep; his right shoulder dipped lower with each stride. Every three steps he reached his left hand over to shift the sword strap. Yellow mud caked his shoe tops, dried now, but a streak of dew ran up the shoe upper, wet from the sole to the ankle, then stopped.

At the Mountain Gate he halted, tilting his head to look at the plaque. Half the lacquer had peeled away, the grain of the wood showing through, cobwebs in the corners. He stood beneath it, never taking that last step up.

Across the front courtyard, Qian Duoduo came out of the kitchen still holding half a piece of ginger. He looked up, saw the figure standing beneath the Mountain Gate, opened his mouth, then turned and shouted toward the Accounts Room.

”Sect Master!”

Xu Yan set his brush down on the ledger and came out.

The sun had already cleared the ridge. The shadows in the front courtyard had shrunk by half. Shi Po was stacking firewood by the steps, straightening up. Over by the Old Storehouse, Bai Xiaoman had spread a set of bedding out in the sun, crouching at the corner to weigh it down. From the East Courtyard came the sound of a sword—one stroke, a pause, another.

Xu Yan walked to the Mountain Gate and stopped.

”How did your shoes get wet,” he asked.

Huo Qing glanced down. ”Dew on the road.”

”When did you set out.”

”Before dawn.”

”Walk through dew the whole way, youʼd be soaked to the knee.” Xu Yan said. ”That streak only reaches your ankle. You sat at the foot of the slope awhile, waiting for the dew to lift, before you came up.”

Huo Qing didnʼt answer. A small patch of grass at the bottom of the slope was pressed flat, the blades still holding an imprint.

”Iʼve come to write my name,” he said.

Xu Yan stepped aside, clearing the way. ”Come in.”

Crossing the threshold, Huo Qing braced his right hand lightly against the doorframe, the touch so faint he pulled it back the moment he was through. The sword on his back scraped against the wooden lintel overhead.

Qian Duoduo circled over from the kitchen door, saw the sword on his back, and got half a sentence out: ”Sect Master, that—”

”Watch the stove,” Xu Yan said.

Qian Duoduo answered with an ”ah” and turned back, glancing over his shoulder after two steps, the ginger still clutched in his hand. A Sui poked half her head out of the kitchen, and Qian Duoduo shoved it back in.

The Ancestral Hall sat behind the Main Hall, its doors facing south. Inside was cooler than outside, the smell of incense ash pressing down over the scent of old wood. The offering table held the tablet of the Founding Patriarch Ning Gui, and behind it, layer upon layer, the tablets of past Sect Masters.

Huo Qing stood outside the threshold, reading every tablet from first to last.

”The Founding Patriarch was called Ning Gui,” Xu Yan said.

Huo Qing nodded and walked in.

Xu Yan squatted and pulled a wooden box from under the offering table, opened it. The paper roster lay inside, a thin layer of dust on its surface. He blew once, then flipped to the page with the names.

Three lines at the top. Jiang Wanʼs characters were lean, each first stroke hooked. Shi Poʼs were pressed in stroke by stroke, horizontal and vertical as clean as chisel cuts in stone. Bai Xiaomanʼs were small, squeezed into the grid, the strokes so thin you could barely see the turns.

Shi Po came in carrying the inkstone and squatted by the door to grind ink. His wrist turned slowly, the ink blooming in the water, darkening ring by ring. When the tip of the brush could hold ink, he looked up at Xu Yan.

”Thatʼs enough,” Xu Yan said.

Huo Qing unbuckled the sword from his back. The strap ran over his left shoulder; he reached around with his left hand to undo it, his right hanging at his side, no help at all. Sword and sheath together, he set it down against the wall by the door, the sheathʼs tip touching the floor first before he let it lean.

”First bow to the Patriarch, then to the Sect Master, then write your name,” Xu Yan said. ”Only when all three are done does it count in the roster.”

”Three kowtows before the Patriarch.” Xu Yan placed the roster at the edge of the offering table and stepped back half a pace.

