LingZi

Chapter Three · Family

Chu Wenyuan swept the last leaf against the wall. The sun had climbed directly overhead.

The yard was an oven. Chu Wenyuan leaned the broom against the wall, went to the well, cranked up a bucket of water, scooped some with a ladle and drank two gulps. Then he draped himself over the well's edge, his entire upper body hanging over the opening—the cool air rising from the bottom hit his face. The only comfortable spot in the whole yard.

"Move." Jiang Li's voice came from beside him.

"I was here first."

"You've been lying there for a quarter of an hour."

"I'm staying for another quarter."

"Chu Wenyuan, don't make me push you in."

Chu Wenyuan turned his head to look at her. Jiang Li was standing beside him—ponytail drooping, face covered in sweat, hands on her hips.

"Try it," Chu Wenyuan said.

Jiang Li reached out and pushed him—not hard, but he wasn't braced for it. His upper body pitched toward the well opening. He caught the rim just in time, and swore.

"You actually pushed me."

"What did you expect?"

Jiang Li draped herself over the well's edge. The cool air hit her face. She let out a long breath. "Nice."

Chu Wenyuan stood beside her, watching her hang over the rim exactly the way he had.

"You even copied my pose," he said.

"You think you're worth copying?"

They glared at each other for a moment, then both looked across the yard. Pei Qian was sitting on a low stool outside the dining hall, a book open on his knees. One hand turned pages. The other pressed against his stomach—he hadn't eaten anything all morning and was probably hungry. He read a page, pressed his stomach, read a page, pressed again.

In the far corner by the wall, Xuan was doing push-ups. Everyone else was hiding from the heat. Only he was doing push-ups.

Xuan—no surname, or rather, nobody knew his surname. The quietest one in the orphanage. Three months after Chu Wenyuan had arrived, a Yuan government official brought him to the gate of Yuan'en Hall, exchanged a few words with Tao An, and left. Never came back. Tao An had never spoken of what those words were.

Xuan didn't look like the other kids in the yard, either. His skin was paler than most Yuan people, his eye sockets set deeper. For as long as Chu Wenyuan could remember, the boy had looked like the westerners drawn in books. He'd asked Tao An once. Tao An said "I don't know" and that was the end of it.

Xuan rarely spoke. He did three things: eat, train, sleep. Every day, the same. Push-ups, pull-ups, horse stance, running—dawn to dark. On the hottest day of summer, while everyone else was gasping over the well, he was in the corner doing push-ups, his sweat darkening a patch of earth beneath him.

"One hundred." Xuan counted aloud, then continued.

Jiang Li raised her head from the well and glanced at him. "Freak."

Xuan ignored her.

"One hundred and one. One hundred and two."

Chu Wenyuan leaned against the well frame, watching him.

"How many has he done today?" Chu Wenyuan asked Jiang Li.

"He was already going when I left this morning," Jiang Li said. "A thousand, at least."

"Damn."

A while later, noise came from the dining hall. Auntie Liu, the cook, was calling out: "Food's ready!"

Little ones began appearing from every corner of the yard. Three small boys tumbled out of the boys' dormitory. Two small girls emerged from the girls' side. A few even smaller ones sat up from the shade of the tree against the far wall, where they'd been napping.

At lunch the four of them sat together. Same as always—rough rice, stir-fried cabbage, and tofu. But today Auntie Liu had added salt pork to the cabbage. A rare upgrade.

"Meat!" When Pei Qian unearthed a slice of salt pork from under the cabbage, his eyes lit up like he'd struck gold.

"There's barely any—go easy." Chu Wenyuan blocked him with a chopstick.

"Just one piece." Pei Qian popped a slice into his mouth. Two chews, and he was already digging under the cabbage for another. "One more."

"You—"

"Last one!"

Jiang Li's chopsticks reached across the table and plucked the third slice from right where Pei Qian was about to grab it. His chopsticks snapped shut on air. He looked up and glared at her.

