Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 42

summer solstice

Huang Jinye pushed open the door of the art classroom on the third floor of Changgu Tower.The door shaft was short of oil, causing a dry groan that echoed in the corridor.He stepped over the threshold with his right knee first, and felt a sharp pain in the joint cavity. The accumulated water was squeezed to the edge of the meniscus, causing him to hold on to the door frame and dig into the peeling green paint with his fingers.

Someone has been in the classroom.Wei Zhiheng’s pine easel, which originally faced the north window, is now tilted fifteen degrees to the east. The bottom rungs have left semicircular scratches on the ground, and the dust has been pushed aside, revealing the true color of the terrazzo.The enamel cup on the still life table has changed its position. The mouth of the cup faces west. There is a circle of brown water stains on the bottom of the cup, the traces of dried corn silk water, and there are salt crystals on the edge.

Huang Jinye stood still.Sweat slid down the back of his neck and flowed down the groove of his spine. It was itchy, but he didn’t wipe it away.June was sultry, and the classroom was like an overturned pot. The smell of turpentine seeped out from the corners, mixed with the musty smell of moisture returning from the walls, and pressed against my chest.He smelled the smell of his own body – the vest that he hadn’t changed for three days, soreness from sweat, and the astringent, rusty smell of limestone powder he had rubbed against when climbing over the wall this morning.

He went to the easel.His right knee squeaked with every step he took, and the bones made a dry sound, like stepping on broken glass.There is a new canvas on the easel, quarter-opening, linen, not glued, the fibers are loose, and there are a few brown grass stems sandwiched in the off-white color.There is a light yellow stain in the center of the canvas, water, or tears.

The iron pencil case is under the still life table.He bent down to reach it, his right knee got stuck, and he leaned forward with his hands on the ground.The cement floor was cold, and there was dust on the palms of my hands. There was also half a dead leaf, which was so brittle that it would break into pieces when pinched.He knelt on one knee and took out the wolf-hair pen from the box.The barrel is of mottled bamboo, with brown tear-like spots, a hard blade, bifurcated roots, and dead plant roots.

His knees snapped as he stood up.When I walked to the window sill, I saw that the surface of the ink in the inkstone was crusted and cracked, and the cracks were radiating.He poured water, and the water from the enamel cup came out too quickly, splashing onto his hands and making them cold.He grinds the ink, turns his wrist, and the ink block rubs against the inkstone, making a rustling sound.The smell of pine smoke came up, the smell of burning hair, and the disinfectant in the hospital corridor was mixed with burnt proteins.He sneezed, the air rushed out, and the nose water hung on his chin. He wiped it with the back of his right hand. There was still unwashed stone powder on the back of the hand, which was gray and white. It mixed with the nose water and formed mud on the skin.

He walked back to the easel with his pen in hand.The pen barrel touched the palm prints and was as hard as holding a piece of bone.He stood in front of the canvas, thirty centimeters.The hand began to shake, twitching uncontrollably, starting from the inside of the wrist, jumping and jumping to the knuckles, and the tip of the pen drew meaningless circles in the air.

He wanted to stop but couldn’t.The ink dripped from the belly of the pen, and the first drop landed on the lower left corner of the canvas. It was black and spattered with a radius of two centimeters. The fibers absorbed water and expanded, leaving jagged edges.The second drop fell on his pants, black gym shorts, the fabric absorbing the ink, forming a dark circle with blurred edges.

“Fuck.”

He spoke, his voice hoarse, rough, sandpaper-rubbed pine.This was the first sound he made after entering the door.He stared at the ink stains on his pants, at the ink spots on the canvas, and at his shaking hands.He pressed his right wrist with his left hand. His knuckles turned white and his nails dug into his skin. He was shaking even harder. The two forces were fighting in his bones. The tip of his pen drew a gray arc in the air and threw out a few drops of ink, which landed on the drawing table.

There was a sound outside the window.Someone was shooting the ball in the basketball court downstairs. Bang, bang, bang, the rhythm was messy. The ball hit the concrete floor, bounced up, and then hit again. Along with the shouts of several boys, their voices were distorted by the hot air, and the words could not be heard clearly, leaving only fragments of syllables.Huang Jinye didn’t turn his head, but he heard it. The sound squeezed in through the gap in the window, mixed with his heartbeat, and missed the beat.

He put pen to paper forcibly.The tip of the pen touched the canvas, not a light touch, but a smash. The hard fibers penetrated the linen, making a dry scratching sound, and the nails scratched the blackboard.He made his first stroke, from left to right, horizontally.The shaking hands turn the lines into waves. This is not an intentional artistic effect, but an uncontrolled twitching. The gray ink forms irregular ravines on the cloth, with burrs on the edges, scraped fibers, and scabbed wounds.

