“Anyway, just run quickly, or else... we'll all be dragged down by her.”
After saying her piece, the maid in the green dress fled in a hurry. Her skirt brushed against the moss by the courtyard wall, leaving behind a flurry of hurried footsteps.
The mute's legs went weak. He froze for a couple of breaths, and then, as if suddenly driven mad, he bolted toward the moon gate.
He dashed through the corridor in the backyard, rounded the main building, and squeezed out through the side gate.
The street outside the Music Registry was already packed with people. Soldiers had cordoned off the entire street, and onlookers crowded outside the perimeter, standing on their tiptoes to peer inside.
He squeezed through the gaps in the crowd, crouching to slip under a soldier's arm. One of the guards spotted him and struck him across the back with the flat of his blade.
His chest felt so tight it was about to burst, but he gritted his teeth, scrambled back up, and kept running.
He ran out of the alley where the Music Registry was located, crossed East Street, ran over the stone bridge in the south of the city, and when he reached the open ground to the west of the city, he could see the raised platform and the mountain of dry firewood from afar.
A person was tied to the top of the woodpile, covered in cinnabar talismans that made her look as if she were wearing a bright red robe, incredibly striking beneath the overcast gray sky.
The mute's steps faltered for a fraction of a second, and then he ran toward the sacrificial altar with everything he had.
“Stop!”
Two soldiers stepped in to block his path, grabbing him by his arms from both sides and hoisting him completely off the ground.
The mute was far too thin and weak, thrashing about in their grip like a little chick.
He wanted to charge forward with all his might, but he could not speak. He couldn't make any articulate sounds, producing only a series of muffled, wheezing barks.
“Where did this beggar come from? Get lost!”
Annoyed by the obstruction, the soldier shoved him to the ground.
The mute crashed down, his knee slamming hard against a protruding rock.
A sharp crack echoed.
Agony flared up from his knee. He curled into a tight ball on the ground, unable to suppress a muffled whimper escaping his lips.
He tried to stand, but his left leg refused to support him. He had lost all sensation below his knee, and his leg hung loose and limp.
Propping himself up with his hands, he dragged his leg and crawled forward. His kneecap scraped against the dirt, and sharp pebbles dug into his flesh, leaving half of his trouser leg smeared with a messy mixture of blood and mud.
The other soldier frowned. “Go easy on him. Just make him get lost.”
“Go easy? Don't you see what day it is today?”
The guard kicked him again, flipping him over so that his back slammed into a pile of gravel by the roadside.
The mute's vision went dark. Even drawing a single breath brought searing pain.
“Alright, alright, stop beating him. Let's go. They're waiting for us up front.”
“The Grand Preceptor is personally overseeing things today. If we delay the scheduled hour, we'll both pay dearly.”
“Just leave him. He's just a fool. Official business comes first.”
“It's all that temptress's fault.”
“Tsk, I knew she was up to no good from the start.”
“Look at her face, her outfit... What respectable girl would dress like that?”
“She seduced all those high officials until they lost their minds. How could she be a decent person?”
“No wonder the Goddess no longer protects our Southern Tang. With all the filthy business she ran in the Music Registry, how could the Goddess be pleased?”
“Exactly! If you ask me, burning her is letting her off easy.”
“She got what she deserved. Burning her will cleanse the place. Once the Goddess sees it, she might get happy and grant us some rain.”
“Let's go, let's go.”
The mute lay flat on his back in the gravel. The sky was a hazy gray, and the sun hung directly overhead, its glare making his eyes sting.
He turned his head. Through the gaps between the shifting legs of the crowd, he could see the sacrificial altar.
Hong Xiu was tied to a wooden stake, her hair disheveled and wild. She bore none of her usual captivating, seductive allure.
But she was still laughing.
The mute was too far away to hear what she was saying. He could only see her mouth opening and closing. The crowd below surged, and some people began throwing stones at the platform.
A rock struck her shoulder, making her sway, but she steadied herself and laughed even louder.
The Grand Preceptor said something from the viewing platform, and the crowd erupted.
“Burn her to death!”
“Burn her to death!”
“Burn her to death!”
No, you can't burn her to death.
You can't do this.
She is a very, very good person.
She is not a temptress.
Don't burn her...
The mute lay prone on the ground, his fingernails clawing into the dirt. He wanted to scream, but only a few choked, raspy noises squeezed out of his throat, instantly drowned out by the deafening roars of the crowd.
A soldier carrying a torch crouched beside the woodpile. The flame flickered, and orange tongues of fire licked up the dry wood.
Fed by the tung oil, the fire spread rapidly. Within a few breaths, it reached the second tier of the woodpile. The heat wave could be felt even dozens of zhang away.
The mute saw Hong Xiu's face illuminated by the firelight.
Through the flames and thick smoke, her features were blurry, but he could see her mouth moving. She was laughing—laughing wildly and with reckless abandon.
The tongues of flame licked her body.
The mute did not know where he found the strength.
