My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 87: The White Marks on the Wooden Target

”His shoulder moves first.”

On the eighth day of the eleventh month, before the sky was fully light, Jiang Wan came out from the East Courtyard and stood by a veranda pillar, watching. Her hair was only loosely tied in a knot, and her outer robe hung over her arm. Under the veranda, Huo Qing thrust once, pulled back, then thrust again. She didnʼt speak until the third thrust.

After speaking, she walked off toward the Mountain Gate without pausing.

Huo Qingʼs thrust froze halfway, the sword tip still half a foot from the wooden target. He pulled the sword back, stood with it hanging at his left side, let his shoulders drop, then thrust again.

The Accounts Room door stood open. Xu Yan stood in the doorway holding Novemberʼs slip of paper, watching. The first thrust, he thought the shoulder moved. The second, he thought it moved too. He rolled up the slip, went back inside, and propped the window open a crack. Cold air slid down through the gap and settled on the back of his hand.

The target under the veranda was old elm wood. At its center, white marks crowded on top of white marks, a patch paler than everywhere else, looking softer than everywhere else too.

Thock.

The sound was shorter than in previous days. Xu Yan looked up. The past few days, that sound had a drag at the tail, settling down and then lazily withdrawing; today the sound landed and ended clean. He looked back down at the slip, his eyes on the writing, his ears left out under the veranda.

Another. Another.

When Huo Qingʼs sword rested against the veranda pillar, the cloth wrapped around the wooden scabbard had already turned black, and the brass fitting at the scabbard mouth gleamed from wear. He never touched the scabbard while training: sword in his left hand, one thrust, draw back to his chest, tip pointed down for a brief pause, then out again. His right hand hung at his side, everything from fingertip to knee loose the whole time. Sweat ran from his temple down into his collar, and he never lifted a hand to wipe it.

In the Front Courtyard, Shi Po was doing standing pillar training. Even through the screen wall, the sounds from the veranda reached him. He stood for half a shichen, counting along under his breath, and lost count at forty.

”Whyʼd you stop counting?” A He asked, coming over from the well platform.

”Canʼt keep up,” Shi Po said.

Cheng Banshan came out of the Medicine Hall carrying a medicine pot, dumped the dregs into the bucket under the eaves, and stood watching the veranda for a moment.

”Heʼs using himself as a pillar and beating it,” he said.

”Has he broken himself?” Xu Yan asked.

”If he broke, heʼd come pound on my door. He hasnʼt come, so he hasnʼt broken.” Cheng Banshan shook out the pot and went back into the Medicine Hall.

At Dragon hour, Jiang Wan came down from the west slope. The upper half of her scabbard was half-melted frost, wet in a line. She walked to the Accounts Room door, picked up the bowl of water from the windowsill, and drank half of it—the water had been drawn before dawn and was no longer warm now—then set the bowl back and went into the East Courtyard. The bowlʼs base left a ring of water on the windowsill.

Xu Yan didnʼt look up. His brush moved across the daily ledger. When he finished, he set the brush down and only then noticed the water ring.

He flipped Novemberʼs page to the back. There was still a large empty space there, which heʼd saved for recording the twelfth monthʼs rations: two sacks of Spirit Rice, one sack of coarse grain—at current prices, fifty spirit stones, to be bought at the month-end market—and two dan of charcoal stacked against the back wall of the Medicine Hall, covered with reed mats. He drew a horizontal line across the top of that empty space, leaving room to write below it. The brush tip hovered, then pulled back.

That day, the sounds under the veranda never stopped. At Dragon hour, Huo Qing paused once to go cut firewood west of the Mountain Gate. After the midday meal, he picked the sword up again, and it rang on until lamp-lighting.

After the Mao hour, A He walked past the veranda carrying two buckets of water, his steps steady, not a drop sloshing over. A Sui followed behind with a small bucket and stopped by a veranda pillar.

She wasnʼt watching the sword tip. She was watching whether anything else on his body moved when the sword went out.

Huo Qing didnʼt stop and didnʼt look at her.

”A Sui.” A He called from up ahead.

”Coming.” She picked up her small bucket and followed, then after two steps turned back for another look at the wooden target.

