The English translation below is the author's own. Switch to 中文 above for the original.
卅四年秋，焚书令下。
郡府贴了告示，柳木简，墨迹极密，编绳三道。会认字的念，不会认字的听，听完各自散去。散是散了，脸上的神情是：关我什么事？寻常百姓家哪有这些东西，他们连简牍都买不起。
偏生有那么几户有。
郡里派了人来办这桩差事。派的是敬。
敬在郡府做卒史，秩百石，掌文书钱谷。郡守说这差事要个会写字的人去办，敬的字好，就派了敬。敬穿着一身皂色短襦，腰间束窄革带，右侧佩一把铜书刀，柄端有环。敬不爱说话，写得一手好隶书。当年乡塾里先生拍着木牍说：“这孩子的手，将来是能给人写碑的。”敬没想写碑。敬只想给一个人抄书。
那个人是渠。
渠和敬从小在同一个乡塾念书。敬家里穷，买不起简牍，捡人家写废的木牍，拿刀削去旧字，重新写。渠家里也不宽裕，但渠有个毛病：见了书就走不动道。不是见了哪一本走不动道——是见了所有的书。
有一回先生带了一卷《诗》来，渠蹲在案边看了一整个下午，蝉在槐树上叫得震天响，他也没觉着。敬的娘给敬送了一碗粥，敬端着去找渠，渠抬头，眼睛里亮得像点了烛光。
“你看，‘蒹葭苍苍，白露为霜’——苍苍是什么颜色？”
敬也不知道。敬说：“大概跟冬天的芦苇差不多。”
后来敬攒了三个月的钱，买了一段缣帛，替渠抄了一卷《诗》。帛幅裁了半幅，字迹渗进丝纹。抄完卷起来，用一根青色丝绳系了。送给渠。渠看了半天，说：“你的字比我好。”
敬说：“你写字像打架。”
渠嘿嘿笑，不恼。那卷帛书是渠的第一本书，渠给它标了个记号，写了一个“甲”字。
那是二十年前的事了。
敬走到渠门前的时候，日头刚过午。巷子是夯土路，前几日下过雨，还汪着几处泥洼。渠家的院墙比别家矮，墙头塌了一角，拿几根柳条随便一拦。
敬在门口站了站。看见渠坐在廊下，膝盖上摊着一卷简，右手握刀笔，刀尖在简上慢慢地刻。廊顶的茅草被风吹得歪歪斜斜，漏下几道光，落在渠的后颈上。渠穿着本色粗麻褐衣，袖口磨出了线头，指甲缝里嵌着洗不净的黑。腰间束着条旧革带，勒到最里头的孔，余出一截，松松地垂着。还有一枚铜带钩，云纹磨得更平了，只剩一道浅浅的弯。敬记得这道弯。以前在乡塾的时候，这道弯在渠父腰上。
敬咳了一声。
渠抬头，看见敬，愣了一下。“是你。”
“奉命来的。”
“什么命？”
“焚书令。”
渠盯了他半天，把简卷慢慢收起来，站起来拍了拍衣裳。“进来吧。”
敬迈进门，看见廊下站着个妇人，腿边躲着个孩子，约莫四五岁，头发黄软，扎了两个小髻，碎发毛茸茸地翘着，一只手攥着妇人的裙角，探出半个脑袋看敬，脸有些红。妇人见了敬，脚步往后退了半步，手往后护住孩子，侧身让到廊柱后面。
敬没多想，只以为是怕生。
渠回头看了一眼，走过去，蹲下，把手在衣裳上蹭了蹭，伸手探孩子额头，低声问妇人：“还在发热？”
妇人说：“比早上好些了。”
渠“嗯”了一声。又看了一会儿孩子，转过身来对敬说：“进来吧，别站着。”
放书的屋子比住人的那间还大。书架是粗木打的，四层，堆得满满当当。敬蹲下来，随手拿起一卷，是《诗》。又拿一卷，是医书。再拿一卷，是抄写的律令，字歪歪扭扭，一看就是一手一笔攒的。
敬翻书的时候，渠一双眼睛盯着他的手，像随时准备上来夺回去一般。
里屋传来一声咳嗽。孩子的声音，小小的，闷闷的。
敬侧头过去。
“着了点风，不打紧。”渠的手指抚摸过一排竹简，像抚摸肌肤。简上面连半点灰尘也没有。见敬目光落在一卷边角明显有焦迹补痕的算学上，渠解释，“那本是灶膛里救出来的，边角烧了小半，后面拿别的简补全了。”
敬扫了一圈里屋。
“这些……都是你的？”
“都是我的。有些自个儿抄的，有几卷跟人换的，有几卷捡的。”
“捡的？”
“嗯，有人扔在路边，我捡回来的。书又没犯法，扔了可惜。”
敬看了看医书那一排。“律令上说，医药卜筮种树之书不在禁中。你可以留。”
渠的脸色松了一点。
“但诗书百家语要交。”
渠的脸色又紧回去了。
“哪些是诗书百家语，哪些是医药种树之书？我分不清。”
“你分不清？”
渠抽出一卷简。“这上面有药方，也有引《诗》的话。它是医书还是诗书？”
敬没说话。
“还有这卷，是算书，但引了《书》里的话。你说是算书还是《书》？”
敬看了他一眼，把简放回去。敬心里清楚，渠这是跟他耍滑头。渠的滑头跟别人不一样。别人耍滑头是编瞎话，渠耍滑头是跟你较真。你能说算书上引了一句《书》就要交吗？不能。但你能说引了《书》的算书就能全留吗？也不能。
“你讲不讲理？”敬说。
“我讲的就是理。”
“你讲的是你那一本一本的理。”
渠缩了缩脖子，没回话，但脚没挪。
敬叹了口气。“圣上统一思想，是为了大家好。百家争鸣，各说各话，最后斗来斗去，邪说钻了空子，受害的还是百姓。你是明白人。”
渠不看他了，眼睛看着架子上的简牍。半天，说了一句：“我明白。可我不干。”
敬拿他没办法。
此后敬又去了几趟。每回去，渠都在书架前头坐着，膝盖上搁着简，刀笔搁在手边。敬说，你交了书，朝廷给钱。渠不说话。敬说，你交了书，以后还可以再买，医书农书又不犯法。渠还是不说话。敬说，你不交，人家来搜，搜出来就是族诛。
渠终于开口了：“要诛就诛我一个人，干我家人什么事。”
敬看着他，觉得这人还是一如既往地笨。
软的不行，来硬的。
