PD.2.5 (Patreon)

Sleep did not stay.

They had laid a folded mat for him near the hearth, thick blankets over it, a rolled cloth under his head. When he first lay down his ribs complained about every shift. After a while the ache blurred into something steady, a deep line that ran from his chest into his back.

He closed his eyes. Heat from the banked coals touched his face. The room smelled of smoke, flour, and the last of the stew.

He drifted off, woke, drifted again. Sometimes a small sound pulled him up. A board creaked in the bakery below. Mei turned over on her mat near the table. Zhiru’s soft snore fluttered once and went quiet again. Sometimes it was nothing. His body jolted awake on its own when his breath slid deeper than his ribs allowed.

Each time he moved, pain sharpened. He learned to roll to his side first, to brace his arm along his chest before he tried to sit up even halfway. Dead Calm made the edges duller, but it did not erase them. It only kept his thoughts from scattering.

In one of the short sleeps between waking, he heard Biyu rise. Light steps crossed the floor. Cloth rustled near the hearth. Iron scraped softly as she stirred the coals. Orange light pressed red against the backs of his eyelids. A moment later there was the quiet clink of a pot being set closer to the fire.

He cracked his eyes. Biyu, hair braided down her back, set a heavy pot on a low arm of iron beside the firebox. Steam did not rise yet. She listened for a breath, checked the lid, and eased it down until it sat firm.

Rice and water smell crept out anyway. Thin at first. It made him think of the fort’s porridge and also not that at all. That had always been rushed and gray. This sat and waited.

She noticed his half-open eyes and gave him a small nod.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “It'll be ready by morning.”

He let his eyes fall shut again. The pot clicked as it settled. Heat brushed his face. Somewhere in the dark house Dafu coughed once and the sound died again.

The night stretched on. He floated on the edge of sleep, caught between the ache in his ribs and the steady warmth of the coals. When gray seeped through the shutters, he was awake already.

The first real sound was Dafu’s feet on the floorboards. A moment later Biyu stirred. Mei followed. Zhiru muttered in his sleep and rolled, blanket over his head.

Ouz pushed himself up as soon as he heard the first creak of a floorboard. His body moved before his mind caught up. His hand found his ribs. He sat with his back straight, teeth gritted until the wave passed.

Across the room, Dafu was already getting to his feet. The boards under him complained in the half light. He rolled his shoulders once and glanced toward the mat by the hearth and stopped for a heartbeat when he saw Ouz already upright.

“You wake fast,” Dafu said. “That's good for a baker. The dough doesn't care if you want another hour.”

Ouz dipped his head.

“I slept enough,” he said. His voice came out rough. “Thank you for the bed.”

Biyu stood, tying her sleeves back. Mei followed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Biyu crossed to the hearth and knelt. She stirred the coals together with a poker. Warm, low light spilled onto her face.

When Biyu lifted the lid of the pot, thick steam rolled out and fogged the air around her. The smell was rich now. Rice, a little salt, something deeper from long cooking. The grains inside had melted into an even, pale mass that rippled slowly when she stirred.

She ladled it into bowls. Smooth, white, a faint sheen on top where the starch had risen. She added a splash from a small jar to each serving. Soy. The scent cut through the air and settled low in his stomach.

They sat on low stools. Zhiru did not sit up until Dafu called his name twice. The boy stumbled to his place, hair sticking up, eyes half shut.

“Eat slowly,” Biyu said. “You’ll burn your tongue.”

Ouz wrapped his fingers around the warm bowl. The heat soaked into his skin and up his arms. For a moment he only watched the surface tremble with his breath.

At the fort they had called it porridge. Broken grains boiled until they swam in cloudy water. Buckets banged along the tables, ladles thumped, and the stuff hit his bowl in wet clumps. It cooled fast. It always tasted of metal and smoke.

He lifted a spoonful of this and blew on it. The congee moved like silk. When it touched his tongue, it spread and clung and slid down in one easy line. There was no hard center to bite around. Salt and the dark sauce Biyu had added met halfway and turned into something new.

He took another careful mouthful. His ribs complained about how he leaned, but his stomach woke and answered.

Dafu’s bowl was already half empty.

“Good,” Dafu said. “This will sit in your belly all morning. Better than walking with only cold air.”

He scraped the last of the congee from his bowl and set it down. For a moment he studied Ouz across the table. His gaze went from the boy’s face to the way he held his side.

