Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 21, Section 1

The water receded completely on the third day.

The breach in the upper reaches of the Cai River was plugged, and two cargo boats were sunk in the gap, topped with earth and stones. The blue brick pavement of Shufang Street was exposed again, the gaps between the bricks filled with mud, sand, and dead fish. A new water stain line, two inches higher than the old one, had been added to the waist-high water stain line on the wall.

Old Cui moved the worktable from the attic back to its original place. The spot against the wall was still leaking water, so he wiped the wall with a dry cloth and raised the table legs again.

Then he took out the board.

The jujube wood tablet had been kept warm in his arms for three days, preventing it from getting wet. He peeled back the layers of dry cloth covering it, revealing the carved front. The seven numbers carved on the night of the flood were still there, but the wood had absorbed moisture for three days, and the edges of the knife marks were slightly swollen. The characters were half an inch shallower than when they were first carved.

We need to go through the knife procedure again.

He laid the plate flat and picked up the corner cutter. The blade followed the old cut marks again, starting from the top "1" and working downwards layer by layer. The cut was effortless; the old cut marks were still there, and the blade simply reopened the characters that had been narrowed by the moisture, following the original path.

Chu Xiaosong was sweeping mud at the door. After the flood receded, the street was covered with a half-inch thick layer of mud, and the people on Shufang Street were all shoveling mud. He turned around and shouted halfway through.

"Master, Master Yu's printing plates are all ruined."

Old Cui looked up.

"He placed it on the bottom shelf and soaked it for two days. The printing plate swelled up so much that the characters closed up."

Old Cui didn't speak. He turned the block over to look at the back; thankfully, it wasn't carved on the back. He retraced the old knife marks, running his hand over them. His fingertips traced each mark, and it felt the same as it had three days ago. He covered the block with a dry cloth again and began carving the work due today: a grain store's daily ledger.

As evening fell, the other craftsmen gradually finished their work. Master Yu squatted by the door, sighing at his pile of ruined printing blocks. Old Sun's printing blocks were on the top shelf, none of them were damaged, but he was still worried, so he took them down one by one to check them.

After Cui Laodao finished carving the printing plates for the grain store's account books and handed them over, he cleaned up the clutter on his workbench.

I'm going to carve a new one tonight.

Although the printing plate had only swelled slightly from the moisture, once the wood absorbed moisture, the fibers loosened, limiting the number of prints. Archived plates needed to print at least a hundred sheets. He retrieved another jujube wood plate from his toolbox, a second piece cut from the same tree. The grain was also dense, but it had two more knots, both on the edge. It would work. Just avoid them.

As night fell, the bookstore street quieted down. The restaurants across the river reopened, and the sound of pipa music returned. The Cai River's water level had returned to normal, and the red glow of lanterns reflected on the surface. All the other craftsmen had left, leaving only Old Cui Dao in the entire bookstore.

He laid the new jujube wood tablet flat on the workbench and unfolded the triangular diagram. The paper had been creased on the night of the flood, creating a new crease that ran across the fourth layer, pressing a white line through the central number. He smoothed out the crease and repositioned the paperweight.

Begin making the cut.

This time it was even slower than three days ago. Each cut was first made in the air, the blade not touching the wood, hovering above the board to confirm the wrist's curvature and the blade's angle were correct before making a cut. This was a habit developed from carving arrow shafts. The arrow shaft numbers were carved on the round surface, while the board was carved on a flat surface. The blade strokes included horizontal, vertical, left-falling, and right-falling strokes; the air carving was to test the wrist's bend beforehand.

First layer. A number. Penetrating to the core. Stable.

Second layer. Two numbers. Symmetrical from left to right. Consistent in shade.

The third layer. Three numbers. The middle one is larger than the two on either side; the hand knows this, and the wrist adds a bit more force when inserting it into the wood.

The fourth layer. The blade paused for a moment when it reached the position corresponding to the crease; the numerical values ​​in the folded area of ​​the pattern were slightly blurred. He moved the oil lamp closer, bent down to confirm the strokes, and continued cutting.