敬换了个法子。
那天渠出去买米。敬带了两个人去。敬站在门口说：“朝廷收书，给钱的。”
妇人正在院子里劈柴，斧子嵌在木墩上，她把手在围裙上蹭了蹭。“给多少？”
敬报了个数。妇人看了看屋里睡着的孩子，把斧子往地上一插，“行。”
敬让人进去搬。
搬了半屋子，渠回来了。渠手里提着一袋米，走到巷口就看见门口的板车，看见车上堆得满满当当的简牍。米袋扔在地上，白米撒了一地。渠撒腿就跑，跑到书架前头，两臂张开，把架子挡住。袖口刮在架子角上，嘶了一声，扯开一道口子。
“谁让你们搬的！”
“你家人都答应了。”
“我不答应！你搬走的是我的命！”
敬后面那两个人往前一步。渠拼命去推，推不动，被拨到一边。他眼看着那两个人一卷一卷地把简抱下来，搁在板车上。渠扑过去抱住一个人的腿，那人一挣，把渠拖出去两步远，膝盖磕在门槛上，又爬起来，再去拦另一个人。
“半分故交也不顾了吗？”渠没抬头，声音发闷。
敬站在他背后，没有说话。
“你从前比我还喜欢书。”渠的声音突然大起来，抬了头，脸上全是眼泪，鼻涕也下来了，拿袖子抹了一把，没抹干净。“你忘了，你给我念‘蒹葭苍苍，白露为霜’的时候，你自己眼睛都红了！你怎么——”
渠说不下去了。
敬怔了。
敬想起来了那一年。乡塾后面那棵老槐树。夏天，蝉在树上叫。渠蹲在地上看那卷帛书，敬坐在旁边，拿指头点着字，一字一字念给他听。念到“宛在水中央”的时候，敬停了。渠抬头问，怎么不念了。敬说，嗓子干了。
其实不是嗓子干了。敬是看见了槐树底下的光落在帛书上，渠的脸埋在光里，眼睛比灯还亮。
敬让人停了手。
搬下来的简搁在板车上，没再往上摞。看着渠蹲在地上的模样，敬的嘴唇动了动，叹口气：“奉命行事而已。”
渠擦了擦脸，没有骂人，也没有再看敬。
敬带着人走了。板车上装了一摞简。渠的架子空了一半，像一张漏风的嘴。
孩子病了的第三天，药灌下去三碗，热不退。到第五天，孩子咳得停不下来，喘得像风箱漏气，脸先是绯红，后来绯红里带一点青，鼻翼一放一收地翕动。
渠请了巷口的郎中。郎中留着山羊胡，指甲养得极长，进了屋先看了一圈简牍，皱了皱眉：“屋子潮气太重，于小儿不利。”渠赔了笑，把简牍往里挪，手忙脚乱碰翻了一摞木牍，又蹲下去捡。郎中把孩子的袖子捋上去，手指搭在腕上，闭着眼，半天不说话。
“先生——”
郎中睁了眼：“此乃伤寒。先开一方，柴胡、黄芩、半夏，煎服。若热不退，再议。”
药吃了两副，没见好。又吃两副，还是没见好。郎中说，正气已虚，须加人参。人参贵，比肉还贵得多。妇人织了半年的布，原本是要换冬衣的，卷起来抱去了药铺。灶上还剩两斗粟，也舀了。药铺掌柜掂了掂布，又称了称粟，勉强从匣子里切了拇指大一截参，拿纸包了，递过来。
干瘪的一小根，比手指头还细。渠把那截攥在手里，用布包了又包，小心翼翼地揣在怀里带回去。药煎出来，灌下去。当天夜里，孩子烧得更厉害了。
两个人半宿没睡。
妇人说，请个巫吧。渠不信那些怪力乱神的东西，但看着脸烧得通红的孩子，没说话。
巫觋来了，干瘪的老头子，脸上涂了红一道黑一道，袍角用朱砂画了弯弯曲曲的纹路。在院子里摆了香案，烧了符纸，符灰掸进碗里，兑了汤水往孩子嘴边递。孩子喝了一口，吐了。巫觋又念了一阵咒，拿桃枝在床前洒了水饭。
“邪祟附体，”巫觋说，“书里招来的。”
渠在旁边蹲着，不说话。
巫觋折腾了一夜，孩子烧得更厉害。第二天又说，要做大法事，要三牲、香烛、新帛。两人翻箱倒柜地找，没找到新帛，只有那卷系着青绳的帛书。帛已泛黄，勉强能用。
妇人拿起来要走。渠立马扑过去夺回来。
“这个不行。”
“一个破帛，有什么不行！”
“换别的。”
“没有别的了！什么破书，比孩子的命还金贵？！”
渠手不放，抱得死紧，嗫嚅。
“总还有办法……”
妇人看他那个样子，气得把架子上竹简扫落一地，转身走了。渠蹲下去，一个个捡回来。
不单是新帛，三牲、香烛也没个着落。想也知道，寻常人家哪里凑得齐这些？法事没有做成。巫觋走了。孩子的病一天比一天重。到后来，已经不大能睁眼了，偶尔嘴唇动一动。渠凑近了听。
“阿爹……好冷……”
渠脱下自己的外衣，裹在孩子身上。孩子的手从被子边伸出来，渠握住，拢在掌心里。捂不暖，那小手还是一点点冷下去。过了很久，他把那只手放回被子里，掖了掖被角。然后走出里屋，蹲在廊下。
妇人从灶房出来，端着碗热水，走到里屋门口，看了一眼，看见渠失了光丢了魂的眼神，就明白了。她站在那里，站了一会儿，把碗放在门框边的地上，转身回了灶房。
过了一会儿，里屋传来一声哭。闷在屋里。然后停了。又断断续续响了几声，渐渐弱下去。
渠蹲在廊下，两手撑着膝盖，头低着。肩膀抽动了两下。
天黑透了。妇人从里屋出来，走到廊下，在旁边蹲下。两个人蹲着，谁也没看谁。廊檐下的茅草被风吹得簌簌响，草屑扬起来，落在两人肩上。
妇人说：“粥在灶上。”
渠说：“嗯。”
妇人说：“你去吃一口。”
渠说：“你先去。”
妇人没动。渠也没动。
第二天这事传开之后，巷子里的人说，果然书里有邪祟。要不然怎么孩子病倒了？早该听巫的，把书烧了，说不定就没事了。
邻居听说了这事，说得去去晦气，把自己家里垫桌角的半卷简翻出来，吐口唾沫，丢进灶里烧了。
疫病开始在巷子里蔓延。
先是隔壁老王的婆娘，接着是巷尾李家的小子。发热、咳嗽、脖子发硬、喘气，跟渠的孩子的病一模一样。巷子里的人慌了。郡府下令：封锁巷子，所有尸首一律焚烧，所有器物一并焚毁。里正挨家挨户地通知，手里拿一根木杖，走到谁家门口就在门框上敲一下。
