My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 88: First Snow

On the twentieth of the eleventh month, before dawn, Qian Duoduo lifted the pot lid twice in the kitchen. The first time was to check the Spirit Meal. The second time was to press his palm against the lid and warm it.

The cold had come down in the latter half of the night. A layer of white had formed along the rim of the wooden bucket on the well platform. A He came back with the water, his fingers too stiff to grip the bucket handle; he had to wrap it in his sleeve before he could carry it in. A Sui crouched by the stove and blew on his hands for him. After three puffs, A He said, "The air you're blowing is cold too." Qian Duoduo stacked the last tray of coarse grain flatbreads into the basket and stuffed half a hot one into each of the children's arms. "Take these. Once you're at the market, keep your hands moving and they won't go stiff."

At the third quarter of the Mao hour, the four of them headed down the mountain carrying the pot, the baskets, and the bowls. Du Xiaochuan came last with a bundle of firewood on his back. He glanced back at the sky: the east was white with a gray tinge, and the sun had not shown its face.

The market was colder than last month. Only seven or eight rogue cultivators had come. The vegetable seller kept his hands tucked in his sleeves; on his straw mat sat a frostbitten radish, cut in half, the cut surface glistening. The fish seller flicked a thin layer of ice off the edge of his wooden tub, shook his head, and went back behind his stall. The Qingya stall still stood beneath the third pillar from the wall, where the old tile eave blocked the rain but not the wind. Qian Duoduo set up the pot and ladled out half a bowl for A Sui to hold first. "Get your hands on this and keep them there. Don't worry about the money yet."

The first bowl went to an old rogue cultivator with a bamboo basket on his back. The man was in no hurry to drink; he cupped his hands around the rim of the bowl and held them there a long while before lowering his head.

"The cold's come early this year," the old rogue cultivator said.

"Whether it's early or not, I don't know," Qian Duoduo said, ladling the second bowl. "Drink this bowl, and there'll be another one waiting for you this time next year."

The old rogue cultivator finished, set the bowl back, and took two spirit stones from inside his robe. He glanced at the ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder in A He's hands. "Two bottles."

"Two bottles, six spirit stones," A He said.

"On the road to Linchuan, you need two bottles like these to carry you through." The old rogue cultivator counted out six stones into A He's palm, each one rough and cold to the touch. "That matter on your mountain—the thing at the wharf the other day—I heard about it."

A He didn't know how to respond, so he just tightened his grip on the money. Qian Duoduo lifted the pot lid, and steam rushed up into his face. "Finish it before you go. The road is cold."

By noon, only the bottom layer remained in the Spirit Meal pot, and all ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder were gone. When they packed up, the wind cut straight through from the mouth of the street. A Sui clutched the bowls, her face red from the cold, her fingers unable to straighten. Qian Duoduo wrapped the pot in coarse cloth and led the three of them to the grain shop to replace the spirit rice the pot had used—five spirit stones. The shop hand set the rice sack at Qian Duoduo's feet and said once the snow fell, rice would go up next time. Qian Duoduo didn't respond. He counted his money carefully and headed back. Along the way, someone else asked about the one-armed man up on Qingya Mountain. He answered, "He's training." The man wanted to ask more, but the carrying pole was already hoisted onto his shoulder.

They returned to the mountain in the Wei hour. Halfway up the ridge, A Sui suddenly reached out her hand. "It's raining."

What fell was not rain. It was white—a single fleck—that landed on the back of her hand and vanished before she could see it clearly. A He put his hand out too and tilted his face up to search, but the gray-white sky revealed nothing, only a touch of cold on his cheek.

"It's snowing," Du Xiaochuan said.

"First snow," Qian Duoduo said, shifting the pot higher on his shoulder. "Walk faster. The stone steps will be slippery."

When they entered the Mountain Gate, Nie Bo was sweeping the steps.

He had been sweeping since morning, clearing the dead leaves the wind carried down from the slope. The snow fell, and he still held that bamboo broom, stroke by stroke, pushing the snow from the steps to the side, forming a thin white ridge. Where he had swept, the true color of the stone showed—wet and dark. Before long, another thin layer settled. He didn't look up, didn't speed up, just kept that rhythm, sweeping from the highest step down to the eighth, then backing up and starting over.