The tenth was market day. Qian Duoduo carried the pot down the mountain at the Mao hour, Du Xiaochuan carried firewood, and A He and A Sui followed behind. Before the sun had even tilted west, the pot of Spirit Meals and ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder had sold out. Back on the mountain, he set sixty-five spirit stones on the Accounts Room desk. Xu Yan recorded the entry. Balance on hand: one thousand twenty-five spirit stones.

The twelfth, Mao hour, in front of the Ancestral Hall.

A He sat cross-legged on the stone steps, that yellow paper spread over his knees, its four corners worn soft and its edges whitened from handling. Shao Ming sat below the steps, both hands resting on his knees, eyes closed. A Sui sat beside A He, both hands also spread on her knees.

Three rounds of breathing. A He opened his eyes first, shoved the yellow paper into A Suiʼs hands: ”You hold it. I can recite it from memory.”

A Sui took it, holding it in her hand. Shao Ming reached out and laid two fingers on A Heʼs wrist, holding still for a moment.

”Steady. Go help with the work.”

A He stood and ran two steps, rounded the corner by the Main Hall, and his voice reached the Kitchen first: ”Iʼm coming, Iʼm coming.” A while later he ran back, holding a coarse grain flatbread wrapped in cloth.

”You still have to eat, even sitting.” He set the flatbread on the steps, glanced at A Sui, then ran back again.

A Sui nudged the flatbread aside and did another round of breathing. It was quiet in front of the Ancestral Hall, quiet enough to hear her breathing: one long breath, one short, and before the third came down, her shoulders went loose. The yellow paper rested on her knees. Both hands spread open. They were cold.

Shao Ming didnʼt leave.

”Uncle Shao.”

”Mm.”

”When you try to break through, the qi reaches three inches above your navel and scatters.”

”All ten times, it scattered.”

”Does it hurt, when it scatters?”

”No. Itʼs just empty.” Shao Ming said, ”Like carrying half a bowl of water on a night road, and by the time you reach the threshold, only the bottom is left.”

”You know itʼll scatter, and you still sit?”

”Only by sitting do you know whether it scatters.”

A Sui glanced up at him once, then lowered her eyes again.

Shao Ming said, ”The first time I sat down, what was on my mind was donʼt let it scatter. The nine times after, when I sat down, what was on my mind was, let it scatter.”

”Then what do you think about?”

”About where that breath comes in.”

A Sui straightened her back again, returned both hands to her knees, and closed her eyes. This time when she breathed in, her chin lifted slightly, her shoulders braced, even the tendons in her neck stood out. Shao Ming didnʼt correct her. One breath finished, then a second; on the third, her shoulders dropped and her eyes opened.

”Nothing.”

”Mm.” Shao Ming took the yellow paper, folded it twice, and set it on the steps. ”Come back tomorrow at the Mao hour.”

A Sui picked the yellow paper up off the steps and gripped it a little tighter, crimping the worn edges. She didnʼt cry, and Shao Ming didnʼt try to comfort her.

”Uncle Shao.”

”Mm.”

”Will you still sit here tomorrow?”

”Iʼll be here at the Mao hour,” Shao Ming said. ”Not waiting for you.”

At Dragon hour, sunlight climbed over the east wall and reached the threshold of the Ancestral Hall. Shao Ming stood up and dusted off his clothes. ”Iʼm going to cut firewood. Sit until the sunlight reaches the threshold, then go back.”

A Sui nodded. Shao Ming went off west of the Mountain Gate.

A Sui sat alone. The flatbread on the steps was still wrapped in cloth; she didnʼt unwrap it, just moved her hand over to rest beside the cloth bundle. The flatbread had long gone cold, but even through the cloth she could feel how hard it was.

The sunlight crept closer, reaching the threshold, then her knees. A Sui spread her hands over her chest and closed them again. A thin layer of sweat on her palms. She stood, brushed the dust from her knees, tucked the flatbread into her clothes, picked up her bowl, and headed for the Kitchen.

Xu Yan stood on the Main Hall steps watching her go in. From the Kitchen, Qian Duoduoʼs voice drifted across the courtyard: ”What took you so long? The bowls are all set out.”