The pipa playing outside the window has stopped. The lights in the restaurant across the river have gone out. The sound of the Cai River becomes clear in the darkness.

Fifth layer. The numbers get smaller as you go down, and the lettering should be narrowed. The blade was raised slightly, penetrating the wood by half an inch. His hand was very steady; during his four years at the arsenal, he had carved even smaller numbers. Some arrow shafts had their ends whittled very thin, and the numbers had to be carved on a thumb-width arc, penetrating only half an inch into the wood.

The sixth layer. When he carved the third number, he changed the direction of the blade, from horizontal to slanted. The angle of his wrist turn was very slight, and the blade drew an arc on the board. The arc was unbroken. This was a skill honed from carving arrow shafts; on a round surface, the blade must follow the circumference in an arc.

The seventh floor.

The last number. It's "1". The bottom "1", exactly the same number as the top one, sits alone in the very middle of the seventh layer.

This cut should be vertical. He did a preliminary cut, his wrist hovering above the plate, and made a straight line from top to bottom. Then the tip of the knife touched the plate.

Penetrating the wood.

My wrist trembled. I'd been carving all night, and my wrist couldn't take the strain when I got to the last number. The blade veered slightly as it entered the wood, veering half an inch to the right.

Even a slight deviation will result in a crooked "1". The printed "1" will slant to the left.

Old Cui picked up his knife. He looked at the crooked "1" on the board but didn't move.

Then the wood cracked.

It wasn't that he used too much force. It was the wood grain. Jujube wood has a fine but uneven grain, and it cracks when the knife is too heavy along the grain. He lingered too long on the crooked cut, the blade pressing against the wood fibers. The fibers couldn't withstand the sustained pressure and split along the grain. The crack extended upwards from the bottom of the "1," through the seventh layer, through the sixth layer, through the fifth layer. It forked at the fourth layer, then closed again at the third layer. Finally, it stopped at the edge of the second layer.

It wasn't split to the top. But the whole board was unusable; the numbers were split in two where the crack went through. The "1" on the seventh floor was the worst off; it was split right in the middle, with the left half still on the board and the right half sticking up, only connected by a little bit of wood.

Old Cui looked at the crack.

He didn't smash the board. He didn't drop the carving knife. He gently placed the knife on the workbench, pulled out the protruding wood shavings, and smoothed the wood chips on both sides of the crack with his fingertips.

He was calculating in his mind.

The moment the carving went astray, the blade pressed against the weakest point of the wood fibers. In the few breaths that followed, the remaining strength in his wrist seeped down the blade until the wood could no longer withstand the force. He had calculated countless times the grain of the arrow shaft, the knots in the board, the angle of the blade. This time, he had overlooked expectation. Expectation pressed in; the blade could withstand it, but the wood couldn't.

He placed the discarded plates on top of the discarded plate pile.

Neatly arranged. Not thrown, not dropped, but placed. Just like those discarded ledger boards, stacked neatly, corners aligned.

Then he sat back down at his worktable.

The watchman outside the window struck the fourth watch. The wick in the oil lamp was almost burned out, and the flame had shrunk. The light shone on the workbench, on the unfolded triangular diagram, where the "1" at the bottom of the seventh layer was still perfectly aligned. The illustrator had drawn it correctly. The engraver had carved it crookedly.

Old Cui sat there digesting a fact.

The craftsmanship was fine. The wood was fine. It was his expectations that were too high. Expectations have weight, and the knife couldn't bear it. He had carved tens of thousands of arrow shafts in the arsenal without any expectations, carving each one as it came. He had carved account books and calendars without any expectations, carving each piece as it came. But this time was different. He wanted to draw this picture well. He wanted it too much, so much so that the muscles in his wrist forgot to release their tension during the final cut.

He blew out the oil lamp.

The bookshop was plunged into complete darkness. The cracked printing block lay quietly atop the pile of discarded blocks, the crack deepening slightly in the night's dampness. No one saw it. But it was there, the first failed footnote on the chain of inquiry, carved from a cracked jujube wood plank.