[story] the silent city
Sep. 30th, 2007 02:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: tari gwaemir (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tarigwaemir)
email: tarigwaemir [at] gmail.com
They arrived on the outskirts of the town at dawn, as the red sunlight filtered through the dusty haze that covered the flat plains. He lifted a hand, and the traveling party pulled to a halt. He dismounted from his horse and shaded his eyes against the glare. Further along the road he could make out a broken-down wall and the doors of the main gate swinging on their hinges.
"So this--this is Yudu," he murmured, his hand tightening on the reins. Yudu, the place of his exile.
On paper, he had been appointed city magistrate, a position equal if not higher than his previous office as one of the lower-ranked court secretaries. But no court official would consider such an appointment--to a provincial town with no remarkable wealth or resources, far away from the capital or any seat of power--as anything other than a political defeat. He had been soundly outmaneuvered by his enemies. A promising career crushed before he could even attempt to achieve the least of his ambitions.
A few fields, a scattering of farmers' cottages, a town so old and small that it looked like an old beggar woman sitting by the edge of the road. His new home, for the forseeable future. He tried not to feel despair.
He first saw it that evening, after his servants had finished hauling and unpacking his trunks. The magistrate's mansion had proven to house several spacious rooms, much to his surprise, as well as two inner courtyards, one with an overgrown private garden. The building was old and poorly maintained; the west wing was contaminated with mold and unsuitable for habitation. But the rest of the house was more comfortable than he had expected, and he settled into his new quarters with a reluctant nod of approval.
"When will the Lord Magistrate take his dinner?" asked one of his servants from outside the door.
"At sunset. Bring the meal to me in my rooms."
He wandered through his quarters, memorizing the layout of the rooms. He slid open a door and blinked. It opened out onto a wide road paved with smooth stones. It seemed empty at first, but when he stepped into the street, he saw that not far up ahead, it was lined with colorful booths and tents on either side, with people passing busily with mysterious bundles under their arms or pushing carts piled high with goods.
But they were strangely quiet. He approached the open market, straining to hear the sounds of haggling merchants, squeaking wheels, shuffling feet--even the noise of many people breathing--but he heard nothing. As he reached the first booth, the vendor sitting on the ground next to a collection finely woven carpets made a gesture of obeisance but did not speak. He nodded back and continued walking, observing the merchandise on display: intricate vases carved in every imaginable shade of jade, fox-hair brushes ranging in size from his little finger to his entire arm, incense whose scents mingled in dizzying combinations that left him lightheaded, long scrolls of expensive paper with veins of gold and silver in their mesh.
He stopped a wooden stall serving small fried delicacies and found himself hungry. "How much?" he asked the girl sitting at the makeshift stove. She looked up at him and smiled, but did not answer.
"Lord Magistrate? Your dinner is ready!" He turned around at the call.
The road, the market, the people around him vanished. He was standing in the middle of the garden, his slippers ruined from the dirt. His servant was leaning out of the door, looking at him anxiously. The sun, indeed, was setting.
He coughed and straightened. "I will have my dinner in this garden."
The visions--hallucinations?--would come upon him at unpredictable times. He would be listening with half an ear to a dispute over land between two peasants, and suddenly find himself in the middle of a grand pagoda, with lofty ceilings painted in red and blue murals depicting scenes from the life of the Buddha. Or he would be sitting in his sedan, dozing as he traveled to a banquet being given by the local tax collector, when he would jerk awake at the sight of an even grander sedan chair passing in the opposite direction, carried on the shoulders of men dressed in archaic clothing. As the window passed, he would glimpse the long-bearded occupant of the other chair make a small bow of acknowledgment--and he would bow back despite knowing that no such person lived in the town.
Once, he persuaded his servant to let him walk alone to the town market. It was a small, noisy affair, with gossiping women selling surplus fruits and vegetables to one another. He stopped in his tracks though when the market suddenly disappeared, changing abruptly into a performance stage, where he was standing front and center above an audience. They seemed to be cheering and clapping although he heard no sound. Around him, actors dressed in bright costumes--some with masks of demonic faces, others wearing the elaborate makeup of courtesans--circled around him with mock swords in their hands. Their every gesture was graceful and poised, the sign of years of practice, and they whirled their swords above his head without touching a single hair. He looked around helplessly, not knowing what to do, as they danced their slow stately dance around him in complete silence.