A He ran up to him. "Nie Bo, it's snowing."

Nie Bo nodded, and the broom kept pushing forward. A He followed for a couple of steps, then ran back and stamped a line of wet footprints on the steps. He looked back—his footprints were already fading.

In the front courtyard, Shi Po was still doing pillar training. Snow sat on his shoulders and arms; he didn't move. The ground beneath his feet had melted into a circle of water. Bai Xiaoman came running over from the Medicine Hall carrying a small cloth pouch, slipping with every step. She reached him and shouted, "Shi Po, the ground's slippery—stop standing there!" Shi Po cracked his eyes open a sliver. "Slippery is exactly why I train." Bai Xiaoman gave up on him. She turned, spotted Xu Yan on the Main Hall steps, called out "Sect Master," then said, "I swept the wall base behind the Medicine Hall. Don't let Elder Cheng sweep it himself."

A Sui stood at the bottom of the steps, reaching out to catch snow. The snow was denser than before; it took two or three flakes on her palm before a speck of white gathered. By the time she held her hand in front of A He, that speck had already melted into water. The two children wiped their hands on their clothes and ran toward the kitchen. Qian Duoduo called after them, "Don't set the pot on the ground—put it on the stove platform. Boil a pot of water on the stove. Everyone on the mountain gets some."

In the Shen hour, the slope wore a layer of white. The open ground behind the Medicine Hall hadn't been swept, and the snow gathered thicker there.

Cheng Banshan stood under the eaves of the Medicine Hall's back wall, one hand braced against a pillar, looking north.

The north slope lay beyond the West Gully behind the mountain. From behind the Medicine Hall, he could see a slanting stretch of the slope's edge. Pines grew there, and snow pressed down on the branches, bending them low. It wasn't the pines he was looking at. He stood for a while, snow settling on his shoulders and on his empty sleeve. A gust of wind pressed the sleeve against his side, and the snow that landed on it didn't melt, building into a thin layer of white. He took his hand from the pillar, shook the snow from the empty sleeve, then tucked it back.

Xu Yan came over from the Main Hall, his footsteps crunching in the snow. He stopped beside Cheng Banshan.

"The snow's piling up on the slope," he said.

"Good that it piles up," Cheng Banshan said without turning. "What pushes up through the snow is what can last."

He pointed toward the high part of the north slope, then tucked his hand into his sleeve.

"Tomorrow, we go up the north slope. Xiaochuan carries the back basket."

Xu Yan looked up at the sky. The snow was falling evenly, showing no sign of stopping.

"The paths will be slippery tomorrow."

"Three li of road—how slippery can it get." Cheng Banshan said. "Wait a few more days and the ground will freeze solid. One swing of the hoe and the root snaps. A snapped root doesn't count."

"Should we bring one more person?"

"One hand, one back basket—that's enough." Cheng Banshan said. "More people means more feet, and more feet mean trampled grass. Waste of a trip."

Du Xiaochuan was coming over from the kitchen with a bundle of firewood when he heard his name. He stopped.

"Elder Cheng."

"At the Mao hour tomorrow, follow me up the north slope. You carry the back basket; I'll bring the herb hoe." Cheng Banshan said.

Du Xiaochuan pulled the firewood tighter against his chest. "How many flatbreads should I bring?"

"Two." Cheng Banshan said. "I can't say when we'll dig until, so I can't say when we'll come down. You're not allowed to complain about the cold on the way—if you do, no one will turn around for you."

"What do I line the basket with?" Du Xiaochuan asked. "If snow melts inside it, the roots will soak."

Cheng Banshan looked at him, and this time the look was a little gentler. "Dry hay. The bundle behind the Medicine Hall—pull out two handfuls. Once the basket's full, come back first. Don't try to show off. Three trips don't add up to one done right."

"Oh." Du Xiaochuan acknowledged and carried the firewood into the Medicine Hall.

Xu Yan stood under the eaves a while longer. He wanted to ask when the grass would go into the furnace after being dug up. He got out half a sentence. "After you dig—"

"After we dig it up, there's a furnace fire to tend. Seven days." Cheng Banshan said.

