My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 14: A Crooked Name

By the time Xu Yan reached the upper end of the river bend, the sun had just climbed over the ridge. Shi Po stood by the stone trough, a gray cloth bundle at his feet. He stood straight, hands hanging at his sides.

The crack of stone-breaking still came from the slope—one strike, then a pause, then another.

"Eaten?" Xu Yan asked.

"Yeah."

"Then let's go."

Shi Po bent to pick up his bundle, and a man came down from the slope. The old craftsman carried a hemp rope with a knot tied at the end. He walked over, wrapped the rope around the bundle, cinched it tight, and tested the tension in his hands.

"This one won't slip," he said. "Out of all the ropes at the quarry, this is the only one that's never been swapped out."

Shi Po said nothing, just hefted the bundle higher on his shoulder.

An old woman came over from the stove shed, carrying a small black clay jar with cloth bound over its mouth. She pressed it into Shi Po's chest. "That spot on your shoulder—apply it twice a day."

"No need."

"Apply it. Give the jar back to me when you're done."

Shi Po tucked the jar into his bundle and cinched the strap one more notch.

The Accounts Room window stood open. Zheng Tie sat inside working an abacus, one hand flipping through a ledger, the other clicking beads, never looking up. Shi Po looked at that window—looked for a long moment—then turned and left with Xu Yan.

Five li east of the quarry was the Town Gate. The white dust on the road kicked up underfoot and settled on the grass. Shi Po walked half a step behind Xu Yan, steps heavy, soundless on the broken stone.

Under the old pagoda tree, Old Tao's tea stall was just opening up. He raised his head, looked at Xu Yan, then at the man with the bundle behind him.

"Found one?"

"Found one," Xu Yan said.

"Which quarry?"

"Zhenxi. The stone quarry."

Old Tao grunted, ladled out two bowls of tea, and slid them over. Shi Po glanced at Xu Yan. Xu Yan nodded, and only then did Shi Po pick up the bowl and down half of it in one go. Old Tao watched him drink, then poured the last of the pot into the same bowl.

Xu Yan counted out four wen and tucked them under the bowl. Old Tao took the money and said nothing more.

Up the mountain was ten li. Past the north end of the town, the road climbed. The stone steps were old, moss grown in the cracks, a few corners broken off with rubble wedged beside them. When Shi Po reached one of the broken spots, his step faltered. He stamped the step, pressed his heel down, then lifted it again.

"Collapsed in the rain," Xu Yan said. "Never got fixed."

"Wouldn't be hard to fix."

"Needs stone."

"There's no stone on the mountain?"

"There is," Xu Yan said. "On the Back Mountain."

Halfway up the slope stood a pine grove. When the wind came down from the ridge, the whole canopy of needles rustled together, low, like distant running water. Shi Po stopped and lifted his head to listen for a moment before moving on.

Higher up, Luoxia Town emerged below. Fishing nets lay spread by the river bend, a pale gray layer. Shi Po glanced back once, then turned away without stopping.

Along the way, Xu Yan named every building on the mountain for him: past the Mountain Gate was the Front Courtyard, behind it the Main Hall, and behind that the Ancestral Hall. To the east sat the Accounts Room, with an Old Storehouse behind it. The Kitchen was to the west, and past the Kitchen, the Medicine Hall, then the old herb garden behind that. The East Courtyard belonged to the Senior Sister—don't cut through the Sword Training Ground in the middle of the yard. Disciples lived in the West Wing. The second room was saved for him.

"Where do you live?" Shi Po asked.

"The Accounts Room."

Shi Po looked at him but didn't ask why.

"How many people on the mountain?" he asked.

"Eight," Xu Yan said. "Counting you."

Under the stone frame of the Mountain Gate, Nie Bo was sweeping. The bamboo broom rasped against the stone—shhh, shhh—one stroke after another, pushing fallen leaves into a line, moving it forward.

Shi Po passed him and gave a nod. Nie Bo didn't look up. The broom never stopped.

"He doesn't talk," Xu Yan said.