Huo Qing knelt before the offering table. As his knees hit the floor, his right arm braced first, failed to hold, then switched to the heel of his palm against the ground. Three kowtows done, he rose leading with his left foot, not brushing the dust from his clothes.

”Come here.”

He walked to Xu Yan and bowed. The bow wasnʼt deep, his back held straight.

”I join Qingya of my own will,” he said.

One sentence, then his mouth shut.

Xu Yan laid the brush on the inkstone and slid it toward him.

Huo Qing reached out with his left hand.

He hooked the brush shaft against the base of his fingers, three fingers gripping—the same way he held a sword. The tip touched the paper. The first stroke came down too heavy, ink bleeding into a small black blot. He stopped, lifted the brush, studied it.

His right hand reached over to hold the paper. Halfway there, the corner was pinned, but the hand couldnʼt apply even force. The paper slipped sideways, half an inch out of place. He switched, pressing the paperʼs edge down with his left forearm, and set the brush down again.

On the third stroke the bristles split. He smoothed the tip against the rim of the inkstone and kept writing. His wrist trembled; he pressed it flat against the table, paused, wrote another stroke. A stroke, a pause. The final stroke dragged out longer than the rest.

He released the brush, his hand still hovering over the paper.

The name was crooked—horizontals not level, verticals not straight, positioned off to one side, out of line with the three rows above.

Xu Yan lowered his gaze. The ledger lay open before him, and the roster pageʼs last line now had a new entry, the characters as crooked as the ones on the paper.

[Balance: Registered Disciples: four.]

Huo Qing stared down at the crooked characters for a long time.

”Can I write it again?” he asked.

”Names in the roster donʼt get erased.” Xu Yan nudged the inkstone aside. ”Erase once, the whole page is ruined.”

Shi Po lifted the inkstone and wiped ink flecks from the tableʼs edge with his sleeve.

”Left-handed,” Huo Qing said.

”Written is written.” Xu Yan closed the roster, returned it to the box, shut the lid, shoved it back under the offering table. ”Jiang Wan, Shi Po, Bai Xiaoman, Huo Qing.”

”Sect Master.”

The words werenʼt loud, but the hall was quiet; they carried clearly.

Xu Yan answered. ”Mm.”

”The books still show one workday for you. Six coppers,” he said.

”Donʼt want it.”

”Iʼll keep it on the books. Until the day you go into town for new shoes.”

Huo Qing looked down at his shoes. The dew streak on the uppers still hadnʼt dried.

Someone snorted outside the door.

Cheng Banshan leaned against the Ancestral Hallʼs doorframe, one hand holding his wine gourd, the stopper still in.

”Writing with the left, fighting with the left—same principle,” he said. ”Doesnʼt matter if the characters are crooked. Just donʼt let the sword go crooked.”

He bit the stopper out, took a swallow, hung the gourd back on his belt, and headed for the Medicine Hall. Two steps out he turned back. ”That cloth on your wrist. Change it every three days. Donʼt wrap it yourself.”

Sunlight reached the threshold. Jiang Wan stood under the eaves of the Main Hall, sword in her arms, looking up at a cloud to the west. She didnʼt look into the hall, didnʼt speak. By the time Xu Yan came out, she was already down the steps and headed for the East Courtyard, her sword sheath knocking against the doorframe.

Bai Xiaoman waited at the foot of the steps, a paper in her hands, the rooms of the West Wing sketched on it.

”West Wing, three rooms,” she said. ”Senior Brother Shi has one, I have one. The innermost room is empty—plank bed, propped on stones. Thereʼs another set of bedding in the storehouse, one corner mildewed. I carried it out and sunned it.”

”Iʼll make the bed,” she said, folding the paper.

”No need for you to do it.” Shi Po came over from the steps.

He headed for the West Wing at an unhurried pace. Xu Yan followed and stood at the door.

