Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 11
byBefore Grain in Ear
The television was muted. A rectangle of blue light projected onto the wall, where a news anchor’s mouth moved without sound. Wei Zhiheng sat in a rattan chair, his waist pressed against the hard bamboo slats of the backrest. The dull pain from the bone marrow aspiration persisted, a rhythmic throbbing deep within his ilium. He had maintained this posture for twenty minutes, right leg crossed over his left knee, the fabric of his canvas trousers rubbing together. His right hand hung over the armrest, fingernails tinged with a faint purple, his cuff stained with ultramarine paint that had dried into a hard crust.
Across the Eight Immortals table, Wei Mingyuan crouched on a woodworking stool, planing a piece of pine. The plane slid back and forth, curling wood shavings spitting from the blade to accumulate in a pile on the floor. His knuckles were thick, with black pencil dust embedded in the creases. On the side of his right index finger was a crack—corroded by turpentine—the edges white and seeping with tissue fluid. As the plane reached the end of a stroke, he raised his right hand and used his second knuckle to clear the shavings from the blade. The movement forced the crack open, and beads of blood oozed out, mixing with the sawdust into a reddish-brown smear.
Wei Zhiheng raised his right hand, his sleeve brushing the tip of his nose. The scent of turpentine drifted in from the balcony, mingling with the dry smell of wood shavings and settling near the floor.
“No chemotherapy.”
His voice was dry, producing a coarse sound as his vocal cords rubbed together. He straightened his right leg, his kneecap emitting a sharp click. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, folded three times, its sharp edges cutting into his fingertips. He placed it in the center of the Eight Immortals table. The paper made a crisp sound as it hit the wood. It was a diagnostic report from the county hospital; the ink for “MDS-RAEB-t” was heavy, a blue so dark it looked black.
Wei Mingyuan set down the plane. He laid it on its side on the stool, the metal blade reflecting the blue light of the television. He stood up, his knees clicking. He didn’t look at the paper. Instead, he walked to the sideboard and pulled open the bottom drawer. It was filled with old newspapers, tape measures, rusted utility knives, and a tangled mess of red string. He rummaged through it, his fingers shifting the newspapers, and as he pulled out the red string, a cluster of loose threads came with it, tangling around his wrist.
Su Huiqin sat at the bamboo loom, her back to the living room. The loom stood against the north wall, occupying the entire space beneath the window. The bamboo heddles looked yellow in the light, moving up and down with a crisp, rhythmic clack. Her fingers darted back and forth, picking at the warp threads as the bamboo shuttle passed through the weft. The weft was deep blue and the warp was white, interlacing into a pattern of rising and falling waves. When she reached the seventh weft thread, her fingers paused. Her index finger lifted a warp thread and looped it backward, weaving in a deliberate mistake—a protruding knot.
A gurgle came from the kitchen. An aluminum pot heated on the gas stove, the corn porridge boiling over as bubbles burst on the surface with dull pops. A scorched aroma drifted through the crack in the kitchen door—the smell of overcooked starch, sweet yet bitter.
Wei Mingyuan fished a key out from the depths of the drawer. It was brass, the teeth worn and the edges smoothed, tied with a faded red string that had blackened at the knot. He tore the tangled threads from his wrist with a violent tug, leaving a few red fibers caught in the key’s teeth. He walked back to the Eight Immortals table. He did not pick up the diagnostic report; instead, he grabbed Wei Zhiheng’s right hand and pressed the key into his palm.
The moment the metal pressed into his palm, Wei Zhiheng felt a chill. The scent of brass rose up—old and metallic. The teeth of the key pressed into his finger, right against a coin-sized patch of purpura, causing a dull ache. Wei Mingyuan’s fingers pressed down hard on his palm, and the blood seeping from the crack in his father’s finger stained Wei Zhiheng’s skin, warm and tacky.
“Take it.”
Wei Mingyuan let go and turned toward the balcony. An unframed picture frame stood there, freshly planed from pine and glowing with a pale gold hue. The frame leaned against the wall next to the first piece of Wei Zhiheng’s Skylight series—a four-kail canvas with a gray base, covered only in a muddy mixture of ultramarine and titanium white. It was unfinished, with cracks appearing where the paint had dried at the edges. Wei Mingyuan picked up a woodworking nail from the floor, silver and three centimeters long.