“How bad is it now?” Dafu asked.

Ouz checked his own breath.

“It hurts less than yesterday,” he said. “I can stand on my own. I can carry small things.”

Dafu snorted.

“Small things don’t keep a bakery open,” he said. “Customers will come soon. We need wood in the oven and dough on the boards, not a boy who can’t lift a sack.”

He was quiet for a moment, hand on the table, thumb rubbing a small groove in the wood.

“Last night I told you the temple can look at that fog in your head,” Dafu said. “They can look at your ribs too. If they say you are fine, come back and I’ll put you to work before the second bell. If they say rest, you rest. A hand that breaks twice is no use to anyone.”

Ouz looked down at the empty bowl in his hands. The porridge’s warmth still sat low inside him.

“I can go,” he said.

Biyu reached for his bowl.

“People start coming for bread and buns as soon as the first light hits the street,” Dafu said. “If we keep the door closed, they go to another oven and they may not come back. Go out our door and turn left. Follow the street until you see the tall bell tower. The temple sits under it. Even a stranger can find it.”

“Yes,” Ouz said.

“Good,” Dafu replied. “If you lose the way, ask a street seller how to reach the temple under the bell tower. Anyone in Shan-He can point you there.”

He pushed his stool back and stood.

“Finish eating,” he said. “Take your cloak and your knife. You came in with both. You leave with both.”

Biyu’s eyes flicked to Ouz at the word knife, but she said nothing. Mei only slurped her congee and bumped shoulders with Zhiru when he tried to copy.

Ouz finished the last spoonful, swallowed, and felt it travel past the bruise in his chest. It hurt, but less. The line of pain had thinned.

He thanked Biyu again and got to his feet. Moving too fast made his ribs complain, so he took the stairs one careful step at a time down to the shop. The air there was colder. The big oven stood black and silent, mouth open. Rows of paddles leaned against the wall. Flour dust rested in the seams between boards, pale in the dim.

Near the door, his cloak still lay where he had left it the night before, draped over the knife. He lifted the cloak and checked the blade. No one had moved it. He slid the knife back into its sheath at his belt. The weight at his hip felt out of place in this warm house of bread. He swung the cloak over his shoulders, fastened it, and stepped out into the street.

The morning was still soft. Sky pale, roofs edged in frost. Smoke rose from scattered chimneys, thin at first. The breath of the city had shifted up a little since yesterday. It no longer hit him all at once. He pulled the cloak tight and started north.

Shop fronts wore old ink stains where notices and prayer slips had once been pasted. Scraps of red paper still clung where the paste had not given up, their words long washed away by rain. On one corner, low on the brick, someone had scratched a flower in pale chalk lines, eight short petals crowded around a circle. Ouz’s eyes brushed over it and moved on. Shan-He seemed full of marks that meant something to people who were not him.

He counted corners. First the narrow lane that ran behind the bakery, ash streaks still marking the wall. Second the wider road with the butcher’s shop, red marks still on the stone from yesterday’s wash. After that he just walked and let the streets stack up in his head. Three more turns. A short climb. A stretch where the houses leaned close and only a strip of sky showed between their roofs.

By the time the roofs began to drop away and carts could pass side by side, the view finally opened. Above the tangle of streets, a bell tower stood over the district.

At the granary the bell had hung from a plain wooden frame. It rang to drag boys out of their straw, to send them to the sacks, to mark the one time in the day they were allowed to eat. There had been nothing worth looking at in it.

Here the tower rose in tiers of carved wood and stone. Each level had small openings where wind could slide through. The top held a single large bell, dark metal streaked by old rain. Thin flags hung from poles below it, each strip painted with characters that fluttered in the early breeze.

At the base of the tower sat the temple. Low walls enclosed a square of packed earth. A wooden gate stood open. Beyond it, the yard.

He stopped in the shadow of a tree on the opposite side of the street and watched. Inside the wall, boys ran lines on the ground. Thin cloth shoes slapped the dirt in unison. Their clothes were simple, short jackets and trousers tied at the ankle, all in the same dull color. A monk walked along the front of their line, hands tucked into his sleeves, voice cutting across the yard.

The boys stopped together, turned, dropped into low stances. Arms rose, moved, cut the air. The boy in the middle wobbled. The monk’s voice snapped. The boy steadied.

