Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

I told Yun Shu I was going to find Lu, and she looked at me for a long moment across the fire and said, ”No you’re not. You’re going to find his wife. Say it right, or you’ll do it wrong.”

She was correct, of course.

She’s usually correct; it’s one of the more irritating things about being loved by her.

I was going to Anfen.

”Don’t go to his camp,” Xue Ningzhi had said, when I told her. ”He isn’t in his camp. A man doesn’t sit with a column of figures that keep coming out wrong for a month and then stay put. He’s already moving, and he’s moving to the one place he’s spent thirty-one years not going into.”

She was folding a map with the particular care she uses when her hands want something to do.

”You’ll want to be there first. Not to stop him. To be there. There’s a difference, and it’s the whole of what we’re for.”

So we rode for Anfen, the two of us, and left the movement in Yun Shu’s hands and the songs in Tao Tao’s and the coast in Nai’s, and I want to tell you about the ride, because the argument we had on it is the argument the whole book has been building toward, and I lost it, and I was glad to lose it, and I’m still not sure I was right to be.

— • —

”We don’t have the right,” I said, somewhere on the second day.

”That’s the thing I keep coming back to. She chose. Thirty-one years ago, awake, in the light, knowing the cost — she chose to set it down. That’s the most sacred thing we have. It’s the only thing we have. We don’t get to walk into a happy woman’s garden and tell her she chose wrong.”

”No,” said Xue Ningzhi. ”We don’t.”

”Then what are we doing?”

”We’re going to make sure the choice she gets this time is a real one.”

She rode in silence for a while.

”You keep saying she chose, Lin Bo. She did. But listen to what she actually got to choose between. Drown, or cut. That was the whole menu. There was no third thing on that table because the third thing hadn’t been invented — no Mu Chen, no carrying-craft, nobody alive who knew how to help a person hold a dead child without going under. She chose the only survivable option on offer, and we’ve all been calling that a free choice for thirty-one years.”

She looked over at me.

”A choice between drowning and amputation isn’t freedom. It’s a trap with two doors. And her husband built it, and then spent his life installing it in everyone.”

”And you want to give her the third door.”

”I want her to know it exists.” Her jaw was tight. ”That’s all. I’m not going to hold it open and shove her through — God, I’d sooner die, I know exactly what that feels like from the wrong end. But there is a difference between a woman who chose forgetting because it was that or drown, and a woman who chooses it knowing there was a way to keep them and carry them and not go under. One of those is a free choice. The other is what was done to her. And she has never once been offered the first kind.”

I rode and thought about that.

”You keep saying you know it from the wrong end,” I said, carefully, because you do not push Xue Ningzhi, you leave the door open and wait.

She was quiet for a long time.

Long enough that I thought she wouldn’t.

”I built a room like his,” she said at last. ”You know that much. Twenty years I sat in the Empire and helped decide what the world would be allowed to keep. And there was a thing of my own I couldn’t carry, once, and I had the craft right there in my hands, the way he did, and one night I very nearly used it on myself.”

She watched the road.

”I didn’t. Not because I was strong. Because there was one person who sat with me instead, who didn’t tell me to set it down and didn’t tell me to be brave, who just — stayed, while I carried it, until I found out I could. That’s the only reason I’m the version of me that changed her mind.”

A breath.

”Nobody stayed with Mei. She had a husband who loved her and no idea how to sit in the dark with her, so he took the dark away instead. That’s not a monster, Lin Bo. That’s a man who couldn’t bear to watch and called it mercy. I know him all the way down because I nearly was him. I’m going to Anfen because somebody should be in that garden who knows the road out and isn’t the man who built the trap.”

I didn’t say anything for about a mile.

”That’s the best reason I’ve ever heard for anything,” I said finally.

”I know,” said Xue Ningzhi. ”Don’t make it weird.”

— • —

Anfen is a small water-town on a slow green river, the kind of place where nothing has happened in living memory and everyone seems content about that.

It was spring when we came in — full spring, the ground soft, every dooryard doing something with flowers — and it was, I want to be honest, one of the most peaceful places I have ever stood, and that made the whole thing worse.

We found her house without much trouble.

You just ask an old town about an old woman and it tells you everything, gently, over tea.

Mei’s house was near the water, small and well-kept, with a front garden that somebody clearly loved.

A decent man had married her twenty-six years back and was, the town told us, a good sort, off up-country that week seeing a brother.

And Mei herself was—

I saw her before anyone said her name.

She was in the front garden, on her knees in the soft spring dirt, planting something.

Sixty-one years old, grey, unhurried, with a broad plain kind face and dirt on her hands and the particular contentment of a person doing a small thing they’ve done a thousand times.

She hummed while she worked.

She stopped once to say something to a cat.