Wei Zhiheng gripped the key in his hand. The metal warmed from his body heat, but the chill of the teeth remained, buried deep in the lines of his palm. He stood up, his waist flaring with pain, causing him to hunch his back. He walked toward the balcony with a dragging gait, his right heel hitting the floor first with a dull thud.
Wei Mingyuan flipped the canvas over, face down, and pressed the frame onto it. He raised a hammer—iron-headed with a wooden handle stained with black grease. He aimed for the nail head and struck. The first blow missed slightly, flattening the edge of the nail head and causing the metal to deform with a piercing screech. The second blow hit true, the nail piercing the fibers of the canvas backing and sinking into the pine with a muffled thud. With the third blow, the nail head sank into the wood, flush with the surface, leaving a circular indentation.
Wei Zhiheng watched the nail. The gray canvas was now fixed to the frame. Around the nail, the layers of paint developed tiny fissures radiating outward from the hole. He smelled the scents on Wei Mingyuan’s hands: turpentine, wood glue, and blood.
“Finish the painting first.”
Wei Mingyuan stood the frame up, leaning it against the balcony railing. The evening breeze rushed in through the window, catching the edges of the canvas with a light flapping sound. He turned his back to Wei Zhiheng and picked up the plane from the floor, testing the sharpness of the blade with his thumb. Beads of blood seeped from the crack once more, dripping onto the pine in dark red spots.
In the kitchen, the smell of burnt corn porridge grew stronger. Su Huiqin stood up, the heddles of the loom still vibrating with a faint hum. She entered the kitchen, the aluminum pot clanging against the stove. A spoon stirred the porridge with a thick, squelching sound. She turned off the fire and lifted the pot from the stove; as the bottom touched the counter, there was a sizzle and a rise of steam.
Wei Zhiheng walked back into the living room. The key was still clenched in his hand, the teeth having pressed into his skin to leave red marks. He sat in the rattan chair, his waist meeting the hard bamboo again as pain crawled up his spine. He opened his palm; the key lay there, the red string coiled around his fingers, leaving white pressure marks.
Su Huiqin emerged carrying a bowl. It was coarse porcelain with a blue rim, chipped in three places to reveal the black iron beneath. The bowl was filled with corn porridge, a skin of pale yellow rice oil forming on the surface. The porridge at the edges had caramelized into a brown crust, stuck firmly to the sides of the bowl. Steam rose, forming a white mist above the rim.
She set the bowl down with a soft clink against the wood. A few strands of grayish-white corn silk clung to her apron. Her knuckles were thick, bamboo shavings from the loom embedded in the crevices, and the nail of her right index finger was chipped at the corner.
“Eat.”
Wei Zhiheng reached for the bowl. His left fingertips touched the porcelain; it was hot, scalding. He flinched and switched to his right hand, but his right hand was shaking—a fine tremor of the muscles beneath the skin, pulsing from the inside of his wrist. He cupped the bowl with both hands, his knuckles turning white. Against the white porcelain, the purpura on his fingernails looked even darker, a deep purplish-black.
He scooped up a spoonful of porridge. The spoon was aluminum, its edges worn down. The porridge was thick and clung to the spoon, stretching into a thread before breaking as it dripped. He brought it to his mouth. His tongue first met the heat—scalding, stinging. His taste buds were instantly numbed. Then came the flavor—the burnt taste, the toasted aroma, the sweetness of starch broken down by high heat, mixed with a hint of metallic bitterness from the aluminum.
He chewed, his teeth grinding the corn kernels with a sandy sound. The porridge slid down his esophagus, still very hot, leaving a trail of warmth in his chest. He ate very slowly, chewing each mouthful for a long time.
Su Huiqin walked back to the loom and sat down. The bamboo seat gave a low groan. She pulled the warp threads, the heddles moving up and down—clack. She continued weaving the water wave pattern, her fingers dancing through the threads, but when she reached that deliberate mistake, her fingers paused to feel the protruding knot.
Wei Mingyuan was tidying his tools on the balcony. The plane was hung back on its nail on the wall, the metal blade clinking sharply against the surface. He walked back into the living room, an irregular dark sweat stain marking the back of his gray shirt. He stood by the sideboard, twining the broken red thread between his fingers, pulling it tight until it left white marks in his skin.