敲到渠家的门，门没关。里正走进去，看见妇人坐在里屋地上，怀里抱着孩子。孩子裹在渠的褐衣里，脸露在外面，已经发青了。妇人低着头，脸贴着孩子的额头，一动不动。
里正站了一会儿，说：“已经走了。”
妇人没抬头。
里正回头看了一眼门外。两个差役进来，一个从左边，一个从右边。妇人抱得更紧了，肩膀缩起来，脸埋进孩子身上。差役弯下腰去掰她的手。
廊下的渠听见声音，站起来，跑进里屋。他看见差役在掰妇人的手，看见妇人蹬掉了鞋、头发散了。他两步过去，拿肩膀撞开一个差役，转过身，两臂张开，把妇人和孩子挡在身后。
“等等——”
差役没停。
渠伸手去推第二个差役，被拨到一边，背撞在墙上。他又扑过去，抱住差役的腿。
“不能……不能带走……”
差役挣了一下，没挣脱。另一个差役过来，把渠的手指一根一根掰开。渠的手指抠着差役的裤腿，抠得指节发白。差役掰到第三根，渠抬起头。
“他没病，求你别带走他——”
差役把他按在地上。渠的膝盖磕在地上，磕实了，他哼了一声。他趴在地上，脸贴着夯土，嘴里还在说。
“你们……你们不能……”
没有人听。
妇人那边，差役抱走了孩子。孩子从她怀里滑出去的时候，她扑了过去，被按住了。她被按在墙上，还在挣，指甲在差役的手臂上抓出了血印。她喊，喊的什么听不清，嗓子已经破了，变成哑哑的嘶声。
差役抱着孩子走出巷子，拐了个弯，看不见了。
按住渠的差役松了手。渠趴在地上，没有立刻起来。他的手指还保持着抠东西的形状，抠着地上的土。过了一会儿，他撑着膝盖爬起来，走到妇人身边，蹲下。
妇人顺着墙滑下去，坐在地上，头往后仰，张着嘴喘气。头发散了一地，脸上的灰和泪混在一起，一道一道的。
渠伸出手，把妇人肩上的一根草屑拂了。
烧书那天，大晴天。
郡府在城外的晒谷场上堆了一座书山。竹简、木牍、帛书，一卷一卷往上摞。有从各家搜出来的，也有从官仓搬出来的。竹简摞得歪歪斜斜，有的滑下来，有人上去重新码好。帛书被风吹得卷角翘起来，像一群白色的蛾子。
敬站在火堆旁边，手里拿着火把。他看到了很多卷书——有的编绳完好，有的散了架，竹简一根一根往外掉。有人把书扔上去的时候，简上的字在日光里晃了一下。
白露未晞。
火把递过去。书山点燃了。
竹子烧起来有噼啪声，像放鞭。帛烧起来不响，只冒黑烟，气味很臭。敬站在烟里，拿袖子捂住口鼻。
烧到一半的时候，突然一个人从人群里冲了出来。
是渠。
渠穿着一件扯破了的褐衣，左边的袖子耷拉着，头发散乱，脸上全是灰。怀里抱着一卷帛书。帛是青色的丝绳，泛黄的帛面。
敬喊了一声。听不清喊的什么。可能是“站住”，可能是渠的名字，也可能是别的。
渠没有站住。他撒腿冲进了火里。
火已经烧到了最高处，竹简哔哔剥剥地炸开，黑烟打着卷往上翻。帛书先烧起来，火苗蹿上他的衣裳，再攀上他的头发。
敬下意识就向前冲，被人死死拽住。是里正。
“去不得，去不得！”
敬站住了。火里面已经看不清人了。只有一团黑影。空气烧得微微扭曲，好像隔了一道时空。溯洄从之，道阻且长。
火继续烧。烧了一整夜。
第二天早上，火堆里扒出了几块烧碎的骨头和一枚铜带钩。铜带钩是渠的，钩身上刻着云纹，烧得发黑了，钩头还保留着原来的形状。那些简也烧成了炭。竹简烧完是炭，木牍烧完是灰，帛书烧完什么也没留下。
帛太轻了，烧起来比羽毛还轻，风一吹就散了，连灰都不见。
疫病在那场火里灭了。得病的人死了，尸体也被烧了。巷子重新开了。日子照旧过。
大家说，敬是个好官。一把火把书里的邪祟烧干净了。
敬后来升了官。郡守调走，敬接了郡丞的位置。
他还是写隶书，横平竖直，一笔不苟，跟从前一样。只是写字的时候不再跪坐，改为伏案。案上搁着一方新砚台，砚池里磨着新墨，砚旁搁着一支新笔。旧的秃笔保存得很好，收在匣子里。
夜里敬做了一个梦。
梦里有一座书架子，架上全是书。竹简、木牍、帛书。有一卷帛书，青色的丝绳，泛黄的帛面。敬伸手去拿，没够着。架子后面站着一个人，一双眼睛比火还亮，直勾勾地看着他。
敬猛地醒了。
心口跳得厉害。屋里什么都看不真切，窗外还是黑的。他翻了个身，闭上眼，又睁开。那梦里的书架和那人，清清楚楚地印在眼皮底下。他又翻了个身。檐角的铁马叮了一声，有风。
敬睡不着了。
他坐起来，披了件外衣，走到窗边，把窗推开一条缝。夜风灌进来，带着深秋的凉意。巷子里静悄悄的，远远近近的黑瓦屋顶一层一层铺过去，像叠在一起的简牍。不知谁家的狗叫了一声。
天边还是一团墨色。
敬靠在窗边，黑色的树影摇晃。他想起小时候乡塾后面那棵老槐树，想起那个夏天的蝉声，想起渠蹲在案边看书的那个下午。想起自己一笔一笔抄那卷帛书，想起那根青色的丝绳，想起那双发亮的眼睛。
天边慢慢地变了颜色。墨色淡下去，先是一线极浅的青灰，然后青灰里透出一丝暖意。那暖意像一滴墨跌进水中央，慢慢洇开。接着，东边的天际裂开了一道口子，赤黄色的光从里面渗出来，把低处的云染成一团一团的红。那红越来越浓，越来越亮，仿佛谁在天上点了一把火。
最后那片赤黄之气慢慢熄灭。
又是新的一日。
In the thirty-fourth year, in autumn, the edict to burn the books was issued.