Jiang Li put the salt pork in her mouth, chewed twice, and stared back. "What are you looking at me for?"

"That was mine!"

"Yesterday—" Jiang Li's chopstick pointed at a seven-year-old boy sitting beside them. "You took a piece of tofu from his bowl."

"He wasn't going to eat it."

"So if he's not eating it, you just take it?"

Pei Qian's mouth moved twice. Nothing came out. He dropped his head and shoveled a mouthful of rice—shoveled hard. Several grains flew out of the bowl.

The small boy looked up at Pei Qian, then at Jiang Li, then lowered his head and went on eating.

Xuan said nothing the whole time. He sat in the farthest corner, head down, demolished three bowls of rice in silence, and left with his bowl when he was done.

After lunch, Chu Wenyuan sat under the scholar tree, leaning against the trunk. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the canopy, flecks of light shifting across his face.

Jiang Li was on the other side of the yard, kicking a shuttlecock with a few of the little ones. Two kicks and it sailed onto the wall. Jiang Li swore. A little girl laughed so hard she crumpled to the ground.

Pei Qian had dragged a low stool to the dining hall doorway, reading again. Turning pages at an even pace, a flicker of purple light jumping from his fingertip now and then.

Chu Wenyuan sat with his eyes closed, back against the tree. He wasn't asleep. He was feeling the thing inside his belly.

The spirit furnace.

Everyone had one. Most people's formed around age eight or nine. But for the vast majority, the furnace was weak. People like Auntie Zhao and Ma Wuye would spend their whole lives doing the bare minimum—warming a steamer, chilling a fish—as natural as breathing and just as ordinary.

Chu Wenyuan's was different.

He couldn't pinpoint when he'd first noticed it. Maybe it was that night when he was eight, lying in his bunk, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, when he suddenly felt something move inside his belly—a sensation of something growing.

He focused his attention inward. Then he felt heat.

A warmth spreading from his abdomen toward his limbs, as if someone had lit a candle inside his stomach. The heat traveled along a path he couldn't name, running toward his hands. When it reached his palms, his palm glowed. A dull red—like a dying ember.

He startled and sat up. The light went out. Pei Qian was sleeping like a log next to him, oblivious.

Afterward he tried many more times. Sometimes it would glow, sometimes it wouldn't. The first few times, the light lasted three or four beats before fading. But he slowly found a pattern: easier when calm, harder when tense. Easier with eyes closed than open.

Now he leaned against the scholar tree, eyes shut, drawing his attention down to his abdomen. The furnace was there—warm, like a bed of glowing coals.

He opened his eyes.

The sunlight stung for a moment. He squinted and looked around the yard. Jiang Li's shuttlecock was still on the wall; she'd gone back to her room. Pei Qian had turned to a new page. The little girl who'd been kicking the shuttlecock was now squatting in the corner drawing in the dirt with a twig.

Chu Wenyuan stood and dusted off his pants.

"Pei Qian!" he called.

"Huh?" Pei Qian looked up from his stool.

"Get the kids together in a bit. We're going to the river for a bath."

"Ugh, it's so hot."

"You coming or not?"

"What about those two?"

Chu Wenyuan glanced toward the girls' dormitory. Door closed.

"Jiang Li!" he shouted in that direction.

No response.

"Jiang Li!!"

The door cracked open. Half of Jiang Li's face appeared through the gap, ponytail crooked, as if she'd just lain down.

"What—"

"River. Let's go."

"It's boiling out. No."

"We're taking the kids for a bath. If you don't come, who's watching the girls?"

Jiang Li yawned. Couldn't come up with a rebuttal. She rubbed her eyes. The door closed. A few beats later it opened again. She stepped out with a handful of hair ties.

"Let's go." Her tone suggested someone owed her money.

Chu Wenyuan looked toward the far corner of the yard. Xuan was still doing push-ups by the wall.

"Xuan."