Another time, he looked up from his correspondence to find someone sitting across from him, dressed in scholarly robes. "Who are you?" he asked the stranger, but the man only gathered up his sleeve, took up a brush, and proceeded to write a poem in loose, flowing calligraphy down the blank scroll. It was in a style popular several hundred years ago, although it had fallen out of favor now. The man did not respond until he had lifted his brush from the last character in the poem.
"Who are you?"
The man--the poet--smiled and gestured at the finished poem, the ink still wet on the paper. His mouth opened and formed words that emitted no sound.
"Who are you? Why can I see but not hear you?"
The poet continued to smile as he slowly vanished.
"You have a guest, Lord Magistrate."
His hand jerked, and he set down the brush with a sigh. "Who is it?"
"A certain Lord Xu of Jingzhou. He claims to be a close friend. Shall I announce that you are not at home."
"Xu? Xu Fengzhi? Surely not... send him." He carefully lifted the paper--still wet with ink--and placed it to the side of his desk.
The doors opened and closed noisily. "Dear friend! I can barely recognize your face, it has been so many months since we've last met."
He looked up and stared at the familiar face of Fengzhi blankly before standing to embrace him. "Fengzhi! So it is you. What are you doing in these godforsaken parts?"
"Passing through, just passing through. The Emperor has seen fit to order me to represent his interests to the western barbarians." Fengzhi gave a wry smile. "The Minister of the Left believes that scattering his enemies to the far corners of the world will secure him his position. A sound strategy, I'm afraid."
"So I am not the only one to be exiled."
"No. But do not lose hope." Fengzhi leaned in and whispered, "Lord Ren has sided with our faction, after the insult to his cousin. The Minister of the Left has made his first error in judgment. If we manage to secure another ear in the high ranks of the court...who knows? I may be back in the capital within a year. You, perhaps even sooner. Our friends at court have not forgotten you."
"A year?" He glanced involuntarily at the half-finished painting he had set aside. Fengzhi followed his glance.
"What's this? Have you taken up art as consolation?"
"It's nothing," he said quickly and folded over the paper. "Simply an attempt to amuse myself in my leisure time."
Fengzhi snorted and got up to his feet. "Well, better days are ahead, my friend. You won't need to wither away in this nameless town much longer."
"Won't you stay the night? There is plenty of room--"
"I am escorted by the Minister's guards. I must be on my way." Fengzhi sighed. "Letters are unsafe, so I will not write to you. But watch for news from the capital."
He nodded and watched his friend leave. Then he returned to his room and unfolded the painting. It was spoiled of course: the ink had smeared and spread, rendering his lines unrecognizable.
In one corner, the faint outlines of a bamboo garden.
At the center, the peak of the great pagoda where monks rang a silent gong when the sun rose.
Not far from the pagoda, the theater where he had once abruptly found himself interrupting a performance.
Upward from the garden, the market with its fine luxury goods, made by talented artisans and sold by wealthy merchants.
A city, he thought, and a silent one. The architecture, the clothing, all from a long-gone age. How to decipher this mystery? Would a year be enough time to uncover the answer?
"The Lord Magistrate is ill," whispered the servants to each other.
"He goes wandering about into strange alleys and looks confused when we come running to find him.
"He stays awake late into the night, burning candles down to their stub, muttering to himself. In the morning his eyes are red, and the floor is covered with unfinished paintings.
"He does not answer when we speak to him but says strange things out loud to the empty air. He never looks you in the eyes but is always staring off into the distance.
"He must be ill," they whispered. Some even added, "No, he must be mad."
They confined him to his bed when he fainted while interrogating a petty thief who had been caught pickpocketing. The thief took the opportunity to escape in the confusion, while the servants helped the magistrate back to his bed and called for the town doctor.
"He has been possessed by malicious spirits," was the doctor's diagnosis. "The fever, the fatigue, the bloodshot eyes--"
"I am not possessed," he protested but at that moment he caught a glimpse of a beautiful pavilion where a lovely woman sat with a zither in her lap. She lifted her hands and plucked the strings. A vibrant chord rang in the air.
He sat up. "I hear it!"
The doctor frowned. "What do you mean, Lord Magistrate?"
"I hear it--the woman playing the zither--I hear the sound! What could it mean?" He attempted to stand although his servants restrained him.
"Your condition is more grave than I suspected." The doctor turned to rewrite his prescription. "Give him this medicine instead, twice a day."
The woman slowly met his eyes, a piercing glance from beneath her lowered lashes, and plucked the zither again: another shimmering, golden note hanging in the air.
He asked, half-hypnotized by her steady, half-lidded gaze, "Who are you, madam? And why do I keep having visions of your city?"