"Mm," Shi Po grunted. He walked two steps, then turned back to look at the swept line.

Two children came running out of the Front Courtyard first. A Sui ran ahead, then skidded to a stop halfway and circled Shi Po, looking him over from all angles. She tilted her head up. "How much can you carry?"

Shi Po looked down at her and thought about it. "Don't know."

"Heavier than a door panel?"

"Never tried."

A He stood on the steps with his arms crossed. "What's in the bundle?"

"Two changes of clothes."

"Just two?"

"Yeah."

Qian Duoduo came over from the Kitchen, flour on his apron, carrying a coarse bowl of water. "You must be thirsty from the road. Drink first." Shi Po took it, drank it down standing, and handed the bowl back. Qian Duoduo received it, ran a finger around the rim, weighed it in his hands, and for a second something crossed his face. Then he turned and waved them in. "Come in, come in. The Ancestral Hall is behind the Main Hall."

The Ancestral Hall was dim. A row of ancestral tablets lined the offering table. The topmost had the oldest lacquer; the color faded as it went down, and the lowest one still had fresh lacquer, with not a speck of dust on its edges. A bronze burner sat before the tablets, the ash inside perfectly level.

Cheng Banshan was already there, leaning against a pillar by the door, wine gourd in hand. He braced the gourd against his knee, stoppered it, and straightened.

"You came," he said.

Xu Yan went to the offering table and pulled a wooden box out from underneath. He lifted the lid. Inside was the paper roster. The book was old, its paper edges brittle, and it crackled when he opened it.

"Three steps," Xu Yan said. "First, kowtow to the Founding Patriarch and the past Sect Masters. Then bow to me. Then you say for yourself that you're willing to come. After that, write your name."

"How many kowtows?"

"Three."

Shi Po set his bundle outside the threshold, walked in, and stood before the prayer cushion. He raised his eyes and read the row of tablets from top to bottom. When he reached the last one, he paused, then knelt.

The first kowtow was solid. The second was solid too. On the third, he came up slower on the left side, one hand bracing against his knee before he straightened.

Xu Yan saw it but said nothing.

After the kowtows, Shi Po stood and turned to face Xu Yan. He stopped there, not knowing where to put his hands.

"Cup your fists," Cheng Banshan said.

Shi Po brought his hands together in front of his chest and bowed, stiffly.

"I willingly join Qingya," he said, his voice low, as if speaking to himself.

"The Patriarch can't hear you," Cheng Banshan said.

Shi Po drew a breath and said it again. This time the whole room heard it.

Xu Yan took brush and ink from the offering table, brought in a washed-out, faded stone slab from the doorway, crouched down, dipped the brush, and wrote his own name on it. Each stroke separated from the next, written larger than the characters in the ledgers. Shi Po crouched beside him and watched, his finger tracing along his own thigh as he did.

"Hold it like this," Xu Yan said, handing over the brush.

Shi Po wiped his hands on his pant legs first, though the lime in his fingernails wouldn't come off. When he took the brush, the shaft looked thin in his hand; his fingers crowded together like he was gripping a chisel. Xu Yan shifted his thumb up and held the shaft upright.

"Trace on the slab first."

Shi Po traced. On the first stroke he loaded too much ink; it bled out in a blot when it hit the stone. He stopped and looked at Xu Yan. Xu Yan said nothing, wiped the stroke away with his palm—leaving a black smear across it—and said, "Less ink. Lift the brush a little."

He traced again. This time much slower. When he finished, he looked up.

"Now write it the way you write it," Xu Yan said.

The roster turned to Jiang Wan's page. Her name sat on the paper, strokes clean, ends sharp. Shi Po looked at it for a beat, scraped the brush against the inkstone's edge, dipped it, and set it down.

The roster paper was softer than the slab. When his hand pressed down, the paper dented. He wrote Shi, then Po. On the last stroke, the left-falling sweep, he raised his wrist a little high and ended it short.

On the roster page of the ledger before Xu Yan, at that same moment, the same characters appeared—crooked in the same place, that last sweep half a beat short.