Wei Zhiheng finished half the bowl. Brown, caramelized residue remained stuck to the porcelain bottom. He set the spoon down with a clink against the rim. A single yellow grain of corn clung to the corner of his mouth.
Su Huiqin stood up. She didn’t go to the kitchen; instead, she walked to the bamboo basket beside the loom. Inside was a half-finished piece of Zhuang brocade, a deep blue water wave pattern with loose threads at the edges. She picked up the brocade and shook it out with both hands, the fabric rustling loudly in the air.
She walked toward Wei Zhiheng. Her pace was slow, her knees making a slight rubbing sound as they bent. She stood before the rattan chair, holding the brocade up with both hands, pausing for a moment. The clacking of the loom continued to echo in the background.
Then she draped it over him.
The brocade fell across Wei Zhiheng’s legs, covering his knees and thighs. The fabric was coarse, a texture of interwoven cotton and silk that rustled against his school trousers. It was light, yet its presence was heavy. The water wave pattern covered his thighs, the crests of the waves rising and falling, the deep blue threads glinting coldly under the dim light. The loose threads at the edges hung off the side of his knees, frayed and ready to be pulled away.
Wei Zhiheng felt a sense of pressure—from the texture of the fabric, from the friction marks left by his mother’s calloused fingers during the weaving. He looked down at the brocade on his lap, the wave pattern surging over his legs. He reached out his right hand, hovering his fingers three centimeters above the fabric. His hand spasmed in the air, his fingernails a pale purple.
In the end, he did not touch it. He withdrew his hand and shoved it into his pocket, his fingertips brushing the key. The chill of the metal seeped through the fabric.
Wei Mingyuan stood by the sideboard, still fiddling with the end of the red string. The television screen remained lit, blue light flowing across his face. He turned and picked up a plastic bottle of wood glue from the floor; the nozzle was clogged. He squeezed hard, and the glue erupted from a crack in the bottle, spraying onto the back of his hand—milky white, stringy, and sticking to his skin.
Wei Zhiheng stood up. The brocade slid from his legs, draping over the edge of the rattan chair, the water wave pattern hanging upside down, the crests pointing toward the floor. His waist flared with sharp pain. He braced himself against the corner of the Eight Immortals table, his knuckles white, his fingernails scraping against the wood to leave four white marks.
“I’m going.”
His voice was dry, carrying the burnt scent of the corn porridge. He didn’t take the remaining half-bowl of porridge, nor did he take the diagnostic report. He only gripped the key, the teeth digging into his palm.
Wei Mingyuan didn’t speak; he simply nodded, his chin moving up and down. He was using his other hand to pick at the wood glue on his skin, the adhesive pulling at his flesh with a faint peeling sound and a sharp sting.
Su Huiqin was already back at the loom, her back to him, the bamboo shuttle passing through the weft—clack. She didn’t look back, but when she reached that knot, her fingers paused again to feel the protrusion.
Wei Zhiheng walked toward the door. His art box stood by the entrance. He picked it up, the leather buckles clinking sharply. He pulled the door open, and the sound-activated light in the hallway flickered on as the hinges creaked.
He looked back once. In the living room, Wei Mingyuan was still picking at the glue on his hand, the dried flakes falling to the floor. The sound of Su Huiqin’s loom continued—clack, clack. The water wave pattern extended across the loom, the loose threads at the edges still dangling.
Wei Zhiheng stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, the sound of the impact swallowed by the clacking of the loom. He stood at the top of the stairs, pulled the key from his trouser pocket, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his shirt, close to his chest. The chill of the metal pressed against his skin through the thin fabric.
He headed downstairs, the art box thumping against his hip. His waist throbbed with a rhythmic dull ache with every step. Clutching the key, he walked toward Changgu Building.
On the third step down, he stopped. A sensory error: he perceived the next step as the edge of the vertical shaft of the Nongxiang Tianchuang, a pitch-black opening, bottomless and deep. He lifted his foot and held it in the air, frozen. He hovered there for two seconds, his knees shaking, before finally stepping down firmly. The white frost of the limestone wall tiles rubbed off onto his sleeve, the powder embedding itself under his fingernails.
He continued downward, confirming the solidity of each step. The teeth of the key pressed against his chest, sending a slight sting through him with every stride.