"Listen! To the lament of Yudu!" She proceeded to play a haunting song, the rise and fall of its melancholy arpeggios bringing tears to his eyes.
She sang,
"The poem that I saw written by the gentleman in my room!"
She nodded and ended the song with one lingering note, trembling as it faded back into silence.
"What do you want of me?" he asked.
"Lord Magistrate, please come to your senses," his servant pleaded, but he no longer saw anything but the woman.
"To remember this city. What Yudu once was--and could be again." She began to fade.
"Wait! This is Yudu? This city?"
He saw her nod as she disappeared.
The messenger arrived from the capital six months later. "I bear news from the palace, Lord Magistrate. You have been asked to return to the capital, to take your place at court as secretary to Lord Ren. May I offer my congratulations?"
He blinked. "I did not expect the summons to come so quickly."
The messenger smiled and leaned in close to murmur, "The former Minister of the Left has been declared a traitor and imprisoned. The members of his faction have either resigned their office or been exiled. You will find many friends at court, Lord Secretary."
"Is this an imperial summons?"
"Pardon?"
"My new appointment as Lord Ren's secretary--"
"Here is the imperial decree, requesting your presence at the palace." The messenger handed him a scroll.
He broke the seal and read through it quickly. "I see."
"I have been asked to escort you back to the capital at your convenience."
He closed the scroll and tapped it against his hand, staring out past his open door. "Tell me, what do you see out here?"
The messenger glanced outside briefly. "The inner courtyard of your mansion, Lord Secretary."
"Nothing else?"
"Pardon?"
"When I look outside," he said dreamily, "when I look outside, I see a bamboo grove next to a small stream, over which arches a delicate red bridge. On that bridge stand two lovers--the young man still beardless, the young woman hidden behind a veil--watching the dragonflies humming over the water. There are lotuses blooming in the shade of the bridge in white and pink, floating amidst fallen bamboo leaves--"
"Sir?"
"You don't see any of it, do you?" He sighed and handed the scroll back. "Send Lord Ren my gratitude, and tell him that I will be staying in Yudu."
The messenger stared at him for a confused moment then took the scroll. He bowed and backed away.
the end
tarigwaemir)email: tarigwaemir [at] gmail.com
They arrived on the outskirts of the town at dawn, as the red sunlight filtered through the dusty haze that covered the flat plains. He lifted a hand, and the traveling party pulled to a halt. He dismounted from his horse and shaded his eyes against the glare. Further along the road he could make out a broken-down wall and the doors of the main gate swinging on their hinges.
"So this--this is Yudu," he murmured, his hand tightening on the reins. Yudu, the place of his exile.
On paper, he had been appointed city magistrate, a position equal if not higher than his previous office as one of the lower-ranked court secretaries. But no court official would consider such an appointment--to a provincial town with no remarkable wealth or resources, far away from the capital or any seat of power--as anything other than a political defeat. He had been soundly outmaneuvered by his enemies. A promising career crushed before he could even attempt to achieve the least of his ambitions.
A few fields, a scattering of farmers' cottages, a town so old and small that it looked like an old beggar woman sitting by the edge of the road. His new home, for the forseeable future. He tried not to feel despair.
He first saw it that evening, after his servants had finished hauling and unpacking his trunks. The magistrate's mansion had proven to house several spacious rooms, much to his surprise, as well as two inner courtyards, one with an overgrown private garden. The building was old and poorly maintained; the west wing was contaminated with mold and unsuitable for habitation. But the rest of the house was more comfortable than he had expected, and he settled into his new quarters with a reluctant nod of approval.
"When will the Lord Magistrate take his dinner?" asked one of his servants from outside the door.
"At sunset. Bring the meal to me in my rooms."
He wandered through his quarters, memorizing the layout of the rooms. He slid open a door and blinked. It opened out onto a wide road paved with smooth stones. It seemed empty at first, but when he stepped into the street, he saw that not far up ahead, it was lined with colorful booths and tents on either side, with people passing busily with mysterious bundles under their arms or pushing carts piled high with goods.
But they were strangely quiet. He approached the open market, straining to hear the sounds of haggling merchants, squeaking wheels, shuffling feet--even the noise of many people breathing--but he heard nothing. As he reached the first booth, the vendor sitting on the ground next to a collection finely woven carpets made a gesture of obeisance but did not speak. He nodded back and continued walking, observing the merchandise on display: intricate vases carved in every imaginable shade of jade, fox-hair brushes ranging in size from his little finger to his entire arm, incense whose scents mingled in dizzying combinations that left him lightheaded, long scrolls of expensive paper with veins of gold and silver in their mesh.