[Balance: Registered Disciples: 2.]

Shi Po straightened and looked at his name for a while. "It's crooked."

"You wrote it yourself," Xu Yan said.

Cheng Banshan leaned over for a look. "Horizontal's not level, vertical's not straight."

"I'll practice," Shi Po said.

"Go practice." Cheng Banshan tapped the bottom of his gourd toward him. "Call him Sect Master."

Shi Po straightened, turned to Xu Yan, opened his mouth. The first attempt made no sound. The second came out: "Sect Master."

Xu Yan grunted, closed the roster, set it back in the wooden box, and slid it under the offering table. "Second room in the West Wing. Bedding's in the cabinet. Tell Qian Duoduo if you're short anything."

At the doorway, Qian Duoduo and the two children clapped. A Sui clapped hardest, shouting between claps: "Senior Brother Shi!"

Shi Po turned. His face didn't change much, but the tips of his ears went red.

Jiang Wan stood at the doorframe, one hand resting on the door. She looked at Shi Po, then at the stone slab before the offering table.

"He the one with no Spirit Root in the testing?"

The room went quiet. Shi Po turned. "No."

She looked at him for a moment, then turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded across the Front Courtyard, lighter and lighter.

A He sidled up to Shi Po and whispered, "That's the Senior Sister."

"Can you split firewood?" Cheng Banshan asked.

"Yes."

"The Medicine Hall's firewood is yours now. Split it fine—I run a furnace." Cheng Banshan took two steps with his gourd, then looked back. "Come by the Medicine Hall tomorrow sometime. Let me look at your shoulder."

"No need to look."

"I said I'll look."

In the Kitchen, the lamps were lit before dark. A big pot of mixed-grain rice, mushrooms from the Back Mountain thrown in. When the lid came off, the steam surged up and wobbled the lamp flame. Qian Duoduo pulled the biggest bowl from the stove platform and served Shi Po, piling it high.

Shi Po ate fast—but not frantically. One bite after another, the rice in his bowl vanishing at speed. A second bowl. A third. Qian Duoduo's ladle got slower and slower; the scrape of it against the bottom of the pot got louder. Before the fourth bowl, he glanced at Xu Yan, then at the pot.

By the time the fifth bowl was served, only a thin layer remained. Qian Duoduo scraped all of it into the bowl, dragged the ladle across the bottom twice, and stopped.

Shi Po looked up at him, then at the pot, and set his bowl down. "Full."

"You only had five bowls," A Sui said.

Shi Po didn't answer.

Qian Duoduo stood by the stove, ladle still raised, eyes on the emptied pot. The color drained from his face, bit by bit.

"I'll eat less tomorrow," Shi Po said.

"No." Qian Duoduo jammed the ladle into the pot. "It's not right to make a new senior brother eat less. That's not what I meant. I mean—I did the math."

Xu Yan gathered the bowls and chopsticks. "Do the math in the Accounts Room."

That night, a lamp burned in the Accounts Room. Xu Yan opened the account book and recorded the day's expenses: two bowls of tea, four wen. Added to the papers at the edge, that came to thirty-six wen. On a new line, he wrote a single character: "Rice." The brush paused after it.

Qian Duoduo came in cradling the empty rice measure from atop the rice jar. He stood just inside the door, not stepping further in.

"Sect Master," he said, "with the way he eats, the Kitchen rice runs out by month's end. The Spirit Rice doesn't count—that's for selling, it's meant to exchange for Spirit Stones."

"How short?"

"Three dou," Qian Duoduo said. "Rice in town is one hundred twenty wen a dou. Three dou is three hundred sixty wen."

Xu Yan had only a few wen of change on him, and he hadn't touched the three taels of silver in the cash box. After the word "Rice," he wrote three dou and drew a line after it. The space beyond the line stayed empty.

"We'll figure it out tomorrow," he said.

Qian Duoduo carried the measure away. The Accounting Room's lamp was the last one burning in the courtyard. In the second room of the West Wing, one small square glowed, and through the window paper, a silhouette sat perfectly straight, motionless.