The command was posted outside the commandery office, written in dense black ink upon a willow-wood tablet, bound with three cords. Those who could read read it aloud; those who could not listened. When it was over, everyone went their separate ways.
They did, indeed, go their separate ways, with much the same look on their faces:
What has this to do with me?
What ordinary household had such things? They could not even afford bamboo or wooden slips.
And yet, there were a few households that did.
The commandery sent someone to carry out the order. His name was Jing.
Jing served at the commandery office as a zou shi, a minor clerk of a hundred shi in rank, entrusted with documents, money, and grain. The commandery governor said the task required someone who knew how to write. Jing's hand was good, so they sent Jing.
He wore a short black robe, a narrow leather belt around his waist. At his right side hung a bronze writing knife, a ring set into the end of its handle. Jing was not a man of many words. He wrote an excellent clerical script.
Once, back in the village school, the teacher had slapped a wooden tablet with his palm and said,
“This child's hand will one day write inscriptions for men.”
Jing had never wanted to write inscriptions.
He only wanted to copy books for one person.
That person was Qu.
Qu and Jing had studied together at the same village school since childhood. Jing's family was poor and could not afford slips, so he collected discarded wooden tablets, shaved away the old writing with a knife, and wrote upon them again.
Qu's family was not well-off either, but Qu had a peculiar failing:
Whenever he saw a book, he could not tear himself away.
Not one particular book.
Every book.
Once, their teacher brought a scroll of the Book of Songs. Qu crouched beside the desk and read it for the entire afternoon. The cicadas screamed in the locust tree until the whole courtyard seemed to tremble, but he did not notice.
Jing's mother brought Jing a bowl of porridge. Jing carried it over to Qu.
Qu looked up.
His eyes were bright, as though someone had lit a candle inside them.
“Look,” he said. “‘The reed beds are luxuriant, the white dew has turned to frost’—what color is cangcang?”