"One hundred and eighty-three." Xuan didn't look up.

"River."

"No."

"You haven't had water all day."

"One hundred and eighty-four."

Chu Wenyuan watched him for two beats. Didn't push it. Turned to Jiang Li.

Jiang Li was tying her hair. She felt his gaze and her hands stopped. "Why are you looking at me?"

"You go get him."

"Why me?"

"He doesn't listen to me."

"He doesn't listen to me either."

"Try."

Jiang Li finished her hair and glanced at Xuan. Then she walked over to the wall and stood next to him for two beats. Xuan didn't look up. Arms still pumping, up and down.

Jiang Li crouched and pressed one hand down on the back of his right hand, the one braced against the ground.

Xuan's motion stopped. He turned his head and looked at her.

"River," Jiang Li said.

"No."

Jiang Li stood and looked at him for two beats. Xuan didn't look up. Arms resumed, up and down.

She looked back at Chu Wenyuan. He spread his hands.

Jiang Li crouched again. This time she didn't speak. She waited until Xuan completed a rep and pushed up, then extended her right hand—palm down, aimed at the ground beside him.

Her palm glowed faintly red. Sss. The dry earth beneath it scorched. Heat surged up from the ground.

Xuan's right hand was less than half a foot from the focal point. When the wave of heat hit, his fingers flinched.

He looked up at Jiang Li.

"Are you coming or not?" Jiang Li pulled her hand back.

Xuan looked at her for a moment. Then he stood up and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. Didn't say yes, didn't say no—but he walked over to the well, cranked up a bucket, and drank two ladles.

Chu Wenyuan watched Jiang Li walk back.

"How'd you do that?"

Jiang Li ignored him.

Chu Wenyuan turned toward the dormitories and shouted. "Everybody out! River time."

The little ones cheered. Shoes were hunted all over the yard.

Chu Wenyuan had already pulled his shirt off. Jiang Li passed him and threw a glance. "Put that back on!"

"We're not even at the river yet."

"There are people on the street!"

Chu Wenyuan grumbled and pulled it back on.

Thirteen of them filed out of Yuanming Alley onto the street. Chu Wenyuan at the front. Pei Qian at the rear. The little ones in between. Jiang Li walked on the right side of the group—parallel to Chu Wenyuan but two steps away. Xuan walked on the far left, saying nothing.

Out of the alley, across South Bridge, and a short walk west—there was a river bend. The water was shallow; at its deepest it came up to Chu Wenyuan's waist. The bottom was fine sand and pebbles, the water clear enough to see moss on the stones.

"Nobody goes to the deep part." Chu Wenyuan stood on the bank. "You hear me?!"

Nine little ones shouted their acknowledgment and charged into the water. Splashing, shrieking, laughing all at once—spray hit Chu Wenyuan square in the face.

He jumped in right after. His splash reached two zhang.

Xuan stood on the bank, motionless. He watched the little ones thrashing in the water. The sun came in from the west, turning the river surface to gold. The children ran back and forth through the golden light, their shadows stretching long across the sandy bottom.

A little girl ran over and tugged his hand. "Xuan, come play!"

"I don't play."

"You never play."

"You go."

The girl pouted and ran off.

Jiang Li pulled off her shoes and stepped in barefoot. Water to her ankles. She hissed. "Cold."

"A minute ago you were complaining about the heat," Pei Qian said.

"Do you ever shut up?" Jiang Li waded a few more steps in. Water to her calves. She looked down at the pebbles on the bottom, tried to pick one up with her toes. Tried twice. Dropped it.

"Clumsy feet," Pei Qian said.

"Come here. You try."

Pei Qian took off his shoes and waded in. He tried the same pebble with his toes—slippery. Three tries before he got a grip. Raised it above the water. Dropped it.

"Tsk tsk tsk."