Propping himself up with his arms, he dragged his broken lower leg and crawled toward the sacrificial altar.
The wounds on his back, his ribs, and his knee all screamed in agony, making his entire body tremble violently. Yet, step by step, he crawled forward, covered in mud and blood.
“Just you... wait—”
Hong Xiu's voice drifted down from the sacrificial altar, muffled and distorted by the crackling fire.
“If I... become a ghost, I will surely become the most ferocious evil ghost.”
“I will come back for you—”
The flames engulfed her.
The mute stopped, staring up at the sacrificial altar.
His eyes were wide, and something inside his chest felt like it was burning—hot, stifling, and suffocating him.
His lips trembled, parting and closing, closing and parting, yet no sound came out.
He was not born a mute.
He could speak when he was a child.
In the winter of his third year, his father had tied him up in the woodshed and raised him like a dog, putting a hemp rope around his neck and feeding him only a bowl of sour rice soup every day.
After starving for three days, he began to mimic a dog's bark, barking woof, woof, woof, because his father told him he was a bastard born from his mother's infidelity, unfit to be a human being.
And so, he was a born mongrel.
Dogs ate dog food, and humans ate human food. If he barked convincingly enough on any given day, he would be rewarded with a bowl of food.
Later, he truly forgot how to speak like a human. His tongue grew stiff, his throat locked up, and every time he tried to open his mouth, only dog barks came out.
But at this moment, something in his throat was desperately trying to burst free.
Hong Xiu had already been burned beyond recognition.
Her head was thrown back, her chin pointing toward the sky, and her face was charred black by the fire, yet her lips still held that mocking curl.
The mute threw his head back and opened his mouth toward the sacrificial altar.
He could not speak human words.
What tore from his throat was a dog's bark.
It was shrill, mournful, and heartbreaking—like a dog that had its leg brutally broken, forced to watch helplessly as its master was dragged into the fire.
Some people turned their heads toward the sound, spotting the thin, small dark shape sprawled on the ground, its mouth wide open as it wailed toward the sacrificial altar.
It was ludicrous and absurd.
The soldiers noticed him too.
Two soldiers standing on the outer perimeter of the sacrificial altar exchanged a look, and one of them frowned as he walked toward the mute.
Stopping in front of the mute, he looked down at the small, scrawny body that was crawling and barking, then raised his foot and stomped on the mute's outstretched hand.
“What is this thing?”
“No idea. Looks like a fool.”
“What are you barking for? Keep barking and I'll cut your tongue out.”
With his fingers pinned under the heavy boot, the mute couldn't move. Yet, he kept his head raised and continued to bark—woof, woof, woof, woof—in desperate, heart-wrenching agony.
The soldier clicked his tongue in irritation, grinding his heel down hard.
“So damn noisy.”
“Tsk, drag him away. Don't let him wail like a widow here; it'll disrupt the ritual.”
The soldier who was stepping on his hand squatted down, grabbed the mute by his collar, and hoisted him off the ground.
The mute hung limply in the air, his legs dangling, his left one completely useless.
“A cripple?”
The soldier tossed him aside and kicked him hard in the ribs.
The mute arched his back in pain before collapsing. Bloody foam spilled from the corners of his mouth, but he still weakly, fitfully continued to bark.
“He really is a dog.”
The soldier cursed and kicked him in the stomach.
The mute curled his body into a tight ball, instinctively shielding his head with both hands.
“Alright, alright, don't kill him. It'll dirty your hands.”
“As long as he stops barking, let's go.”
The two soldiers turned and walked back to the sacrificial altar.
The mute's vision swam with patches of black and white.
He kept his eyes open, peering through his blurred vision toward the sacrificial altar.
The flames soared into the sky.
He could only watch.
Through the fire and thick smoke, he could no longer make out her face. He could only see a dark silhouette wrapped in flames, shrinking and sinking inch by inch, until it collapsed with a soft thud.
The woodpile had collapsed.
The flames flared up with a loud whoosh, then gradually subsided, leaving only orange embers licking the edges of the charcoal and ash.
Thick smoke billowed toward the sky, shrouding half of the sun.
He was in too much pain to move, left completely paralyzed.
The sky slowly darkened, and the crowd dispersed.
The Grand Preceptor's sedan chair was carried away in the twilight. Yun Niang walked off in the distance behind a group of maids. Only a pile of ashes remained in the open ground to the west of the city, glowing with a dull red light. As a night breeze swept by, a layer of faint sparks drifted across the surface of the ashes, flickering once before dying out.
The moon rose to the middle of the sky.
The mute stirred, slowly propping up his upper body.
He tilted his head, glancing toward the sacrificial altar. Then, supporting himself with both arms, he dragged his completely ruined left leg and crawled toward the pile of ashes.
Finally, there was no one left to stop him.
He crawled very slowly, his stomach and chest scraping against the gravel as he nudged himself forward. Sharp pebbles dug into the flesh of his chest. Old wounds layered upon new ones, and blood dragged along his path, leaving a dark red trail.