Jing did not know either.
“Probably something like reeds in winter,” he said.
Later, Jing saved his money for three months and bought a length of silk. He copied a scroll of the Book of Songs for Qu.
He cut the silk to half its original width. The ink seeped into the threads.
When he had finished, he rolled it up and tied it with a blue-green silk cord.
He gave it to Qu.
Qu looked at it for a long while.
“Your writing is better than mine.”
“You write as though you're fighting.”
Qu laughed. He was not offended.
That silk manuscript was Qu's first book.
He marked it with a sign of his own and wrote a single character upon it:
A.
That had been twenty years ago.
When Jing reached Qu's house, the sun had just passed its zenith.
The lane was packed earth. It had rained a few days before, and several puddles still lay in the ruts. Qu's courtyard wall was lower than the others. One corner had collapsed, and someone had casually blocked the gap with a few willow branches.
Jing stood at the gate for a moment.
He saw Qu sitting beneath the eaves, a bundle of slips spread across his knees. In his right hand was a writing knife, its point moving slowly across the slip.
The thatch above him had been blown crooked by the wind. Strands of sunlight fell through the gaps and touched the back of Qu's neck.
Qu wore an undyed coarse hemp robe. Loose threads hung from the worn cuffs. Black had worked itself permanently into the cracks beneath his fingernails.
An old leather belt was fastened around his waist at its innermost hole, with the excess hanging loosely at his side.
There was also a bronze belt hook.
Its cloud pattern had been rubbed nearly smooth, leaving only a shallow curve.
Jing remembered that curve.
Back at the village school, it had hung from Qu's father's waist.
Jing cleared his throat.
Qu looked up.
When he saw Jing, he froze for a moment.
“It is you.”
“I've come under orders.”
“What orders?”
“The book-burning edict.”
Qu stared at him for a long while.
Then he slowly rolled up the slips, stood, and brushed the dust from his robe.
“Come in.”
Jing stepped through the gate.
Under the eaves stood a woman. A child, perhaps four or five years old, hid beside her legs.
The child's hair was soft and yellow, tied into two little knots, with wisps sticking out like down. One small hand clutched the woman's skirt. Half the child's face peered around it at Jing, flushed red with fever.
When the woman saw Jing, she took half a step backward. Her hand moved behind her, shielding the child, and she turned sideways, retreating behind a pillar.
Jing thought nothing of it. He assumed the child was simply shy.
Qu glanced back.
He walked over, crouched down, rubbed his hands against his robe, then touched the child's forehead.
“Still feverish?” he asked the woman quietly.
“Better than this morning.”
Qu murmured, “Mm.”
He watched the child a little longer, then turned back to Jing.
“Come inside. Don't stand there.”
The room where Qu kept his books was larger than the room where the family slept.
The shelves were made of rough timber, four tiers high, and packed to overflowing.
Jing crouched and picked up a scroll at random.
The Book of Songs.
Another.
A medical text.
Another.
A copy of legal statutes, the characters crooked and uneven, plainly written one stroke at a time over many years.
As Jing turned the books, Qu watched his hands.
His eyes followed them as though he might spring forward and snatch the books back at any moment.
A cough came from the inner room.
Small.
Muffled.
A child's cough.
Jing turned his head.
“Caught a little chill,” Qu said. “Nothing serious.”
Qu's fingers passed over a row of bamboo slips as gently as though he were touching skin.
Not a speck of dust lay upon them.
Jing's gaze fell upon a mathematical text at the end of the shelf, its corners visibly charred and repaired.
“That one?” Qu said. “I rescued it from a stove. Half the edge burned away. I filled in the missing part with other slips.”
Jing looked around the room.
“All these… are yours?”
“All mine. Some I copied myself. Some I traded for. Some I found.”
“Found?”
“Mm. Someone had thrown them beside the road. I brought them home. Books haven't broken any law. It seemed a shame to throw them away.”
Jing looked toward the medical texts.
“The law says books on medicine, divination, and the cultivation of trees are exempt from the ban. You may keep those.”
Qu's expression eased.
“But books of poetry, history, and the teachings of the hundred schools must be surrendered.”
Qu's expression tightened again.
“Which are books of poetry and the hundred schools, and which are books of medicine and agriculture? I can't tell them apart.”
“You can't?”
Qu pulled out a bundle.
“This contains prescriptions, but it also quotes the Book of Songs. Is it a medical text or a book of poetry?”
Jing said nothing.
“And this one is a book of mathematics, but it quotes the Book of Documents. Is it mathematics, or is it the Book of Documents?”
Jing looked at him and put the slip back.
He knew perfectly well what Qu was doing.
Qu's cleverness was unlike other men's.
When other people played tricks, they made things up.
Qu played tricks by arguing with you until you could no longer tell where the law ended and the argument began.
Could Jing say that a mathematical book containing one quotation from the Book of Documents must therefore be surrendered?
No.
But could he say that a mathematical book containing a quotation from the Book of Documents was therefore entirely exempt?
No, either.
“Are you going to be reasonable?” Jing asked.
“I am being reasonable.”
“You're being reasonable according to your own books.”
Qu drew his shoulders in and said nothing.
But he did not move.
Jing sighed.
“The Emperor is unifying thought for the good of all. When the hundred schools contend, everyone speaks according to his own doctrine. In the end they quarrel, heterodox teachings find their way through the cracks, and it is the common people who suffer. You understand that. You're an intelligent man.”