He stopped a wooden stall serving small fried delicacies and found himself hungry. "How much?" he asked the girl sitting at the makeshift stove. She looked up at him and smiled, but did not answer.
"Lord Magistrate? Your dinner is ready!" He turned around at the call.
The road, the market, the people around him vanished. He was standing in the middle of the garden, his slippers ruined from the dirt. His servant was leaning out of the door, looking at him anxiously. The sun, indeed, was setting.
He coughed and straightened. "I will have my dinner in this garden."
The visions--hallucinations?--would come upon him at unpredictable times. He would be listening with half an ear to a dispute over land between two peasants, and suddenly find himself in the middle of a grand pagoda, with lofty ceilings painted in red and blue murals depicting scenes from the life of the Buddha. Or he would be sitting in his sedan, dozing as he traveled to a banquet being given by the local tax collector, when he would jerk awake at the sight of an even grander sedan chair passing in the opposite direction, carried on the shoulders of men dressed in archaic clothing. As the window passed, he would glimpse the long-bearded occupant of the other chair make a small bow of acknowledgment--and he would bow back despite knowing that no such person lived in the town.
Once, he persuaded his servant to let him walk alone to the town market. It was a small, noisy affair, with gossiping women selling surplus fruits and vegetables to one another. He stopped in his tracks though when the market suddenly disappeared, changing abruptly into a performance stage, where he was standing front and center above an audience. They seemed to be cheering and clapping although he heard no sound. Around him, actors dressed in bright costumes--some with masks of demonic faces, others wearing the elaborate makeup of courtesans--circled around him with mock swords in their hands. Their every gesture was graceful and poised, the sign of years of practice, and they whirled their swords above his head without touching a single hair. He looked around helplessly, not knowing what to do, as they danced their slow stately dance around him in complete silence.
Another time, he looked up from his correspondence to find someone sitting across from him, dressed in scholarly robes. "Who are you?" he asked the stranger, but the man only gathered up his sleeve, took up a brush, and proceeded to write a poem in loose, flowing calligraphy down the blank scroll. It was in a style popular several hundred years ago, although it had fallen out of favor now. The man did not respond until he had lifted his brush from the last character in the poem.
Forest gives way to snow,
Mist dissolves into bright air.
Below, the whole world shrinks,
Yet sky has grown no nearer.
"Who are you?"
The man--the poet--smiled and gestured at the finished poem, the ink still wet on the paper. His mouth opened and formed words that emitted no sound.
"Who are you? Why can I see but not hear you?"
The poet continued to smile as he slowly vanished.
"You have a guest, Lord Magistrate."
His hand jerked, and he set down the brush with a sigh. "Who is it?"
"A certain Lord Xu of Jingzhou. He claims to be a close friend. Shall I announce that you are not at home."
"Xu? Xu Fengzhi? Surely not... send him." He carefully lifted the paper--still wet with ink--and placed it to the side of his desk.
The doors opened and closed noisily. "Dear friend! I can barely recognize your face, it has been so many months since we've last met."
He looked up and stared at the familiar face of Fengzhi blankly before standing to embrace him. "Fengzhi! So it is you. What are you doing in these godforsaken parts?"
"Passing through, just passing through. The Emperor has seen fit to order me to represent his interests to the western barbarians." Fengzhi gave a wry smile. "The Minister of the Left believes that scattering his enemies to the far corners of the world will secure him his position. A sound strategy, I'm afraid."
"So I am not the only one to be exiled."
"No. But do not lose hope." Fengzhi leaned in and whispered, "Lord Ren has sided with our faction, after the insult to his cousin. The Minister of the Left has made his first error in judgment. If we manage to secure another ear in the high ranks of the court...who knows? I may be back in the capital within a year. You, perhaps even sooner. Our friends at court have not forgotten you."
"A year?" He glanced involuntarily at the half-finished painting he had set aside. Fengzhi followed his glance.
"What's this? Have you taken up art as consolation?"
"It's nothing," he said quickly and folded over the paper. "Simply an attempt to amuse myself in my leisure time."
Fengzhi snorted and got up to his feet. "Well, better days are ahead, my friend. You won't need to wither away in this nameless town much longer."
"Won't you stay the night? There is plenty of room--"
"I am escorted by the Minister's guards. I must be on my way." Fengzhi sighed. "Letters are unsafe, so I will not write to you. But watch for news from the capital."
