Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 6 Joint Signature of the Academy

The day the rebuttal was posted on the locust tree, there was no wind on the Guanzhong Plain.

The absence of wind meant that the locust tree leaves were motionless, the locust shells lay unrolled on the ground, and the wisps of smoke from burning corpses in the distance rose straight up, like a gray nail driven between heaven and earth. Chen Tongfu stood under the locust tree, looking at the piece of paper.

The paper was new, the ink completely dry, and on it were written the names of seven academies in Guanzhong. Seven. From Jingyang Academy in the far north to Lantian Academy in the far south, not one was missing. Below each academy's name was a string of signatures: headmaster, lecturer, and student representative. The neat regular script, with straight lines, seemed to be a competition to see who could write the most orderly.

His gaze followed the signatures downwards. First line, second line, third line. Sixth name. Seventh name. Lu Mingyuan. His hand froze in mid-air. Not clenched, not tightly gripped, just hovering there, fingers slightly parted, as if reaching to press something, but not pressing down. That name. Lu Mingyuan.

Behind him, nine-year-old disciple Zhou Xiaoshi tugged at his sleeve. Zhou Xiaoshi's hands were small, and his grip on the sleeve wasn't strong enough; he wasn't old enough to pull an adult's sleeve with force. His father had died at the border, and his mother had been forced to her death under the Green Sprouts Law. He had studied under Chen Tongfu for two years, never speaking on his own initiative. Today, he spoke. He looked at the paper pasted on the locust tree, pointed to the seventh name, and asked, "Sir, do you recognize that name?"

Chen Tongfu said, "I know him. I taught him."

He spoke softly, without trembling or sobbing. It was as if he were stating a fact. He didn't look down into Zhou Xiaoshi's eyes, because he knew the child understood—a child who had lost his mother at the age of nine under the Green Sprouts Act understood everything.

Zhou Xiaoshi didn't ask any further questions. He pulled his hand back from his sleeve, letting it hang at his side, clenched into a fist. Then he turned and left. Not running, but walking. His steps were quick, his head down, his shoulders trembling. He went into the thatched cottage, buried himself behind a pile of bamboo slips, picked up a discarded bamboo slip, and began carving on it with a small knife.

He carved the two characters "Mingyuan." After carving them, he crossed them out, over and over again. Last winter, Lu Mingyuan had taught him to read, guiding him step by step to write the character "wen," saying, "This character is the most important, as the teacher said." Now, this person's name was on the rebuttal document. Nine-year-old Zhou Xiaoshi couldn't understand it. He just kept carving deeper and deeper into the marks on the discarded bamboo slips.

Chen Wangqiu stood on the other side of the locust tree. He saw the joint petition from the seven academies, saw Lu Mingyuan's name listed seventh, and saw Chen Tongfu's hand suspended in mid-air—the same gesture Lu Mingyuan had made a few days earlier, stopping a step on the threshold. Both were suspended in mid-air. One stopped on the threshold, waiting for a call. The other stopped in front of the locust tree, waiting for a name.

He had seen the underlying reasons for this joint petition earlier in his world-building perspective. It wasn't a spontaneous act by the seven academies; it was secretly orchestrated by the Guanzhong Provincial Education Commissioner. After Zheng Anmin signed the reprimand letter, his superior spoke with him, saying, "A single reprimand letter isn't enough; we need public pressure."

Zheng Anmin lowered his head, his hand pressed to his forehead for a long time, before beginning to write a letter of instruction, which he sent in the name of the educational administration to the heads of the seven academies. He didn't draft the joint petition himself; he simply excerpted a portion of Chen Tongfu's bamboo slips written over the years, attaching it to the letter as "evidence," and added a comment: "This man's views are suspected of being heretical; it is advisable to discuss them together." He didn't write the words "joint rebuttal," but he knew what the headmasters who received this letter would do. After he finished writing, his hand began to tremble again. The ink broke again.

After receiving the letter, three of the seven academies signed it on the same day, two hesitated for a day, and one hesitated for two days. The one who hesitated the longest was the headmaster of Jingyang Academy, who was Chen Tongfu's fellow student. They had studied together in Bianjing when they were young and knew Chen Tongfu's scholarship and character. He read Zheng Anmin's letter three times and also read the bamboo slips from which Chen Tongfu had been excerpted three times. Then he sat at his desk from morning till night.

Finally, as he wrote his name on the petition, the brush broke, just like when Zheng Anmin signed the reprimand letter—the ink faltered in three places. He put the brush on the inkstone, stood up, and opened the window. Outside were the locust trees of Jingyang Academy, the same species as the one outside Guanzhong Thatched Cottage. He stood there for a long time, then closed the window and continued grading the students' classical texts. The next day, his name was on the petition.

