Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 22, Section 2

Old Cui woke up before dawn.

He sat at his worktable all night without closing his eyes. Outside the window, the sky changed from black to dark gray, then to grayish-white. Fog rose over the Cai River, a white layer clinging to the water's surface. On the opposite bank, waiters at a restaurant were removing door panels; the clanging of wood carried through the fog, muffled and strained.

He picked up the discarded plate from the pile of scrap plates and glanced at it. The dampness from the previous night had caused the crack to deepen further, and a fine line had appeared at the fork. It was completely ruined; even turning it over couldn't save it. He put it back where it was.

Then I opened the toolbox.

At the very bottom lay the broken arrow shaft, picked up at the entrance of the Chanzhou Arsenal, number 423 (甲字四百二十三). He glanced at it, moved it aside, and pulled out the piece of wood he'd stored for half a year. The front had already been carved, done the night of the flood, and the carving had been done again yesterday. The characters were still there, but the wood fibers had loosened from the moisture. Not many prints could be made.

He flipped the plate over. The back was still smooth, planed flat. It was usable.

I picked up the plane and ran it over the back again. The plane cut into the wood, creating a thin layer of shavings. The jujube wood shavings had a slightly astringent smell, and they curled up and fell to the ground. I ran it three times until it felt as smooth as paper to the touch. Looking at it sideways against the light from the window, there were no knots, no hidden cracks, and the wood grain was even.

He took a deep breath, laid the plate flat on the worktable, and unfolded the triangular diagram.

The first cut penetrates the wood.

Start with the "1" at the top. The blade cuts vertically. His hand is steady. After the first cut, he checks the edge; it's straight. No deviation. He continues. The first three layers are smooth, with few numbers and wide spacing, and he remembers the cutting path clearly. On the fourth layer, before cutting each number, he pauses for a moment, allowing his wrist to completely relax before inserting the blade into the wood. This is a lesson taught by an old soldier: before carving each new arrow shaft, let your hand hang down and shake it three times; after shaking, you won't shake when you pick up the knife again.

Chu Xiaosong woke up.

He climbed up from the pile of scrap paper, crumbs of dry biscuits falling from his clothes. He saw his master's back, taut against the mist. He recognized that tension; it wasn't from exhaustion, but from a struggle. He didn't say a word, quietly picked up a broom, and went out to sweep the streets.

Old Cui carved up to the fifth layer.

The numbers became denser. The cuts penetrated the wood more shallowly. The blade was lifted slightly. His hand was steady; he hadn't slept last night, but his mind was clear, and he remembered the depth of each cut. After finishing the fifth layer, he ran his hand over it, his fingertips moving from the first layer down to the fifth. Every cut was straight. No crookedness, no deviation. He rubbed his hands on his pants; his palms were sweaty. Not from tension, but from suppressed anxiety. The smoother the carving went, the less he dared to relax. Because last night, it was the last cut that caused the problem. Everything before was correct, but the last cut was crooked. All ruined.

He glanced out the window. The fog hadn't lifted yet, and boats on the Cai River were untying their mooring lines. Smoke rose from the kitchen of a restaurant on the opposite bank, mingling with the fog and becoming indistinguishable.

He picked up the knife again. The sixth floor.

The numbers became denser. He slowed down, not out of hesitation, but to treat each cut as if it were the first. He carved half an inch into the wood, the blade moving lightly across the surface. When he reached the fourth number, he changed the direction of the blade, his wrist turning very gently, the curve unbroken, the finish clean. The sixth layer was complete. Only the final layer remained.

He stopped stabbing.

He put the knife down, clenched his fingers together, and squeezed each knuckle. Then he picked up the knife again.

The fog outside the window began to dissipate. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the clouds, illuminating the Cai River. Voices began to rise from the restaurants on the opposite bank. The sound of shoveling mud from Shufang Street drifted over.

The seventh floor.

The first few numbers went smoothly. Halfway into the wood. The cut was clean. When he reached the fifth number, he suddenly thought, this piece is better than the last. The previous one had minor fiber unevenness on the fourth layer, but this one has no rough edges from the first to the sixth layer. The wood is good, the knife is good, and his hand is good. He had rested, wasn't tired, and his wrist wasn't shaking.

I want to carve it even better than before.

The idea popped into his head in that instant. The moment the blade pierced the wood, he increased the pressure in his wrist, not carving crookedly, but carving too deeply. He wanted to carve the strokes of that number more fully than in the design. The blade penetrated the wood more than half an inch, almost an inch. This depth compressed the wood fibers on both sides of the blade, making the outline of the character rough. The ink would seep along the rough edges, making the number appear larger than in the design.

He raised the knife. He stared at the deep incision and remained silent for a moment.

Then he did a remedy: he planed off a thin layer from the surface of the plate, which made the lettering lighter again. He picked up the plane.

The wood grain cracked the moment the plane passed over the surface.

It wasn't the plane's fault. It was the depth of the cut; the cut was too deep, squeezing and deforming the wood fibers. When the plane pushed against them, the deformed fibers couldn't withstand the tearing and started to break apart from the deep cut. The crack spread along the wood grain, through the sixth layer, through the fifth layer, and forked at the third layer.

This board is ruined again.

He put down the plane. He picked up the discarded plate, flipped it over to look at the back; it was still smooth, without any cracks. But the front was unusable. He placed the discarded plate next to the one from last night, stacking them neatly. The two discarded plates sat side by side against the corner of the wall. Last night's plate had one crack, this one had three.

He sat down.

Chu Xiaosong returned from sweeping the mud outside and saw his master sitting there, his hands outstretched on his lap. A second plank had appeared on the pile of scrap boards. He gently placed the broom against the corner of the wall, then went to the stove to boil a kettle of water. Once the water boiled, he poured some tea leaves into a bowl, walked over to his master, and placed the bowl on the workbench. The bottom of the bowl tapped softly against the wooden surface. Without saying a word, he went back and squatted down beside the pile of scrap boards, picking up the scattered wood shavings and stacking them neatly.

Old Cui picked up the bowl of tea. The dark patterns on the teacup rested against the back of his hand; the tea was very hot. He took a sip—bitter and astringent. He swallowed, then put the bowl down.

He did not sigh.

He thought of his grandfather. Not of the complete story, but of the saying: "The worst thing in firing a kiln is to be impatient; if you're impatient, the fire will be too hard, and if the fire is too hard, the bricks will crack." He remembered for forty years how his grandfather's last kiln collapsed. Now, two of his kilns had collapsed. He was his own kiln-building master.

He placed his hands on his knees, palms facing up. The calluses on his ten fingers gleamed dimly in the morning light. Outside the window, the sound of the Cai River still echoed, as did the sounds of shoveling mud from Shufang Street, and the tea drinkers in the tavern across the river continued their lively conversation. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating two discarded wooden boards. The edges of the cracks reflected the light, revealing each individual wood fiber strand at the broken ends.

He looked at the two discarded printing plates, feeling that they were waiting for the third plate, and also waiting for him to sigh. But that sigh remained trapped in his chest, like an unfired kiln.