The fifteenth, the market broke up as the sun tilted west: one pot of Spirit Meals and ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder sold out. Qian Duoduo handed sixty-five spirit stones over at the Accounts Room. Xu Yan recorded it. Balance on hand: one thousand ninety spirit stones. The silver was still twelve taels, untouched.

Before lamp-lighting, dinner was served in the Kitchen. Huo Qingʼs seat was empty, but his bowl and chopsticks still sat in their usual place.

”Heʼs not eating again,” A He said.

”Leave it.” Qian Duoduo scooped a ladle of vegetables into the bowl. ”The foodʼs saved for him. Weʼll heat it when he comes down.”

”What if he doesnʼt come down?”

”Then Iʼll heat it tomorrow morning.” Qian Duoduo moved the bowl to the mouth of the stove firebox and covered it with cloth. ”Itʼs still his bowl.”

Everyone scattered. Jiang Wan was the last to rise. She paused at the door, listening to the sounds from the courtyard—thock, thock—before heading to the East Courtyard.

Xu Yan went back to the Accounts Room and trimmed the lamp wick higher, the paper lighting up in a patch of yellow. He paged through Novemberʼs page from front to back: the fourth, two dan of charcoal, stacked against the back wall of the Medicine Hall; below it, three income entries from the market, each one sixty-five spirit stones, all three identical, as if the same person had written them three times. The slip tucked into the page showed a corner. The line drawn in charcoal was still there: the fourth, two dan, twenty spirit stones. His finger stopped on ”twenty spirit stones,” and his fingertip smeared the black mark wider.

Thock. Thock.

Outside the window, under the veranda, the thrust-and-retract rhythm continued.

Xu Yan pushed his chair back and went out. No lamp burned under the veranda; only the one in the Accounts Room shone through the doorway, lighting the veranda pillars and half of the wooden target white. Huo Qing thrust and retracted, the tip returning to his chest, then out again; his right hand hung at his side, never once lifting.

The white marks on the target had merged into one patch. At the very center, the wood was darkened—beaten solid—and at the edges, fine splinters still clung, not yet fallen. Xu Yan didnʼt approach. On the half of the target lit by lamplight, the wood near the center had furred up, peeling outward in ring after ring, like the cracked back of a hand in winter.

Xu Yan tried to count how many strikes it had taken. He lost count in the teens: marks crowded against marks, impossible to tell which belonged to today and which to the tenth month.

The Accounts Room could count spirit stones clearly. It couldnʼt count this.

In the middle of the Front Courtyard, Bai Xiaoman was crouched on the ground setting out pebbles, the cloth pouch in her arms rustling. She pressed five pebbles into the earth according to the cardinal directions. On the third one, she looked up to listen toward the veranda for a moment, then lowered her head and kept pressing.

”That targetʼs on its last legs,” she said, still crouched. ”The grain insideʼs gone loose. Two more weeks of this and one thrustʼll go clean through.”

”Then weʼll put up a new one,” Xu Yan said.

Bai Xiaoman pressed the fourth pebble into the earth. ”Mm.”

Qian Duoduo came out from the Kitchen holding a bowl. ”Sect Master, his bowlʼs gone cold again.”

”Leave it.”

”On the fifth, I already put it back once.” Qian Duoduo held the bowl a little closer to his chest. ”Itʼs been on the stove twice now.”

Xu Yan watched the veranda. ”Leave it one more time.”

Qian Duoduo didnʼt argue. He carried the bowl back, walking a wide arc around Bai Xiaomanʼs five pebbles. The pot lid lifted and clattered shut, the sound drifting over with the night air.

Under the veranda, the thrust drew back, the sword hanging at the left. Huo Qing didnʼt turn. His shoulder dipped once, then another thrust.

Xu Yan headed for the Accounts Room, then glanced back at the doorway. The lamplight fell on the target, all that white in the light, the very center a dark hollow.

He sat down and flipped Novemberʼs page to the back again. The space below the horizontal line was still empty, originally saved for recording the twelfth monthʼs ration preparations. The brush tip dipped once in the inkstone.

He set the brush down in the empty space and wrote: Third Month.

The brush stopped on the final stroke. Below it, nothing more.

Outside the window, another thock.