Qu no longer looked at him.
His eyes rested on the bamboo slips upon the shelf.
After a long while, he said,
“I understand.”
Then:
“But I won't do it.”
Jing had no answer for him.
After that, Jing came several more times.
Every time, Qu was sitting before the shelves, slips resting across his knees, writing knife beside his hand.
Jing said, “Surrender the books. The court will pay you.”
Qu said nothing.
Jing said, “Surrender them. You can buy more afterward. Books on medicine and agriculture aren't forbidden.”
Still, Qu said nothing.
Jing said, “If you refuse, they'll come and search the house. If they find them, your whole clan will be executed.”
At last Qu spoke.
“If they must execute someone, let them execute me. What has my family done?”
Jing looked at him.
The man was just as foolish as ever.
Soft words would not work.
So Jing tried force.
One day Qu went out to buy rice.
Jing brought two men with him.
He stood at the gate.
“The court is collecting books. You'll be paid.”
The woman was chopping wood in the courtyard. The axe was wedged into the chopping block. She wiped her hands on her apron.
“How much?”
Jing named the amount.
She looked toward the room where the child was sleeping.
Then she planted the axe upright in the ground.
“All right.”
Jing motioned for the men to go in.
They had carried out half the books when Qu returned.
He was carrying a sack of rice.
From the mouth of the lane he saw the cart outside the house.
He saw the cart piled high with bamboo and wooden slips.
He dropped the sack.
White rice spilled across the ground.
Qu ran.
He reached the shelves and spread both arms across them, blocking the way.
His sleeve caught on the corner of the shelf.
There was a sharp tearing sound.
The cloth split.
“Who told you to take them?”
“Your family agreed.”
“I didn't!”
Qu's voice broke.
“What you're taking is my life!”
The two men behind Jing stepped forward.
Qu shoved at them with all his strength.
He could not move them.
They pushed him aside.
He watched helplessly as they lifted the slips down one bundle at a time and placed them onto the cart.
Qu threw himself at one man's leg.
The man struggled free and dragged Qu two steps across the floor.
Qu's knee struck the threshold.
He groaned, got back up, and threw himself in front of the other man.
“Have you no regard at all for an old friendship?”
He did not raise his head.
Jing stood behind him and said nothing.
“You used to love books even more than I did.”
Qu's voice suddenly rose.
He looked up.
His face was covered in tears. His nose was running. He wiped it with his sleeve, but only smeared it farther.
“You've forgotten? When you read to me—‘The reed beds are luxuriant, the white dew has turned to frost’—your own eyes were red! How could you—”
He could go no further.
Jing froze.
He remembered that year.
The old locust tree behind the village school.
Summer.
Cicadas screaming in the branches.
Qu crouched over that silk manuscript, while Jing sat beside him, pointing to the characters and reading them aloud, one by one.
When he reached:
“As though it were there, in the middle of the water,”
Jing stopped.
Qu looked up.
“Why did you stop?”
“My throat is dry,” Jing had said.
But his throat had not been dry.
He had seen the sunlight beneath the locust tree falling across the silk.
Qu's face was buried in that light.
His eyes were brighter than a lamp.
Jing told the men to stop.
The slips they had carried down remained on the cart. No more were added.
Looking at Qu crouched on the ground, Jing's lips moved.
Then he sighed.
“I am only carrying out an order.”
Qu wiped his face.
He did not curse Jing.
He did not look at him again.
Jing left with the men.
A pile of slips remained on the cart.
Half of Qu's shelves stood empty, like a mouth with half its teeth gone, letting in the wind.
On the third day of the child's illness, three bowls of medicine had been forced down, but the fever would not break.
By the fifth day, the child could no longer stop coughing. Each breath came like air escaping through a broken bellows. The face, first flushed scarlet, gradually took on a bluish cast. The nostrils fluttered with every breath.
Qu summoned the physician from the mouth of the lane.
The physician had a pointed goatee and nails grown remarkably long. The moment he entered the house, he looked around at the slips and frowned.
“The damp in this room is too heavy. It is harmful to a child.”
Qu smiled apologetically and moved the slips farther inside, knocking over a pile of wooden tablets in his haste. He crouched to gather them.
The physician rolled up the child's sleeve, placed his fingers upon the wrist, and closed his eyes.
For a long time he said nothing.
“Master—”
The physician opened his eyes.
“This is cold damage. I will prescribe a remedy first: bupleurum, skullcap, pinellia. Boil and administer. If the fever does not subside, we shall reconsider.”
Two doses were taken.
No improvement.
Two more.
Still nothing.
The physician said the child's vital energy was already weakened and that ginseng must be added.
Ginseng was expensive.
More expensive than meat by far.
The woman had spent half a year weaving cloth. She had meant to exchange it for winter clothing. She rolled it up and carried it to the apothecary.
There were two dou of millet left in the kitchen.
That went too.
The shopkeeper weighed the cloth, measured the millet, and reluctantly cut a piece of ginseng from a box, no larger than his thumb. He wrapped it in paper and handed it over.
A shriveled little root, thinner than a finger.
Qu clenched it in his hand.
He wrapped it in cloth, then wrapped it again, and carefully tucked it inside his robe on the way home.
The medicine was boiled.
The child swallowed it.
That night the fever grew worse.
The two of them did not sleep.
The woman said, “Call a shaman.”
Qu did not believe in such things.