So this was the temple the guard had meant. Ouz had half expected rows of kneeling people and incense smoke so thick his throat would close. This looked closer to the Hermit’s yard than anything else, only with more boys and fewer trees. Training. Breath. Order.

He took in the wall’s height, the positions of the doors, the way the side of the bell tower touched the yard wall without breaking it. There was a small side gate on the left, half open, with a narrow path that led somewhere behind the tower. A place someone could slip in or out if they knew it.

He shifted a few steps along the street, close enough that he could watch without standing in the main flow of traffic. A woman passed behind him with a basket on her arm, eyes on the ground. She did not look twice at a boy staring across the road.

Within the yard, the monk clapped his hands. The boys straightened and bowed. Their bows were shallow but in unison. Ouz noted the angle, the timing. He tried the motion in his mind.

Footsteps sounded behind him, slow and regular. Not the hurried patter of a late customer. Not heavy guard boots either. Sandal on stone. He turned his head.

A monk approached along the street. He wore layered robes the color of old smoke. His head was shaved close but not raw. Lines at the edge of his eyes spoke of years, yet his back stayed straight. Not young, not a tottering elder. The man’s mouth curved up in a small smile when Ouz shifted around and stood to face him.

Ouz bowed. Not as deep as the boys in the yard. That would look strange from a stranger at the gate. He bent enough to show respect, hands at his sides, eyes lowered for a moment.

“Good morning,” he said.

The monk’s brows lifted a little.

“Good,” the man replied. “You watch, you copy. That’s something. Most boys your age just stare.” His gaze travelled from Ouz’s face to the way the cloak sat uneven over one shoulder. “Why are you here?”

“The guards at the gate told me to come,” Ouz said. “I fell in the woods. My ribs took the fall. They hurt when I breathe. The guard said the temple could look.”

He did not repeat the part about his head. That belonged to the story he had used at the gate, not to anything he wanted monks to test. Let them look at ribs and bruises. His thoughts were not theirs to touch.

The monk nodded once.

“They send us all the things that bother them,” he said. “Madmen, bruised heads, boys who fall out of trees. Come. I will see which one you are.”

He turned toward the open gate and walked in without waiting to see if Ouz followed. Ouz did.

The air in the yard felt cooler out of the wind. The boys had shifted into a slower set now, hands tracing lines they had run fast before. One step forward, knees bent, arms rising in the same shape along the row. Their palms cut the empty air together and drew back to their ribs for the next strike. As Ouz passed, several pairs of eyes flicked toward him. Their gazes did not linger. The monk at the front called a new count and the line flowed through the movement again.

The first monk led him along the packed earth and into a side hall. The floorboards creaked under their feet. Shelves lined one wall, filled with jars and folded cloth. The space smelled of herbs and oil.

A low bed stood against the inner wall, covered with a clean blanket. Beside it, a small table held a clay basin and a cup.

“Take off your outer things,” the monk said. “Lie down or sit. Whatever you can do without cursing.”

Ouz unbuckled his cloak and let it slide from his shoulders. The movement tugged at the bruised line in his chest. He sucked in air through his teeth, slow, holding it at the top where it hurt least. His fingers fumbled a little at the ties of his shirt. He pulled the fabric over his head and folded it over the foot of the bed. Cold air bit his skin. The monk’s eyes went to his ribs.

The bruise spread from the center of Ouz’s chest toward his side, dark edges fading into yellow near the bottom. The shape of the Hermit’s heel was still faintly visible in the middle, a deeper mark on an already ugly patch.

“Hmm,” the monk said. “You must have angered something large, or someone who knows where to kick.”

Ouz thought of the Hermit’s lined face and the calm way he had lifted his foot. He said nothing.

“You are lucky,” the monk went on. “If this had gone a little deeper, we would not be speaking. My hands are not enough for this. I will fetch Master Huan.”

He gestured to the bed.

“Sit,” he said. “Don’t go wandering. If you faint and break your head as well, I’ll have to carry you, and my back is already tired.”

He left with light steps, robes whispering along the floorboards.

Ouz sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, feet flat on the floor. The wood under him felt smooth with use. He placed his hands on his thighs, not on his ribs. The bruise pulsed quietly on its own, a slow throb under the skin.

He closed his eyes and counted three slow breaths. Dead Calm stirred under his skin. Death was not an option; pain was. The skill shaved the edge off the hurt and pushed it back a step, but it never took it away.

