Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 30

After Osamu 1

Afternoon.

The thermometer in the studio on the third floor of the Huang family villa showed 12°C.The inside of the floor-to-ceiling window is covered with ice flowers. The ice grows upward from the lower corner of the window pane and branches, cutting the Green Cen Mountain outside the window into pieces.The sun shines through the ice, casting a pale grid on the ground.There is no wind.

Wei Zhiheng sat in front of the bamboo loom.The loom occupies the northeast corner of the studio. The healds are yellowed, and the bamboo frame has traces of wear and tear left by previous users, making it smooth and dark brown.He wore an oversized gray sweater, the cuffs of which covered his palms, leaving only five fingers exposed.His left hand rested on the frame of the loom. His fingernails were pale purple with white edges, and there were purple-black bruises embedded under the nail beds.The bamboo shuttle is held in the right hand. The shuttle body is smooth and amber in color. The former user has rubbed the bamboo shuttle out of it.

He raised his hand and the bamboo shuttle passed between the warp threads.The warp thread is off-white cotton thread, and the weft thread is dark blue silk thread.The bamboo shuttle hits the frame of the loom and makes a crisp, dry click.After an interval of about one second, click again.

Wei Zhiheng’s right hand was shaking.The subtle tremors of the muscles under the skin started from the inside of the wrist, jumped one after another, and spread to the knuckles.He clenched the bamboo shuttle tightly, his knuckles turned white and the tremors continued.The bamboo shuttle gets stuck between the warp threads and the weft threads tighten, forming a skewed pattern.

He let go.The bamboo shuttle hovers above the warp, fingers splayed, joints stiff.There is a piece missing in the upper left corner of the field of vision, and the black shadow is fixed. It expanded three days ago, and now the upper right corner of the loom disappears into the blind spot.He misperceived: the skewed lines were exudates after vein rupture, the warps were infusion tubes, and the healds were hanging blood bag stent.

Click.

The sound of looms echoed in the empty studio.It’s half a beat away from the humming of cutting machines in the stone factory in the distance outside the window.He blinked, and the meridians were still trembling, actually still, but he saw them beating, like hemorrhages spreading on the retina.

Huang Jinye sat by the window.A black sports vest with broad shoulders and white stone powder on the right shoulder strap.There are three fresh scratches on the back of the right hand, running across the palm prints. They were cut by the barbed wire when climbing over the wall the day before yesterday. The blood has solidified into dark red scabs, and the edges are embedded with stone powder.He was holding a book of The Book of Songs in his hand, a thread-bound book with yellowing pages and moth-eaten edges.

“Caiwei Caiwei,” Huang Jinye read out.The voice is hoarse, rough, monotonous, and has no ups and downs.”Wei also stops.”

He paused.The index finger of his left hand tapped the page, and the clicking sound overlapped with the clicking sound of the loom.He continued to read: “It’s time to return, and it’s time to return.”

Wei Zhiheng did not turn around.He listened to the sound, counterpointed to the click of the loom.He put down the bamboo shuttle and reached for the brush next to him.Wolf hair is a hard hair, the tip of the pen is bifurcated, and the root is tightly wrapped with nylon thread. The pen barrel is made of mottled bamboo, with brown tear-shaped spots.He dipped in ink.The ink is mixed with a large amount of water in an enamel dish to form a very light gray, so light that the fibers of the paper can be seen.

He held the pen, his wrist hanging in the air, and his elbow resting on the frame of the loom.When the tip of the pen touches the rice paper, the ink spreads and the boundaries are blurred.He writes.Write the word “water”.The vertical hook trembles in irregular waves, which is the same structure as the skewed weft on the loom.The horizontal stroke was too long and the edge of the rice paper was scratched, leaving a trace of grease on the table.

The handwriting is so light that it is almost transparent, and the light from this side of the paper can be seen from the other side.

Huang Jinye put down the Book of Songs.The pages of the book were closed, making a crisp impact sound.He stood up, his kneecaps making a dry friction sound, and the water in the joints swayed and gurgled.He walked towards Wei Zhiheng, his steps were heavy and light, right and left.The soft-soled spikes rubbed against the ground, making a scraping sound.

He stopped beside Wei Zhiheng, thirty centimeters away.He bent down and stretched his right hand towards the loom, not to touch Wei Zhiheng, but to adjust the healds.The fingers are inserted between the warp threads, the knuckles protrude, and there is black dirt between the nails, a mixture of cinders and stone powder.He picked up a warp thread so that the bamboo shuttle could pass smoothly.The fingers rub against the cotton thread, making a rustling sound.

“Change.” Huang Jinye said.Single word, imperative.

Wei Zhiheng took the bamboo shuttle.His fingers touched the back of Huang Jinye’s hand, making skin contact.The back of Huang’s hand was hot; Wei’s fingers were cold.The calluses on the back of Huang’s hand rubbed against Wei’s fingertips, making them rough.Wei gripped the bamboo shuttle tightly, his knuckles turned white, and his nails left scratches on the bamboo surface.

He continued knitting.A water ripple pattern stretches across the loom, with blue weft threads undulating against off-white warp threads.Click.The bamboo shuttle hits the frame.He misperceived that the meridians were moving, like blood flowing backward in veins, like an underground river changing its course.He blinked, and the line was still, but the edges were blurry.

He’s going to knit a wrong stitch.