"The charcoal's under the back wall." Xu Yan glanced toward the wall base. Two loads of charcoal still sat under the reed mat; the big lump of charcoal pressing down on the mat had collected a layer of white.

"Two loads. A load and a half to simmer one batch, half a load in case the fire breaks." Cheng Banshan said. He walked toward the Medicine Hall, stopped at the door, and lifted a corner of the curtain. "Who tends the fire for those seven days—I'll decide when the time comes. Don't make assignments yet."

Xu Yan agreed. The curtain fell back into place. A bit of snow slipped from the eave and landed on the threshold, where it melted.

Before the lamps were lit, that sound under the corridor was still going.

Snow fell on Huo Qing's shoulders and hair; he didn't brush it off. Each thrust drove the snow off the center of the wooden target, exposing the dark, hardened wood beneath; when he pulled back, the snow elsewhere kept accumulating. The ground under his feet had melted into a circle, just like where Shi Po stood. The snow swallowed most of the sound—muffled, but not slow. Xu Yan stood on the Main Hall steps for a while, watching him thrust over a dozen times without once drifting off target, without once slipping. Qian Duoduo came out of the kitchen with a bowl of hot water, stood at the far end of the corridor watching for a while, then set the bowl at the base of a pillar, placed another bowl upside-down on top of it, and went back.

At the Xu hour, the snow made the window paper glow white. Xu Yan lit the lamp in the Accounts Room. Qian Duoduo came in covered with snow to turn in the day's money, stamping his shoes on the threshold.

"One pot, forty. Ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, thirty." Qian Duoduo set the cloth pouch on the desk. "Paid five at the grain shop for the spirit rice. Sixty-five left."

Xu Yan untied the pouch and counted the pieces out one by one.

"A Sui's hands got frostbitten?"

"Red, not swollen. She'll warm them in the kitchen and be fine." Qian Duoduo leaned a little closer to the lamp. "Two people at the market asked about Huo Qing again today. I did what you said—told them he's training."

"Good."

"When they heard it, they didn't say much," Qian Duoduo said. "They just looked at the sky and said the snow's early this year, and charcoal will be expensive."

"The charcoal's already bought," Xu Yan said. "Two loads under the back wall."

"What about the rice for the twelfth month?"

"Buy on the thirtieth. Buy even if it's higher—two sacks of spirit rice, no less." Xu Yan put the cloth pouch away in the cash box.

Qian Duoduo agreed. At the door, he turned back. "That bowl under the pillar—he drank it. I kept the bowl on top, so it didn't cool all the way."

After Qian Duoduo left, only the faint sound of snow against the window paper remained in the Accounts Room. Xu Yan added the sixty-five to the cash box and counted: one thousand one hundred fifty-five spirit stones. The silver ledger was still with Bai Xiaoman—twelve taels. The twenty spirit stones spent on charcoal in the eleventh month had come out of his spirit stone supply; the silver hadn't been touched.

Bai Xiaoman knocked and poked half her head in. "Sect Master, that target under the corridor—one more thrust and it's going to split. Should I replace it?"

"He hasn't asked for a replacement."

"I watched his thrusts today. Every one hit dead center." Bai Xiaoman said. "The center's worn so thin light shows through. Should I—"

"Not yet," Xu Yan said. "Wait until he asks himself."

Bai Xiaoman said, "Oh," and pulled her head back. Her footsteps crunched through the snow all the way to the front courtyard.

Xu Yan opened the account book and wrote on the eleventh month's page: Twentieth, market—one pot, forty; ten bottles, thirty; replaced spirit rice, five. When he finished, he set the brush down and started a new line: Twenty-first, north slope—Xiaochuan carries the back basket.

The eleventh month's page gained two more lines. He touched the brush to the inkstone's edge and wrote at the bottom: One hundred and three days remain until the third of the third month.

He read it over, closed the account book, and pressed it under the inkstone.

He pushed the window open a crack. Wind and snow squeezed through; the lamp flame wavered, then steadied.

There was no one under the corridor anymore. The wooden target stood in the snow, a layer of white across its face, with only the center showing black. The snow was still falling.