"Nine-Stroke Talisman"

The woman stood in the shadow of the doorway. He couldn't see her face clearly. Just the red. Red wool coat. Red scarf. Red lips. She raised her hand and offered him a cloth bundle. 'Book to repair.' Her voice was soft. As if afraid of waking someone. Shen Moyan took the bundle. Unwrapped it. Inside was a damaged ancient text. No cover. The first page half missing. The remaining leaves blackened, edges curled. Like they'd been soaked in water and dried over a fire. He held it up to the light. Managed to make out a few characters: The Supreme Lord says... Violet... Soldier... Protecting the Realm... Demon-Subduing Scripture A string of missing characters in between. He turned to the next page. There were characters, but he couldn't read them. Not Chinese characters. That curling, looping script of Taoist talismanic writing. Cloud-script. He'd seen it in the shop a few times. Old Zhou always said: 'Don't touch that stuff. We can't repair it.' 'This book—' Shen Moyan looked up. He meant to ask about its origins. But the woman was already inside the shop. He froze. The door was locked. He hadn't opened it. The woman stood two paces behind him. Still, he couldn't make out her face. The shop lights were warm yellow. But where she stood, the light seemed to be sucked away. Only a blurred patch of red remained. The chill started at the base of his spine and crept upward. He remembered something Old Zhou once said: 'Our shop's on the lane behind the City God Temple. All sorts of things walk this lane. If someone knocks at night, check if they've got a shadow first.' He didn't dare look at her feet. 'This book,' the woman said again. Her voice just as soft. 'To repair. How much?' Shen Moyan gripped the book. His fingers were stiff. He wanted to give it back. Tell her to leave. But his mouth felt sewn shut. No words came. 'Fifty thousand,' the woman said. 'Repair it well. Fifty thousand.' Fifty thousand. His brain buzzed. After he failed his exams the second time, his mother had called: 'Come home. Take the civil service exam. Stop drifting in Beijing.' He didn't want to go back. But he had three thousand two hundred in his account. Next week's rent was due. Fifty thousand would keep him going for a year. He looked down at the book. No cover. First half missing. But the remaining leaves weren't many. Thirty at most. Paper patching. Stroke reconstruction. New cover. A month's work, maybe. Fifty thousand. Worth it. 'I can do it,' he heard himself say. The woman didn't move. Didn't speak. He forced himself to ask: 'Your name? Leave a number. I'll call when it's done.' 'No need,' the woman said. 'I'll come for it on the fifteenth.' She turned and walked towards the door. Shen Moyan stared at her feet— Red leather shoes. Thin heels. Stepping on the floor tiles. No sound. The door opened. She walked into the night. The red figure grew fainter and fainter. Until it disappeared into the shadow of the old locust tree by the City God Temple. Shen Moyan stood there. Clutching the book. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might jump out of his throat. He looked down at the tiles. Where she'd stood—clean. No footprints. He didn't sleep that night. He turned on every light in the shop. Sat at his workbench. Went through the book a dozen times. The leaves were white hemp paper. Ming Dynasty. He could tell. The ink was old ink. That pine-soot smell. The talismanic parts he couldn't read. But some pages were in standard script. Very neat regular characters. One page read: The Violet Tapestry of Divine Soldiers: Above, it governs the Three Heavens; below, it subdues the Nine Earths. Those who are wicked and rebellious, it slays; those who are demonic and evil, it beheads; those who have** and grievances, it releases; those whose souls are trapped and stagnant, it ferries across... Below that, a list of incantations and talisman forms. Flipping further, he found a page with a talisman drawn on it. Three strokes at the head. Then nothing. Missing pages after. He stared at that talisman for a long time. Three years repairing ancient books. Countless tracings of damaged characters. He had a sensitive eye for brushwork. This talisman's technique was different. The strokes started heavy, ended light. In the middle, a sharp hook. Extremely steep. As if someone had gripped the brush with all their strength. Drawn it through gritted teeth. He turned to the last page. A blank sheet. But held up to the light, there were indentations. Someone had written on the page above. Pressed too hard. The marks had transferred. He passed a pencil lightly over the surface. Characters emerged: ...Nine strokes. Each stroke a trial. When the ninth falls, he who bears the talisman inherits the debts of all who came before... Nothing after that. The next page was torn out. He put down the pencil. His palms were slick with sweat. Inherits the debts of all who came before. What did that mean? He thought of what the woman had said: Repair it well. Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand for a damaged Taoist scripture with this kind of strange writing hidden inside. Did she know it was here, or— Outside, birds were singing. Dawn. He stood up. His legs had gone numb. He locked the book in Old Zhou's safe. Put the key in his pocket. Went out to buy breakfast. The lane was already filling with tourists. Sugar-figure sellers. Calligraphy scroll sellers. Fake antique sellers. Lively. He queued at the pancake stall. Ahead of him, an old man carried a birdcage with a thrush inside. Chirping happily. Normal human world. Normal morning. What happened earlier—probably hallucinations from staying up too late. Right? He bought his pancake. Ate as he walked back. Reached the shop door. Stopped. On the glass door, a handprint. Exactly where the woman had stood the night before. Dark red. Like... blood. He rubbed at it with his sleeve. It didn't come off. He scraped with his fingernail. Got a bit off. Brought it to his nose. No smell. Like something had dried completely. Crusted onto the glass. He took out his phone to photograph it. The phone rang. 