But he looked at the child's burning red face and said nothing.
The shaman came.
He was a shriveled old man, his face painted with red and black streaks, crooked patterns in cinnabar running along the hem of his robe.
He set up an altar in the courtyard, burned talisman papers, shook the ashes into a bowl, mixed them with water, and held it to the child's lips.
The child swallowed once.
Then vomited.
The shaman chanted another spell.
He sprinkled water and rice before the bed with a peach branch.
“An evil spirit has entered him,” the shaman said.
“Brought by the books.”
Qu crouched beside them.
He said nothing.
The shaman labored through the night.
The child's fever grew worse.
The next day he said a greater ritual was required: three sacrificial animals, incense, candles, and fresh silk.
The couple searched through everything they owned.
There was no fresh silk.
Only that old silk manuscript tied with the blue-green cord.
The silk had yellowed with age.
It would have to do.
The woman picked it up.
Qu immediately lunged forward and snatched it back.
“Not this.”
“It's a scrap of old cloth! Why not?”
“Find something else.”
“There is nothing else!”
She stared at him.
“What is the point of some rotten book being worth more to you than your child's life?”
Qu would not let go.
He clutched the manuscript against his chest.
“There must still be another way…”
The woman looked at him.
Then, furious, she swept the bamboo slips from the shelves.
They crashed onto the floor.
She turned and walked away.
Qu crouched down and gathered them, one by one.
Not only the silk.
There was no way to obtain the sacrificial animals or the incense either.
Of course there wasn't.
What ordinary household could afford such things?
The ritual never took place.
The shaman left.
The child's illness grew worse each day.
Eventually he could barely open his eyes.
Sometimes his lips moved.
Qu leaned close.
“Father…”
The voice was faint.
“So cold…”
Qu took off his outer robe and wrapped it around the child.
The child's hand slipped out from beneath the blanket.
Qu took it and enclosed it in his palm.
He could not warm it.
The little hand grew colder and colder.
After a long time, he placed it back beneath the blanket and tucked the edge in carefully.
Then he left the room and crouched beneath the eaves.
The woman came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of hot water.
At the doorway, she looked inside.
She saw the emptiness in Qu's eyes.
She understood.
She stood there for a while.
Then she placed the bowl on the ground beside the doorframe and went back to the kitchen.
After some time, a cry came from the inner room.
Muffled.
It stopped.
Then came several broken cries, growing weaker and weaker.
Qu crouched beneath the eaves, both hands braced against his knees.
His shoulders trembled twice.
Night fell completely.
The woman came out of the inner room and crouched beside him.
Neither looked at the other.
The thatch beneath the eaves rustled in the wind. Bits of grass rose into the air and settled upon their shoulders.
“The porridge is on the stove,” the woman said.
“Mm.”
“Go eat some.”
“You first.”
Neither moved.
The next day, the story spread through the lane.
People said it proved that evil spirits truly lived in books.
Otherwise, why would the child have fallen ill?
They should have listened to the shaman.
If they had burned the books earlier, perhaps none of this would have happened.
One neighbor, hearing the story, said the household needed to rid itself of bad luck.
He dug out half a bundle of slips he had been using to prop up a table leg.
He spat on them.
Then threw them into the stove.
The epidemic began to spread through the lane.
First it was Old Wang's wife next door.
Then the boy from the Li household at the end of the lane.
Fever.
Coughing.
A stiff neck.
Labored breathing.
Exactly the same symptoms as Qu's child.
Panic spread through the lane.
The commandery government ordered the lane sealed.
All corpses were to be burned.
All belongings were to be destroyed.
The lizheng went from house to house announcing the order, carrying a wooden staff. At every doorway, he struck the frame once.
When he reached Qu's house, the door was open.
The lizheng stepped inside.
The woman was sitting on the floor of the inner room, holding the child in her arms.
The child was wrapped in Qu's brown robe.
His face, already blue, was exposed above it.
The woman had lowered her head against his forehead.
She did not move.
The lizheng stood there for a moment.
“He is gone.”
The woman did not look up.
The lizheng glanced toward the doorway.
Two men entered.
One from the left.
One from the right.
The woman clutched the child tighter.
Her shoulders curled inward.
She buried her face against him.
The men bent down and pried at her hands.
Qu heard the noise from beneath the eaves.
He stood.
Ran into the room.
He saw the men pulling at the woman's hands.
He saw her shoes kicked away, her hair coming loose.
Two steps.
He slammed his shoulder into one of the men.
Then turned.
Spread both arms.
He stood between them and the woman and child.
“Wait—”
The men did not stop.
Qu reached for the second man and shoved.
He was pushed aside.
His back struck the wall.
He lunged again.
Wrapped both arms around the man's leg.
“Don't…”
He clung to him.
“Don't take him…”
The man struggled.
Qu would not let go.
Another man came over and pried his fingers loose one by one.
Qu's fingers hooked into the man's trousers, knuckles white.
The man pried loose the third finger.
Qu raised his head.
“He isn't sick. Please, don't take him.”
They forced Qu to the ground.
His knee struck the earth.
Hard.
He groaned.
He lay there with his face against the packed earth, still speaking.
“You can't…”
“You… you can't…”
No one listened.
The child was taken from the woman.
As he slipped from her arms, she threw herself after him.
They restrained her.
Pinned her against the wall.
She still struggled.
Her fingernails scratched bloody marks into the man's arm.
She screamed.
No one could understand the words.