In the deeper water, Chu Wenyuan was already fishing by hand. He shoved both arms into the crevices between submerged rocks, groped around for a while, and pulled out a fistful of waterweeds. He looked toward the bank—Pei Qian and Jiang Li were standing in the shallows doing something he couldn't make out. Xuan sat on the bank.

"Xuan!" Chu Wenyuan shouted toward the shore. "Get in here and help me catch fish!"

"No."

"It's shallow! Come on!"

"No."

Chu Wenyuan gave up shouting and plunged his hands back in. This time he found a palm-sized crucian carp. It slipped through his fingers twice before he clamped down on it.

"Got one!" He held the fish up toward the bank. It slapped its tail against his hand, spraying him in the face.

Jiang Li looked up from the shallows. "What are you doing?"

"Grilling it!"

"That tiny thing? Who's it going to feed?"

"Then I'll catch more!"

He ducked back under. Jiang Li watched him from the shallows—the way he crouched in the water, groping for fish, he looked exactly like an eel.

Half an hour later, Chu Wenyuan had caught three: two small crucian carp and a loach. The loach was so slippery he nearly lost it—Jiang Li had to come over and help wrestle it ashore.

Xuan gathered an armful of dead branches from under the willows on the bank and built a rough hearth on the sand.

"You do the honors, Wenyuan—I can't light a fire."

Chu Wenyuan crouched down, right palm facing the kindling. Eyes closed. Two or three beats later, a faint red glow appeared in his palm. It touched the surface of the dry twigs—sss. A wisp of white smoke, then flame.

A few of the little ones gasped.

"Wenyuan is so cool!" A six-year-old girl crouched by the fire, watching.

"That's nothing." Jiang Li held out her right hand from beside him. Her palm glowed too. She touched another pile of twigs—sss. It caught.

The little girl's mouth went round. "Jiang Li can do it too!"

"She learned from me," Chu Wenyuan said.

"Like hell. I taught myself." Jiang Li pulled her hand back.

"Pei Qian!" Chu Wenyuan called, adjusting the kindling.

"What?"

"Go find a flat stone by the river."

Pei Qian grumbled to his feet and headed for the bank. A few steps later he looked back. "Jiang Li, you're not going?"

"You go," Jiang Li said.

He came back a moment later with a palm-sized slab of blue-gray stone.

"Here." He handed it to Chu Wenyuan.

"You clean them."

"I knew it!"

"You found the stone, you clean the fish."

"I've never cleaned a fish."

"Learn."

Pei Qian looked at the three fish on the ground. The two carp were still flapping. The loach had curled up and gone still.

"Wenyuan."

"What?"

"I get dizzy when I see blood."

"Bullshit. You were squatting right there watching Ma Wuye gut fish last time."

"That was watching," Pei Qian said. "Doing it yourself is different."

Chu Wenyuan took the stone slab from his hand and slit the first carp's belly in one stroke. Guts bulged from the cut. Pei Qian took a step back.

"Watch carefully." Chu Wenyuan said. "Slit from below the gills to the tail. Stop when you hit bone."

"Okay."

"Next one's yours."

"What?!"

Chu Wenyuan handed him the stone. Pei Qian took it, crouched, and faced the second carp. The fish flapped its tail. Pei Qian's hand shook with it.

"Hurry up."

Pei Qian closed one eye and made a cut. Missed—sliced into the fish's back. The fish thrashed in pain and jumped half a foot.

"s**t!"

The little ones burst out laughing.

"Who closes their eyes to gut a fish?" Chu Wenyuan said.

"I'm a little scared of fish."

"Are you even a boy?"

Jiang Li crouched over and snatched the stone from Pei Qian's hand. Two strokes—the carp was open. One more—the loach was done.

"Watch your fire," she said, handing the stone back to Chu Wenyuan.

Pei Qian stood to the side, looked down at the blood on his hands, hissed, and bolted to the river to wash them.

Chu Wenyuan glanced at him. Said nothing.

Jiang Li snapped a few long branches off a tree, whittled them, and skewered the fish.