'Xiao Shen, close up early today. There's a ritual at the City God Temple tonight. Lots of tourists. Be careful.' Old Zhou. 'Uncle Zhou, the shop door—' 'What about the door?' He looked at the handprint. Looked at the direction of the safe inside the shop. 'Nothing. It's fine. I'll head back early tonight.' He hung up. Stood there. Finished his pancake. The handprint stayed. He pretended not to see it. Seven in the evening. He closed up and headed for the tube station. There was indeed a ritual at the City God Temple entrance. Several Taoist priests in ritual robes. Beating drums and cymbals. A crowd gathered. Shen Moyan squeezed past the edge of the crowd. Heard someone say: 'Today's the fifteenth. The City God goes out on patrol. Blessings and protection for everyone.' 'The fifteenth? Today's the tenth, isn't it?' 'Fifteenth by the solar calendar. Tenth day of the tenth lunar month. That's right.' He stopped walking. The woman had said: I'll come for it on the fifteenth. Today was the tenth. Five days left. He started walking again. Then he was running. For the next five days, Shen Moyan didn't touch that book. He tucked the safe key under his mattress. Went to work normally every day. Repaired other books. Made small talk with tourists. Pretended nothing had happened. But every night when he lay down, those words came back: When the ninth falls, he who bears the talisman inherits the debts of all who came before. He searched online for 'Violet Tapestry of Divine Soldiers'. Got a bunch of Taoist explanations: a Ming Dynasty scripture about the Divine Soldier Exorcism Method. Now lost. He searched for 'Nine-Stroke Talisman'. Nothing. On the night of the fourteenth, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His phone beeped. A text message. Unknown number: Tomorrow night, midnight. I'll come for the book. He stared at the words. His fingers trembled. He called back. Number not in service. He sat up. Turned on the light. Fished the key from under the mattress. Opened the safe. The book was there. He took it out. Turned to the last page. Held it up to the light to see the indentations. When the ninth falls, he who bears the talisman inherits the debts of all who came before... Where the next page had been torn out, a bit of paper fibre remained. He looked closer. There were characters on that torn edge. Not indentations. Written on the margin. Left behind when the page was ripped. A few strokes. First stroke: horizontal. Second stroke: vertical. Third stroke:— He used a magnifying glass. Made out a character: Shen. His hand jerked. Impossible. This book was Ming Dynasty. How could it have his surname? He looked at the next character. It was— Mo. The blood drained from his face. Shen Moyan. His full name. He collapsed into his chair. Mind blank. After a long time, he remembered something: the first page of this book. When the woman handed it to him. The first line he'd seen was The Supreme Lord says... Violet... Soldier... Protecting the Realm... Demon-Subduing Scripture. A string of missing characters in between. Now he knew what was missing. The Supreme Lord says Shen Moyan inherits debts Violet Tapestry Divine Soldiers Protecting the Realm Demon-Subduing Scripture. Fifteenth night. Half past eleven. He sat in the shop. All lights on. The book on his workbench. He'd thought about running. But there was nowhere to run. He'd tried these five days. Bought a train ticket home. Even collected it. But when he reached the ticket gate, his legs gave out. Stayed at a friend's place. But the moment he lay down, he had nightmares. A woman in red standing by his bed. Asking, Is the book repaired? Tonight, he wasn't running anymore. He'd also taken out the Haining County Gazetteer. Opened it to Exemplary Women, page twenty-three. Looked at that handwritten name: Sun. Aged sixteen. Seventeenth day of the third month, fourteenth year of Jiajing. Died by the well. No imperial honour. This Sun—was someone waiting for her debt to be repaid too? The clock on the wall began to strike. Eleven. Twelve— Midnight. The door opened. The woman in red stood in the doorway. Same spot. Same light-sucking darkness. She walked in. This time, he saw her face clearly. Early twenties. Very pale. Slender, elongated eyes. The corners of her mouth slightly upturned. As if smiling. But her eyes were empty. Like two wells. 'Is the book repaired?' she asked. He took a deep breath. Pushed the book towards her. 'It's done. I replaced the missing cover with Qing white cotton paper—close to the original in colour. The missing pages I copied in brush script. The talismanic parts I don't understand. I left them untouched.' She picked up the book. Flipped through it page by page. When she reached the last page, saw the talisman, she stopped. 'You drew this?' 'What?' 'This talisman.' She pointed at the three strokes at the head. The missing part after. 'You completed it?' He shook his head. 'I can't draw the missing talisman. I don't know how.' She stared at him. Those empty eyes suddenly seemed to focus. Travelling from his head to his feet. Then she smiled. 'Of course you can't,' she said. 'You haven't learned yet.' She took something from her pocket and placed it on the table. A stack of notes. Five bundles. Fifty thousand. 'I'll take the book,' she said. She stood up. 'The talisman—you keep.' 'What talisman?'