The ink is too thick and does not flow smoothly. It accumulates at the tip of the pen and forms black balls.He pressed hard, and the pen holder pressed against the purpura on the palm of his hand. There was a dull and sharp pain, as if a needle was pricking him.The line was broken, so he raised the pen and started writing again, but he couldn’t catch it. The second stroke was crooked, forming a fifteen-degree angle with the first stroke, broken rock formations, and dislocated bones.

Sweat drips down and hits the canvas, forming a transparent circle next to the ink line, which is quickly absorbed by the fibers, leaving dark stains with more irregular edges than ink stains.He was breathing heavily, with bloodshot tremors, and every inhalation brought dust from the studio. He choked, coughed, and his chest vibrated. His right knee bent during the coughing, and the water accumulated in it squeezed him. The sting made him bend over, and he leaned on the painting table with his left hand, knocking over the enamel cup.

The cup fell to the ground, rolled, made a hollow sound, spun around on the ground, and stopped in the corner with the bottom of the cup facing up.He didn’t pick it up.He continued to draw, the third stroke, from top to bottom, vertically.His hand shook even more violently, and the line became serpentine, deviating to the right. He tried to correct it, pressing to the left, and the line became jagged. The saw saw the wood, and the steel needle was grinding on the bone cortex during the bone marrow puncture.

The sound of the cleaner’s broom came from the window.The rustling, from far to near, paused at the door of the classroom for three seconds, then continued, moved away, and disappeared into the stairwell.Huang Jinye didn’t look back. He stared at the three strokes on the canvas, gray and trembling, with earthworms drilling in the mud and veins twisting under the skin.

He makes his fourth stroke.The brush tip bifurcates, the hard fibers spread out to both sides, and the lines become double tracks, leaving gaps and cracks in the middle, swallowing up the edges of the skylight.He stared at the crack. There was a fixed black shadow in the upper left corner of his vision, a blind spot left by retinal hemorrhage, and the upper right corner of the canvas disappeared.He blinked, and the crack was still there, with ink smeared on the edge of the crack, feathery edges, and moldy hyphae.

He wanted to draw a fifth stroke, but he couldn’t lift his hand.The muscles in my arms were sore, and I was carrying something too heavy. It was the same feeling when I was carrying Wei Zhiheng on that mountain road on the spring equinox.He lowered his arm, the pen holder hanging by his side, and ink dripped on the floor, one drop, two drops, three drops, forming irregular lines, pointing towards the door.

He sat down.Sitting directly on the ground, the concrete floor, the coolness penetrated the fabric of his shorts and penetrated his sitting bones.He leaned back against the supporting leg of the easel, the pinewood pressing against his shoulder blades painfully.He stared at the four strokes on the canvas, gray, broken, unfinished bones, weathered limestone.His breathing gradually calmed down, from twenty times per minute to twelve times, but his heartbeat was still fast and chaotic, more than a hundred times per minute, hitting his ribs and trying to come out.

Outside the window, the summer solstice sunshine shines directly, but the interior of the classroom is pearly gray.The ceiling fan rotates overhead, and the bearings are short of oil. Each revolution makes a squeaking sound, which is out of sync with the hum of the cutting machine in the stone factory in the distance, forming an irregular hum, ringing in the ears, and the roar of the underground river is strangled at the throat.

He sat, motionless, until dusk crept in through the window, turning the gray on the canvas into black.He stood up, his knees stiff and making a dry rubbing sound.He threw the pen on the still life table, and the pen holder rolled and stopped next to the enamel cup.He walked out of the classroom, his steps were heavy and light, heavy on the right and light on the left. The ink stain on his pants had dried and became hard and scabbed.

The canvas remains on the easel, four gray marks, trembling, broken, failed, started.

June 25, 2026, 17:30.

Huang Jinye pushed open the door of the art classroom again.After four days of absence, the door hinge became even tighter. He used more strength, and the door panel hit the wall with a muffled sound. The echo rippled through the classroom, which was even emptier than last time.The light in the classroom is cobalt blue. The evening light, with the gloomy water of the Guixi River, pours in through the window and soaks everything in the water.

The easel is still there.The pine tripod structure remains untouched, but the marks on the canvas have changed.He came closer and found that the four gray ink lines had dried up and cracked, the cracks were radiating, and the skin of the field in the dry season was chapped.Something falls on the canvas – a phoenix petal, red, with slightly curled edges, falls at the intersection of the third and fourth strokes, the color of the blood dripping on the steps of the stairwell that night, a miniature limestone specimen.