Shi Po carried his own bedding in, shook it out, spread it on the wall side of the plank bed. He pushed the straw mat toward the wall, leaving half a foot of space in between, then fetched a fist-sized stone from the wall base and pressed it onto the matʼs corner.

”You sleep on the outside,” Shi Po said.

”Why,” Huo Qing said.

”I get up early.”

Huo Qing leaned his sword against the wall at the head of the bed. Shi Po crouched and straightened the sheath, mouth facing out.

”The well platformʼs on the east side,” Shi Po said.

”I know.”

”That vat by the kitchen. You hauling water tomorrow or not.”

”Iʼll haul.”

Shi Po stood, dusted his hands, and left. Huo Qing stood in the doorway, looking at the half bed.

In the courtyard, Bai Xiaoman smoothed the paper across her knees, corrected two marks, and looked up at Xu Yan. ”He writes with his left hand. Is the roster entry as crooked as that?”

”Yeah,” Xu Yan said.

By midday, the kitchen door stood wide open. Heat poured out, carrying the smell of Spirit Rice.

Qian Duoduo ladled a big bowl, packed it down, then added another spoonful on top of the mound. He carried it out and slowed at the door.

”Sect Master, his—” Qian Duoduo started.

”Heʼs in the roster now,” Xu Yan said. ”Meals per disciple.”

Huo Qing took the bowl with his left hand and ate standing by the kitchen door, leaning on the frame. Halfway through he shifted the bowl behind him, clearing the walkway. He drank the soup first, then ate mouthful after mouthful at speed until the bottom showed.

A Sui fished out half a Spirit Cake from behind the stove and set it on the rim of his bowl. Huo Qing glanced at it, ate it, carried the bowl to the well platform to wash it, then came back and stacked it neatly on the pile by the pot.

Qian Duoduo stood at the pot, watching the bowl settle on top of the stack. It took him a moment to remember to keep ladling.

”He finished,” A Sui said.

”Fast eater,” A He said.

”Is he eating again next time,” A Sui asked.

Qian Duoduo held the ladle up, no answer.

That afternoon, Huo Qing filled the empty water vat by the kitchen door. From the well platform to the kitchen was a stretch of dirt path with a gentle slope. He carried one bucket in his left hand, one bucket per trip, one after another into the vat, seven or eight trips in all. By the time the vat was full, the blue stone around the well had soaked dark, paling again as the sun dried it.

Qian Duoduo came out, glanced at the mouth of the vat, and said to A Sui over his shoulder, ”This vat hasnʼt been full in half a month.”

A Sui leaned over to look. Water beaded along the rim.

By evening, a wooden board covered the vatʼs mouth, a stone holding it down. At the Medicine Hall door, Cheng Banshan pressed a length of fresh cloth into Xu Yanʼs hand. ”Let him change it himself. Donʼt make me do it.”

Near dark, Qian Duoduo chased Xu Yan to the Accounts Room door. ”Sect Master, for the Thirtieth-Day Fair—still the two-pot batch?”

”Two pots, ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder,” Xu Yan said.

”Iʼll rinse the rice and soak it tomorrow,” Qian Duoduo answered, and headed back to the kitchen.

The Accounts Room lamp was lit. Xu Yan flipped the ledger to July 26th and wrote one line: Huo Qing, entered the roster. No amount noted after it.

No income or expenditure today. The balance above still stood at six hundred fifty-nine spirit stones.

He came out of the Accounts Room. The front courtyard was already dark. One lamp remained in the kitchen, a sliver of light leaking through the door crack onto the dirt. No light from the West Wing.

There was a sound from the West Wing.

Not talking, not walking. A stroke; a stop. Another stroke. The sound wasnʼt heavy, landing in the same place, the intervals between each just as long.

Xu Yan stood in the middle of the courtyard.

Unhurried, unbothered: one stroke, drawn back, another. He took two steps toward the West Wing. The sound didnʼt stop, didnʼt waver.

The window paper was black. No lamp inside.

He stood there counting. Past thirty strokes, the sound still went on.