He couldn't remember how long he had been crawling. He only felt the moon shift from directly overhead to the west. The night wind blew in gusts, chilling him to the bone.
By the time he reached the pile of ashes, the embers were no longer hot.
He brushed them aside with his fingers. The ash was still warm, retaining a thin layer of residual heat. Touching it felt just like the pastries she had pulled from her sleeve that day, carrying a faint, comforting warmth.
It had been so sweet, so sweet—the sweetest thing he had ever tasted in his life.
He began to dig.
He plunged his fingers into the charcoal dust. The black ash flew up, covering his face and making him cough twice.
The coughing jarred his broken ribs, causing his entire body to curl up in pain. Once the spasm passed, he resumed digging.
He broke apart the larger chunks of charcoal and moved them aside, sweeping the fine black ash into neat little piles. When he reached the very bottom, his fingertips brushed against some fragments.
They were tiny, white bone fragments. Some had already crumbled into powder, dissolving at the slightest touch.
The mute's movements halted. In an instant, a torrent of tears spilled from the corners of his eyes.
Then, moving with even greater care, he gently coaxed the fragments out of the ash, gathering them piece by piece into his palm.
Some were mixed with black charcoal bits and hard to distinguish, so he held them close to his eyes, using the moonlight to inspect them carefully. He picked out the white ones and blew away the black soot.
He spent a long time gathering them until he had a tiny handful, which he wrapped carefully in a piece of sleeve torn from his clothes.
Then, he lay down beside the pile of ashes to rest for a moment.
Once he had recovered some strength, he turned and crawled toward the outskirts of the city.
Outside the west gate lay a desolate wasteland.
Wild grass grew half a man's height, swaying in the night breeze. Occasional insect chirps echoed from the brush, and the distant caw of a crow sounded in the dark.
The mute crossed the wasteland and crawled beneath a crooked old locust tree.
The tree's canopy was massive, and the moonlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, scattering like broken silver across the ground.
He selected a relatively flat patch of earth. Though some wild grass grew there, the roots were shallow.
He began to dig with his bare fingers, his nails clawing into the packed earth, scooping it out piece by piece.
The soil was hard. Before he could dig very deep, his fingernails split, and blood seeped from his fingertips, staining the earth a dark red.
His mind was completely blank.
He remembered a long time ago in the backyard of the Music Registry, when he had seen Hong Xiu squatting on the steps, applying medicine to a lame cat whose paw had been stepped on and injured.
She had wrapped bandages around it loop by loop, murmuring as she did so.
“Meow if it hurts. If you don't make a sound, how will I know if it's too loose or too tight?”
The cat remained silent, so she wrapped it twice, took it off, and wrapped it again, repeating the process several times.
He had been squatting beneath a pillar back then, watching her.
He thought to himself that she really was a very, very good person. She was willing to take in a filthy stray dog like him and feed him so many delicious things.
Ever since he started following her, no one had bullied him again.
He wanted to guard her home and courtyard forever, squatting before her door every single night, regardless of the wind, rain, thunder, or snow.
In the winter, when the cold made his body stiffen, he would press himself close to the warm light leaking from the crack of her door to keep warm.
In the summer, when the heat brought swarms of buzzing mosquitoes to the courtyard, he would sit closer, shooing away any bugs that flew near her door.
He didn't need to go inside, nor did he need her to know he was there. He only wanted to squat right there.
He thought how wonderful it would have been if days could have just gone on like that forever.
He would squat beneath the pillar every night, watching the warm light from her door, and she would look down at him whenever she pushed the door open to step out in the morning.
Then, she would toss him a pastry left over from the previous night's banquet before turning to walk away.
Whenever she wanted him to run an errand, she would tilt her chin in his direction, and he would scramble up and follow.
His fingers stopped. He lowered his head, resting his forehead against the edge of the half-dug pit.
He gasped for breath a few times, then resumed digging.
When the pit was a foot and a half deep, he placed the wrapped package of bone fragments inside.
Then, he fished something else out of his robe—a shriveled, wrinkled wild berry he had saved at some point—and placed it beside the fragments.
He remembered her saying once that the pastries sent by those nobles at the Music Registry were too sweet and greasy to swallow, and that they weren't nearly as refreshing as the sour berries growing in the wild.
He had taken those words to heart. Afterward, every time he went to the wild woods south of the city, he would pick some, keeping the largest and reddest ones, wrapping them in banana leaves, and hiding them beneath the straw where he slept.
But he had rarely had the chance to actually give them to her.
She found him too dirty and didn't want him getting too close.
He carefully arranged the dried-up berry, then began filling the pit with soil.
He filled it very slowly, covering it handful by handful, burying the white fragments, the berry, and the wrapped sleeve.
Once the earth was level, he patted the surface flat with his palms, then dragged over a fist-sized stone from nearby to press onto the grave.
Then, he took half a step back and squatted beside the grave.
Rate on N.U.