He stood in front of the easel, thirty centimeters.Outside the window, the phoenix flower was in full bloom. The flowering period in May lasted until the end of June, and the fiery red clusters burned in the dusk.A petal floated in from the gap in the transom, rotated, sank, and landed on his left shoulder. It was red, with slightly curled edges, and was hot, like red-hot iron.

He didn’t shake it off.He stared at the petals on the canvas, at the four gray marks.His right hand was in his trouser pocket, and his fingertips were holding a piece of limestone fragment – left behind when he smashed the stone before the summer solstice. The edge was sharp, and it pricked the purpura on his palm, causing a dull and sharp pain.He took out the stone, which was off-white, with dark gray flint strips, and there were dried blood stains on the bottom. It was dark brown, Wei Zhiheng’s, and his, mixed together, making it impossible to tell who was who.

He didn’t hover.The hand is very steady, this time, terrifyingly steady.He walked to his easel, bent down, and placed the fragment of limestone in the center of the canvas, covering the end of the third gray streak.The stone touched the flax fibers with a dull thud, the door closed, and the heart stopped.The weight of the stone sinks the canvas, creating a depression, and four gray lines curve around the stone, as rivers bypass rocks, veins bypass blood clots, and time bypasses death.

The stone acts as a counterweight to hold the canvas down and prevent it from floating away.The gray-white limestone and gray-black dried pigment form color differences, stratigraphic profiles, bones and muscles.

He sat down.Sitting directly on the ground in front of the painting table, the cement floor, the coolness has penetrated through the fabric, no longer biting, just cool, a constant temperature of 16°C, the temperature of a tomb.He leaned back against the supporting leg of the easel, the pine wood pressing against his shoulder blades, in the same position and posture as four days ago.His right knee was bent, and the water accumulated in the joint cavity stopped shaking. The joint was stiff, and the body had cooled to a constant temperature on the vernal equinox.

Outside the window, phoenix flowers continued to fall.Red petals poured in from the transom and fell on the painting table, on the two juxtaposed limestones on the still life table, on his hair, and on his knees.He didn’t move.He heard the sound of petals falling – actually it was silent, but he heard the ticking of blood on the steps in the stairwell that night, the falling of blood on the bamboo mat on the spring equinox, and the splash of ink on the canvas.

Paint tray on still life table.White porcelain plate with brown stains on the edge.The pigment inside has dried up, and the cement ash mixed with titanium white and ultramarine is cracked, and the cracks are radiating.A phoenix petal falls on the paint tray, red over gray, blood over limestone, wildfire over mountains, life over death.

He didn’t look up.He stared at the stone on the canvas, at the four bent gray lines.His breathing became heavy, with bloodshot tremors, and each exhalation was sprayed into the air below the canvas. The hot and humid air mixed with the coolness of the limestone, forming a layer of heavier air that sank to the ground level, spread upward over his knees, and flooded his chest.

The sound of looms could be heard in the distance.Click, click, came from the direction of the teacher’s family building, Su Huiqin, or auditory hallucinations.Huang Jinye didn’t turn his head. He listened to that voice, the hallucination of phoenix flowers falling outside the window, and his own heartbeat, forming a trio with wrong beats and irregularities.

Dusk deepens.Cobalt blue transitions to jet black.The details inside the classroom gradually disappear, the outline of the easel, the outline of the still life table, and the outline of the limestone are all dissolved in the twilight.Only the phoenix flower outside the window is still red, burning in the last remaining light, an unquenched wildfire, and coagulated blood.

He didn’t turn on the light.The switch for the fluorescent tube was by the door, three meters away from him, but he didn’t get up.He remained in a sitting position with his right knee bent, the water congealed in the joint cavity, and the joints of the body that had cooled to a constant temperature on the vernal equinox were stiff.Stones on the canvas before him, off-white, silent, tombstones, skylights, unfinished paintings.

The roar of the underground river had stopped, or perhaps he had gone deaf.

Outside the window, the phoenix flowers continued to fall, red and silent, covering the paint tray, the still life table, the two juxtaposed limestones, his shoulders, and the entire strata of the studio.The red is deposited on the gray, and a new geological era begins, while the yellow embers are still, the stone, the limestone, and the body cooled to a constant temperature on the vernal equinox, sitting in front of the easel, not writing again, until the dusk completely closes, until the world is silent, until the stone and the canvas grow together, until the red and gray are indistinguishable, until he becomes part of the still life, becomes the ground of this classroom, and becomes a silent, off-white, unweathered stone in the art classroom of the Ergao Changgu Tower in West Guangxi.

end