He nodded and watched his friend leave. Then he returned to his room and unfolded the painting. It was spoiled of course: the ink had smeared and spread, rendering his lines unrecognizable.
In one corner, the faint outlines of a bamboo garden.
At the center, the peak of the great pagoda where monks rang a silent gong when the sun rose.
Not far from the pagoda, the theater where he had once abruptly found himself interrupting a performance.
Upward from the garden, the market with its fine luxury goods, made by talented artisans and sold by wealthy merchants.
A city, he thought, and a silent one. The architecture, the clothing, all from a long-gone age. How to decipher this mystery? Would a year be enough time to uncover the answer?
"The Lord Magistrate is ill," whispered the servants to each other.
"He goes wandering about into strange alleys and looks confused when we come running to find him.
"He stays awake late into the night, burning candles down to their stub, muttering to himself. In the morning his eyes are red, and the floor is covered with unfinished paintings.
"He does not answer when we speak to him but says strange things out loud to the empty air. He never looks you in the eyes but is always staring off into the distance.
"He must be ill," they whispered. Some even added, "No, he must be mad."
They confined him to his bed when he fainted while interrogating a petty thief who had been caught pickpocketing. The thief took the opportunity to escape in the confusion, while the servants helped the magistrate back to his bed and called for the town doctor.
"He has been possessed by malicious spirits," was the doctor's diagnosis. "The fever, the fatigue, the bloodshot eyes--"
"I am not possessed," he protested but at that moment he caught a glimpse of a beautiful pavilion where a lovely woman sat with a zither in her lap. She lifted her hands and plucked the strings. A vibrant chord rang in the air.
He sat up. "I hear it!"
The doctor frowned. "What do you mean, Lord Magistrate?"
"I hear it--the woman playing the zither--I hear the sound! What could it mean?" He attempted to stand although his servants restrained him.
"Your condition is more grave than I suspected." The doctor turned to rewrite his prescription. "Give him this medicine instead, twice a day."
The woman slowly met his eyes, a piercing glance from beneath her lowered lashes, and plucked the zither again: another shimmering, golden note hanging in the air.
He asked, half-hypnotized by her steady, half-lidded gaze, "Who are you, madam? And why do I keep having visions of your city?"
"Listen! To the lament of Yudu!" She proceeded to play a haunting song, the rise and fall of its melancholy arpeggios bringing tears to his eyes.
She sang,
"Forest gives way to snow,
Mist dissolves into bright air.
Below, the whole world shrinks,
Yet sky has grown no nearer."
"The poem that I saw written by the gentleman in my room!"
She nodded and ended the song with one lingering note, trembling as it faded back into silence.
"What do you want of me?" he asked.
"Lord Magistrate, please come to your senses," his servant pleaded, but he no longer saw anything but the woman.
"To remember this city. What Yudu once was--and could be again." She began to fade.
"Wait! This is Yudu? This city?"
He saw her nod as she disappeared.
The messenger arrived from the capital six months later. "I bear news from the palace, Lord Magistrate. You have been asked to return to the capital, to take your place at court as secretary to Lord Ren. May I offer my congratulations?"
He blinked. "I did not expect the summons to come so quickly."
The messenger smiled and leaned in close to murmur, "The former Minister of the Left has been declared a traitor and imprisoned. The members of his faction have either resigned their office or been exiled. You will find many friends at court, Lord Secretary."
"Is this an imperial summons?"
"Pardon?"
"My new appointment as Lord Ren's secretary--"
"Here is the imperial decree, requesting your presence at the palace." The messenger handed him a scroll.
He broke the seal and read through it quickly. "I see."
"I have been asked to escort you back to the capital at your convenience."
He closed the scroll and tapped it against his hand, staring out past his open door. "Tell me, what do you see out here?"
The messenger glanced outside briefly. "The inner courtyard of your mansion, Lord Secretary."
"Nothing else?"
"Pardon?"
"When I look outside," he said dreamily, "when I look outside, I see a bamboo grove next to a small stream, over which arches a delicate red bridge. On that bridge stand two lovers--the young man still beardless, the young woman hidden behind a veil--watching the dragonflies humming over the water. There are lotuses blooming in the shade of the bridge in white and pink, floating amidst fallen bamboo leaves--"
"Sir?"
"You don't see any of it, do you?" He sighed and handed the scroll back. "Send Lord Ren my gratitude, and tell him that I will be staying in Yudu."
The messenger stared at him for a confused moment then took the scroll. He bowed and backed away.
the end
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