Voices sounded in the hall. Footsteps. The first monk returned, this time a little behind someone else. The man who entered after him moved slower, yet there was nothing weak in the motion. His head was fully shaved, the skin on his scalp smooth and pale. Wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his eyes, not only from frowning. He wore the same gray robes, but the cloth hung differently, heavier.

“This is the boy,” the first monk said. “Ribs. The bruise looks deep.”

The older monk nodded. He stepped close and leaned in. His gaze swept over Ouz’s chest, up to the cut at his throat, down again. His eyes were dark and sharp.

“Name?” he asked.

“Chanyu,” Ouz said.

“Where are you from, Chanyu?”

He swallowed once.

“I don’t know the name,” he said. “I remember trees and snow. I remember picking mushrooms. After that, I woke up in the cold. The fort was near. The garrison helped me. They told me about Shan-He and the road. That is what I remember.”

The older monk’s fingers touched the skin near the bruise, light at first. Even that small pressure sent a line of heat along Ouz’s side and under his shoulder blade.

“You breathe shallow,” the monk murmured. “You guard your chest without thinking. Does it stab when you laugh? Cough?”

“I haven’t tried laughing,” Ouz said. “Coughing hurts. So does walking fast.”

The monk’s mouth twitched once, a small smile at the answer.

“Good,” he said. “You’re not a complete idiot. You know enough not to bounce on it.”

He pressed harder in one spot. Ouz’s breath caught. His body wanted to flinch away. Dead Calm held his shoulders where they were. Sweat pricked under his hair.

“Hmm,” the monk said again. “No movement under my hand. Pain, yes. Bone, maybe cracked, not broken through. The goddess has a hand for these things.”

He straightened.

“We’ll try to mend this,” he said. “This temple stands for Yangz’e. She rules night and the moon, but she also blesses healers and those who watch the border between waking and sleep. Bones aren’t foreign to her.”

Ouz blinked. He had heard only a small slice of the goddess’s story from the Hermit and from the fort’s murmurs. Night, moonlight on snow, silver paths, that sort of thing. No one had mentioned ribs.

The older monk brought his palms together in front of his own chest. His fingertips touched, his thumbs rested against his sternum. He closed his eyes and spoke words too low for Ouz to catch.

Air in the room shifted. Not much. No rushing wind. A small stillness. The sound from the yard outside faded to a faint rhythm.

Light appeared between the monk’s hands. At first it was only a faint pale line, no brighter than a reflection. It grew until it filled the space between his palms. Not blinding, not sharp. A soft glow, white with a hint of gold.

The first monk stepped back, face turned a little aside. He watched Ouz out of the corner of his eye.

As the older monk moved closer, the glow carried a faint warmth. Ouz felt it on his bare skin even before the hands reached his ribs. It reminded him of banked coals when one opens the stove door.

Something in him tightened. Death’s Awareness woke fully, a whisper running along his bones. A thin line of warning skated along his spine and into his scalp. The bruise in his chest seemed to pull inward, like a mouth closing. Healing should not have tasted like this.

The monk’s glowing hands hovered a finger’s width above the darkened skin. The warmth grew stronger. It was no longer like coals. It felt closer to sunlight on snow. Clean. Searching.

Every part of Ouz’s body wanted to stay still. Every part of his other sense wanted to pull away. He did not move. Curious, cautious, trapped between both.

The monk lowered his hands. The instant skin met light, pain hit. It did not feel like the Hermit’s kick, which had been sharp, hard, and fast. This pain climbed up from inside his chest, pushed through bone and muscle, and clawed along his nerves. Fire without flame. Something reached in and tried to tug at lines that had already been tied.

Ouz’s back arched. His breath tore out of him in a harsh sound, part gasp, part shout. Dead Calm fought to keep his thoughts from scattering, and for a moment everything in his mind narrowed to a single point: pull away.

Across from him, the older monk stiffened. The light around his hands flared bright, edges fraying thin. Yellow thinned toward white, then dulled again. His face twisted, not in calm focus but in shock.

“What—” he began.

He did not get further.

A force surged between them, something neither of them called. The contact at Ouz’s chest turned into a bridge. For a heartbeat the murmur of the hall smeared into a single dull sound, as if someone had pressed a hand over his ears. For a moment he felt two bodies at once. His pain. The monk’s. His own ribs. The hammer of another heart. Heat poured down that bridge in both directions.