Lu Mingyuan was summoned for a talk by the education authorities. It wasn't Zheng Anmin who went personally; Zheng Anmin sent a clerk. The clerk, surnamed Sun, was specifically responsible for relaying messages; he spoke clearly and politely.

He summoned Lu Mingyuan to a side room in the school administration office. The door was ajar, and the window was ajar. Clerk Sun said, "You can handle your uncle's matter yourself." There were no threats, no promises. Just that one sentence, because that one sentence was enough.

Lu Mingyuan's father died in the military register, and his whole family was registered in the military register. The education department was in charge of the examination qualifications of children of military personnel.

Clerk Sun didn't need to say the second half of his sentence; Lu Mingyuan already understood. He stood in the side room, light filtering through the crack in the door illuminating his face, casting a soft, half-lit glow. He didn't answer. He turned and left the side room, returning to the thatched cottage, where he sat alone for a long time in his own room. The candlelight cast his shadow on the swaying wall. He picked up a pen and signed the name.

Then he knelt on the ground of the thatched cottage and, in front of everyone, asked the master whether he was betraying the classics or straying from the Way.

He didn't tell his husband that he had been called in for a talk the day before. He also didn't tell his husband that after he signed the document, he vomited in his room, kneeling on the floor, supporting himself with his hands, and vomiting up the acid from his stomach.

He had been learning to read and write with his uncle since he was a child, and he knew better than anyone what his uncle was doing. But he also knew that once he lost his eligibility to take the exam, his mother's dying words, "You must protect yourself," would be in vain, and his father's death in the military would be in vain. He couldn't protect anything.

When he knelt in the rain and asked, "Is it betraying the scriptures or straying from the Way?" he wasn't asking his teacher; he was asking himself. He needed his teacher to give him an answer so he could follow it.

The man didn't give it to him. He said, "Go," and turned his face away. He stood on the threshold, waiting for the voice to say, "Mingyuan, come back," but it didn't come. He stepped out of the threshold, and the rain pelted his head.

Chen Wangqiu witnessed it all. Zheng Anmin's trembling hands, the back of the headmaster of Jingyang Academy as he closed the window, Lu Mingyuan kneeling in the room vomiting stomach acid.

The joint signature of seven companies was not spontaneous. In historical documents, it would be called "impeachment." But in this hypothetical world, every step is a specific choice made by specific people out of specific fears.

The coercer dared not refuse to coerce; he trembled. The coerced dared not refuse to compromise; he vomited. But the man standing under the locust tree, after reading these names, only said, "I know them; I taught them." There was no hatred, no sorrow, just a statement, like an observer recording data. Then he would go into the thatched cottage, continue sitting at his desk carving bamboo slips, the sound of the carving knife piercing the bamboo exactly the same as yesterday.

Lu Mingyuan's name was pasted on the upper left corner of the windowpane, the one facing the direction his son had left home, the one Ah Heng mended the window paper for every day. A gust of wind blew, and the paper tore first. Not from the edge, but from Lu Mingyuan's signature.

The last stroke of that name was torn apart by the wind, the ink split in two, and then the entire sheet of paper was torn down along the rift. The wind swirled the fragments, past the locust treetops, past the thatched roof, past the wisps of smoke rising from the distant burning corpses. His name was the first to rot.

Chen Tongfu didn't go out to chase the shards. Aheng stood at the kitchen doorway, holding the torn window paper she had just replaced. She saw her husband standing under the locust tree, his hand frozen in mid-air. She didn't go over; she simply folded the torn window paper and placed it on the edge of the stove. She usually used old window paper as kindling. Today, this one wasn't put into the stove. She folded it and set it aside.

He turned and went into the thatched cottage. He took the remaining half of the rebuttal, the piece of paper with Lu Mingyuan's name torn out, from the locust tree and brought it inside. He didn't turn it over to write further questions, nor did he burn it. He simply placed it on top of the pile of bamboo slips, together with the returned letter that read "No such person found."

Two sheets of paper lay side by side. One was of his son, the other of his nephew. He had taught him both. Then he sat down and picked up a carving knife. The wind was still blowing in from outside the window, and the empty bird's nest in the locust tree swayed in the wind, but didn't fall. Chen Wangqiu stood under the locust tree. He knew what this action meant. It wasn't reconciliation, it was inclusion. Including the hurt in the questioning as well.

Because this river flows not only through beautiful things, but also through the questions on bamboo slips, the embroidered words on handkerchiefs, the triangles carved on wooden plaques—it flows through things that are torn apart. Accusations of heresy, names signed by hand, names first torn apart by the wind. The river doesn't discriminate. It carries them all away.