This is what Su Huiqin taught.Last Wednesday, when Su Huiqin sent the loom, she picked up the thread in the opposite direction at the seventh weft thread, forming a raised knot.Her fingers were hovering, her index finger was trembling, and she didn’t say anything. She just left the knot there as an outlet for the soul.

Wei Zhiheng picked out a wooden thorn from the bamboo joint on the frame of the loom.He dug hard, his nails split, and the wood thorn stuck into the pulp of his index finger, causing sharp pain.Blood beads gush out and drip on the warp. The off-white cotton thread absorbs the blood and forms a dark red spot, about two millimeters in diameter.

He ignored the line.He weaves to the seventh weft, his fingers hovering.Instead of taking the thread, he took it in the opposite direction—pressing the weft below the warp instead of above it.The bamboo shuttle passes through and clicks.A raised knot is formed on the surface of the fabric, destroying the parallel lines of the water ripples. The raised knot is like a scab, destroying the parallelism.

Wei Zhiheng let go of the bamboo shuttle.He stretched out his right hand, his index finger hovering over the wrong needle.He lowered his fingers and touched the raised knot.Rough.The knots are raised, like scabs on the skin.He stroked it with his fingertips, feeling the irregular resistance from one end to the other.

He misperceived: It was the blood scab on the limestone specimen in Chapter 1, and it was the black vortex of cinders embedded in the palm of Chapter 20.He held the knot tightly, pressed with his fingertips, and pressed hard, his nails digging into the fabric.The knot deforms under pressure but remains convex.He let go of his hand, leaving white indentations on his fingertips, glaring on the pale skin.

Huang Jinye looked at him.He watched Wei Zhiheng’s fingers repeatedly digging at the wrong needle, and looked at the purpura on his fingernails.He didn’t speak, his right hand was in his trouser pocket, and his fingertips touched a hard object.Limestone specimen with sharp edges.He tightened his grip, the sting waking him up.Blood oozed from the old scratches on the tiger’s mouth, dark red, forming wet marks in the trouser pocket.

Wei Zhiheng turned his head.He looked at Huang Jinye, his eyes were unfocused and scattered, falling on Huang’s collar.He opened his mouth and wanted to speak, but his tongue became a piece of lead and lay at the bottom of his mouth, unable to be lifted.He made a hissing sound, like a leak of air.He closed his mouth, the taste of rust accumulated in his throat, blood seeped from his gums and pooled under his tongue, and he did not swallow.

He picked up the brush.Dip ink, light ink.He wrote on the rice paper and wrote the word “gui”.The vertical paintings tremble and form irregular waves.The horizontal drawing is crooked, which is the same as the wrong needle on the loom.The ink color is very light and seems to disappear.

Huang Jinye took out eucalyptus candy from his trouser pocket.The tin foil packaging has green stripes, has softened and deformed, and the surface is sticky.He didn’t peel it off, just held it in the palm of his hand, and the edge of the tinfoil cut into the skin and embedded in the palm prints.He walked back to the window, picked up the Book of Songs, opened it, and continued reading.

“Caiwei Caiwei,” he read, monotonously and repeatedly.”Wei is also gentle.”

The pages crunched in his hands.Wei Zhiheng listened to this sound, which was in contrast to the click of the loom.He put down the brush, and the pen barrel made contact with the frame of the loom, making a clicking sound, rolling to the edge, and being blocked by the warp threads.

He reached for the wrong needle.Stroke again, fingertips sliding over the raised knots.He misperceived: it was not a knot of thread, but the hair left by his mother Su Huiqin on the loom – a long gray-white hair, wrapped around the heald, flickering in the light.

What he actually touched was a bamboo thorn stuck in the frame of the loom.He pulled it out hard, and it pierced the gap between his nails, causing sharp pain.He bites the thread.He bites a loose weft thread with his teeth and bites it off. The thread ends form a fibrous mass in the mouth. He pushes it to the cheek with his tongue, as if holding a cocoon.

Huang Jinye’s voice stopped.Hover over the word “Wei”.He stared at Wei Zhiheng’s mouth, at the bulging cheeks, and at the bitten threads exposed from the corners of his mouth.He held out his hand.His right hand hovered over Wei Zhiheng’s left shoulder, stopping five centimeters away from the sweater.Fingers splayed, joints stiff.

He didn’t fall, he just hovered.

Wei Zhiheng continued to weave.Water ripples, parallel lines, separated by staggered stitches, like faults.Click, click.Slower than a heartbeat.He misperceived: The clicking sound was the sound of the steel needle rotating and biting into the bone cortex during bone marrow puncture in Chapter 10. The frequency was the same, but the amplitude was smaller.

Time stands still.The light at 14:00 PM moves behind the ice.Wei Zhiheng was weaving, Huang Jinye was reading, the bamboo shuttle and the pages clicked and crisped, the light ink and the wrong stitches were deposited in the 12°C air.

Huang Jinye retracted his hand.He turned to the next page of the Book of Songs, and the paper made a crisp sound.He didn’t read aloud, just looked at the writing on the page, printed in ink, black, and fixed.

The clatter of the loom continued.Wei Zhiheng picked up the bamboo shuttle and continued to weave the next row.His fingers stopped on the wrong needle, digging into the bulges of the knot until the yarn fluffed, until blood seeped out from the pads of his fingers, staining the off-white warp threads purple.