Fish went over the fire. Oil sizzled and spat. The smell drifted out, and Pei Qian—freshly washed hands and all—came back with three small boys in tow, crowding in.

"No salt," Pei Qian said.

"Deal with it," Chu Wenyuan said, turning the fish.

"You said 'deal with it' last time too, and I had diarrhea for two days."

"That was because it wasn't cooked through. Longer this time."

"How do you know—"

"Shut up—are you eating or not?!"

Pei Qian closed his mouth.

The fish was done—golden brown. Without salt it was bland, true, but there was a clean sweetness from the river fish mixed with the woody fragrance of the fire.

Chu Wenyuan took the fish off the flame and cut them into pieces with the stone slab. The little ones got theirs first—a small piece each. The rest went to the four of them.

He took the biggest piece, chewed twice. "Good."

"You eat like a dog." Jiang Li took a piece, nibbling in small bites.

Pei Qian took the smallest piece and ate cautiously, checking after every bite whether it was cooked through.

Xuan stood nearby. Chu Wenyuan handed him a piece. Xuan took it. Looked at it for a beat. Chewed once. Didn't say it was good. Didn't say it wasn't.

Four eleven-year-olds and a crowd of five- and six-year-olds sat by the river eating grilled fish. The sun had shifted from overhead toward the west. The light on the water turned from gold to burnt orange. A waterbird came gliding from the distance, its wingtip brushing the surface now and then.

"Next time we catch more," Chu Wenyuan said, l*****g fish oil from his fingers.

"Next time, bring salt," Pei Qian said.

"Where am I supposed to get salt?"

"Isn't there some in the kitchen?"

"Last time I took a pinch, Auntie Liu chased me down the entire street. With a winnowing basket. Swinging."

Jiang Li snorted.

Xuan sat a little apart. He finished his piece and arranged the bones one by one on the rock beside him, perfectly aligned.

He leaned against a willow and watched them talk. Chu Wenyuan was acting out Auntie Liu chasing him. Pei Qian was gnawing the loach. Jiang Li was laughing.

The sun kept sinking. The burnt orange on the river turned to red. The little ones were played out, climbing from the water one by one, shaking themselves dry on the grass. When Chu Wenyuan came out, he was soaked through, clothes plastered to his body. He pulled his shirt off and wrung it out—water poured.

"Put it on." Jiang Li said from beside him.

"Let it dry first."

"The girls are right there. Put it on."

Chu Wenyuan glanced at the little girls nearby. "Oh." He pulled it back on.

Jiang Li counted heads. One, two, three—nine. All there.

"Let's go. Dinner."

The group walked back the way they came. The setting sun stretched everyone's shadow long. Thirteen shadows linked together, swaying across the flagstones.

At South Bridge, Chu Wenyuan stopped again. He leaned on the railing and looked down. The river water had turned deep red—nothing like the morning. The stones on the bottom were invisible now. Only the light on the surface, shifting.

"Wenyuan! Come on!" A little one called from ahead.

"Coming!" He straightened up and turned and walked.

By the time they got back to Yuan'en Hall, the sky was nearly dark. Auntie Liu had dinner laid out in the hall. Rough rice and stir-fried cabbage again, but tonight there was an extra plate of sautéed r****h.

"Where'd the r****h come from?" Chu Wenyuan's eyes lit up.

"The director bought it," Auntie Liu said. "Said you all went for a bath today."

Chu Wenyuan looked toward the director's office. Door closed. Lamplight leaking through the c***k.

Thirteen people finished dinner. Auntie Liu herded the little ones back to their dorms to wash feet and sleep. The four older ones sat under the scholar tree in the yard.

Stars were out. Yuanzhou's stars weren't much—city lights drowned most of them. But the wind was strong tonight and the clouds were thin. A few bright ones showed.

Chu Wenyuan fished a handful of peanuts from his sleeve and passed some to Jiang Li, then some to Pei Qian and Xuan.