Her throat had already broken into a hoarse, rasping cry.
The man carrying the child walked out of the lane.
Turned the corner.
Disappeared.
The man holding Qu released him.
Qu remained on the ground.
He did not get up at once.
His fingers were still curled as though gripping something.
They dug into the earth.
After a while, he pushed himself up.
He walked to the woman.
Crouched beside her.
The woman slid down the wall and sat on the ground, head tilted backward, mouth open as she struggled for breath.
Her hair lay scattered across the floor.
Dust and tears had mixed on her face, leaving streaks.
Qu reached out.
He brushed a single piece of grass from her shoulder.
The day they burned the books was bright and clear.
Outside the city, in the threshing ground, the commandery government had piled the books into a mountain.
Bamboo slips.
Wooden tablets.
Silk manuscripts.
One bundle upon another.
Some had been seized from private homes.
Others had been brought from government storehouses.
The bamboo slips leaned crookedly. Some slid loose, and men climbed up to stack them again.
The silk manuscripts caught the wind and their corners curled upward, like a swarm of white moths.
Jing stood beside the pyre, a torch in his hand.
He saw countless books.
Some still had their binding cords intact.
Others had come apart, bamboo slips spilling loose one by one.
When someone threw a book onto the pile, the characters flashed once in the sunlight.
The white dew has not yet dried.
The torch was passed forward.
The mountain of books caught fire.
Bamboo crackled and snapped like firecrackers.
Silk made almost no sound as it burned. It gave off black smoke and a foul smell.
Jing stood in the smoke, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve.
Halfway through the burning, someone suddenly broke from the crowd.
It was Qu.
He wore a torn brown robe.
The left sleeve hung loose.
His hair was disheveled.
His face was covered in ash.
In his arms he carried a silk manuscript.
Blue-green cord.
Yellowed silk.
Jing shouted.
He could not hear what he shouted.
Perhaps, “Stop!”
Perhaps Qu's name.
Perhaps something else.
Qu did not stop.
He ran straight into the fire.
The flames had already climbed to their highest point.
Bamboo slips burst with sharp pops, black smoke twisting upward.
The silk caught first.
Flames leapt onto Qu's clothes.
Then climbed into his hair.
Jing instinctively ran forward.
Someone seized him and held him back.
It was the lizheng.
“You cannot! You cannot go!”
Jing stopped.
The fire had already swallowed the figure.
Only a black shape remained.
The air above the flames shimmered and twisted, as though another age lay beyond it.
Following upstream, they sought him;
the way was difficult, and long.
The fire burned on.
All through the night.
The next morning, they raked several charred fragments of bone from the ashes.
And a bronze belt hook.
It was Qu's.
The cloud pattern on the body had been burned black, but the hooked end still retained its original shape.
The slips had become charcoal.
Bamboo became charcoal.
Wood became ash.
The silk manuscript left nothing behind.
Silk was too light.
It burned lighter than a feather.
One gust of wind and it was gone.
Not even ash remained.
The epidemic died in that fire.
Those who had fallen ill died.
Their bodies were burned as well.
The lane was opened again.
Life went on as before.
Everyone said Jing was a good official.
With a single fire, he had burned all the evil spirits out of the books.
Jing was promoted afterward.
The commandery governor was transferred elsewhere, and Jing took his place as commandery deputy.
He still wrote in clerical script.
Horizontal strokes level.
Vertical strokes straight.
Not a stroke out of place.
Just as before.
Only now he no longer sat kneeling to write.
He wrote at a desk.
A new inkstone rested upon it.
Fresh ink was being ground in its well.
Beside it lay a new brush.
His old, worn brush had been carefully preserved in a box.
That night, Jing dreamed.
In his dream stood a bookshelf.
It was filled with books.
Bamboo slips.
Wooden tablets.
Silk manuscripts.
There was one silk manuscript in particular.
Blue-green cord.
Yellowed silk.
Jing reached for it.
He could not quite touch it.
Behind the shelf stood a man.
A pair of eyes brighter than fire stared straight at him.
Jing woke with a start.
His heart was pounding.
Nothing in the room was clear.
Outside the window, it was still black.
He turned over.
Closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
The bookshelf from the dream was still there behind his eyelids.
So was the man.
He turned over again.
A metal wind chime beneath the eaves gave a single clear note.
There was wind.
Jing could no longer sleep.
He sat up, threw on an outer robe, and went to the window.
He pushed it open a crack.
The night wind poured in, carrying the chill of late autumn.
The lane was silent.
Far and near, black-tiled roofs stretched one behind another into the darkness, like slips stacked upon slips.
Somewhere, a dog barked once.
The horizon was still a mass of ink.
Jing leaned against the window.
Black tree shadows swayed outside.
He thought of the old locust tree behind the village school.
He thought of that summer's cicadas.
He thought of Qu crouched beside the desk, reading.
He thought of himself copying that silk manuscript, stroke by stroke.
He thought of the blue-green cord.
He thought of those bright eyes.
Slowly, the horizon began to change.
The blackness faded.
First came a line of the faintest blue-gray.
Then, within the blue-gray, a trace of warmth.
The warmth spread like a drop of ink falling into the center of water.
Then the eastern horizon split open.
Red-gold light seeped through the crack, staining the low clouds in clusters of crimson.
The red deepened.
Brighter.
Brighter still.
As though someone had set a torch to the heavens.
At last, the red-gold glow slowly faded.
And there was a new day.