Four of them sat against the tree, cracking peanuts.

"Wenyuan," Pei Qian said, chewing.

"Mm."

"What do you think we'll do? You know—later."

"What do you mean, later?"

"When we grow up. Once you're an adult, you have to leave the orphanage. That's two years away."

Chu Wenyuan didn't answer. He crushed a peanut shell and tossed it on the ground.

"I want to take the spirit license exam," Pei Qian said.

"You?" Jiang Li looked up.

"Yeah."

"You can't even kill a fish, and you want to be a spirit warrior."

"Killing fish and being a spirit warrior are different things," Pei Qian pushed his glasses up. "Being a spirit warrior takes other skills."

"Learn to hold a blade steady first."

"..."

"And you can't do any spirit arts," Jiang Li said.

"I'm practicing."

"Practicing what?"

"Thunder lingzi." Pei Qian's finger moved—a hair-thin arc of purple electricity jumped from his fingertip. "I can write with it now."

Jiang Li looked at him. Chu Wenyuan looked at him.

"When did you start?" Chu Wenyuan asked.

"Couple of months ago."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You didn't ask."

Chu Wenyuan shoved the side of his head. The glasses went crooked again.

"From now on, tell me things."

"Okay."

"What about you, Jiang Li?" Pei Qian turned.

"Same. Spirit license."

"Why?"

"Steady meals."

Chu Wenyuan smiled.

A while later. "Xuan, what about you?" Jiang Li turned.

Xuan didn't look up. He was shelling peanuts—more neatly than anyone—the shells lined up one by one beside his knee.

"Xuan!"

"Mm."

"What do you want to do when you grow up?"

Xuan put the shelled peanut in his mouth and chewed.

"Don't know."

"Don't know?"

"Mm."

"Then why do you train so hard every day?"

Xuan shelled the last peanut. Added the shell to the row.

"Some other time," he said.

Jiang Li let it go.

A few beats later. "What about you, Wenyuan?" Pei Qian asked.

Chu Wenyuan leaned against the trunk, looking up. The moon showed through the gaps in the scholar tree's branches—not quite full. A piece was missing.

"Don't know."

"You don't know either?"

"Nope."

"Liar."

Chu Wenyuan tossed the last peanut into his mouth. It was a little stale.

"Bedtime," he said, standing up.

"But you didn't—"

"Enough. Sleep."

The three boys went back to their dormitory. The room was small—four plank beds jammed together. Chu Wenyuan and Pei Qian against the wall, Xuan by the window. The outermost bed was empty.

Xuan pulled off his jacket, folded it neatly at the head of his bed, turned to face the wall, and within five beats his breathing had gone deep.

Pei Qian was slow. First he took off his glasses and wiped them twice, then placed them beside his pillow in the exact right spot—nudged up an inch, back down half an inch, adjusted until he was satisfied. Then he pulled the book he'd been reading from under his arm and slid it beneath the pillow. Finally he set his shoes straight, toes pointing out.

"Still fussing with your stuff," Chu Wenyuan said.

Pei Qian said nothing. He lay down and turned over.

A few beats later he turned back.

"Wenyuan."

"Yeah."

"The door's not shut right."

"It's shut."

"There's a crack."

"Then go close it."

"You go. I just got everything arranged."

Chu Wenyuan grumbled for a few beats, then climbed out of bed anyway, padded barefoot to the door, and pulled it. The door frame was warped—still a c***k. He squeezed it as shut as it would go and went back to bed.

"Did you close it?" Pei Qian asked with his eyes shut.

"Closed. Sleep."

"Okay."

Pei Qian turned to face the wall.

Chu Wenyuan lay there, awake.

He stared at the curtain. It hung slightly open in a few places. Moonlight leaked through the gaps, falling in pale stripes across his blanket.

He raised his right hand. Palm up.

Quiet. Eyes closed.

The spirit furnace stirred in his belly. Heat traveled along that nameless path toward his palm...