She was, by every visible sign, a happy woman on a good afternoon in a life that had been kind to her.

And I understood, standing across the lane looking at her, exactly why Lu had built a religion.

Because that’s what mercy looks like.

That’s what setting it down does.

She wasn’t a hollow thing, wasn’t broken, wasn’t secretly screaming — she was a contented old woman planting flowers in the spring, and if you did not know one single thing about her you would call her blessed.

Every word Lu ever said was standing in that garden with dirt on its hands, humming, and it was unanswerable, and I felt the whole argument slide out from under me.

”I can’t do it,” I said, quiet. ”Ningzhi. Look at her. She’s happy. We can’t. It’d be the cruelest thing anyone’s ever—”

”Wait,” said Xue Ningzhi. ”You’re doing the thing he does. You’re reading the total off the top of the column. Wait, and watch, and see what she reaches for.”

So we waited.

And we watched.

And the town told us the rest, the way towns do, and Yun Shu was in me the whole time even though she was three provinces away, because Yun Shu taught me how to see the residue, and the residue was everywhere once I stopped looking at the total and started looking at the woman.

We took a room at the one inn, and the old woman who kept it was glad of company and gladder of an excuse to talk, and I let her, because I have learned that if you want to know the truth of a place you buy an old woman tea and then you stop talking.

”Mei? Oh, she’s a treasure, is Mei.”

The innkeeper settled in with the pleasure of a person about to be fond about a neighbour.

”Kindest woman in Anfen. Sit up all night with your sick, she will, and never asked. But—” and here the fondness went soft and puzzled, the way it does when people love someone they don’t understand, ”—she’s got her spring sadness, poor love. Every year, when the ground thaws. Right as rain all winter and then one afternoon she’ll go ever so quiet, and out she’ll go to that east wall and plant her white flowers, and she’ll cry the whole time she’s doing it. Every spring I’ve known her. Thirty years and more.”

”Does she say why?” asked Xue Ningzhi, very level.

”That’s the thing of it. She doesn’t know why.”

The old woman shook her head.

”Ask her and she’ll wipe her face and laugh and say she’s a silly old woman, it’s the season, pay her no mind. But it’s not the season. I’ve buried a husband, I know grief when it’s kneeling in the dirt in front of me, and that woman is grieving, every spring, hard as anyone I ever saw — and she hasn’t the first idea what for. Breaks your heart. She apologizes for it. Grieves like the world’s ending and then says sorry to you for the bother.”

She refilled our cups.

”Her man just holds her hand through it and asks nothing, bless him. What else can you do. Some sorrows haven’t got a reason. That’s what we all tell her.”

I looked into my tea and did not trust my face.

And there was more, once I was looking, and the old woman gave it up gladly, not knowing she was handing me the foundations of a war.

For years, she said, Mei set two extra places at supper and couldn’t say why, until one day she stopped, and cried harder about stopping than she ever had about starting.

She won’t abide the winter fever going round; she’ll fight for other people’s sick children like they’re her own, fierce and sleepless, and she’s buried more than one and taken it far harder than a neighbour ought.

And every single spring, that white flower along the east wall, and the tears she has no name for, and the apology after.

I sat in that inn and felt the floor of the whole war open up under me.

Because she was carrying it.

She had been carrying it the entire time.

Thirty-one years.

The weight Lu had cut away to save her from — she was still holding it, every spring, on her knees in the dirt.

He hadn’t taken the grief.

You can’t take the grief; the grief isn’t in the names, it’s in the love, and the love had nowhere to go so it went into a white flower and two empty places and other people’s dying children.

All he’d taken was the names.

All he’d managed to do was make her carry the exact same weight with no idea what it was for — grief with the labels torn off, an ache pointing at nothing, for thirty-one springs.

She wasn’t a woman who’d been mercifully unburdened.

She was a woman who’d been grieving blind her whole life, and calling herself silly for it, and apologizing to her neighbours for a sadness she wasn’t allowed to understand.

I went back out to the lane after that.

I couldn’t sit still in the inn with it.

She was still there in the long gold light of the late afternoon, on her knees at the east wall, patting the dirt around that white flower, humming, and Xue Ningzhi came out and stood beside me without a word.

”He didn’t save her from it,” I said. My voice didn’t work right. ”Ningzhi. He didn’t take the weight. He just took the—”

”I know,” she said, very low. ”I’ve known since the first time he told the story and said the word happy. There’s no such thing as a clean cut. I ran that division for eleven years. Everything leaves residue. Everything. He of all people should know that, and he does know it, and it’s the one figure in the whole column he has never let himself add up.”

She was watching Mei plant her white flower with a face like a closed door.

”He thinks he’s spent thirty-one years being a prophet of mercy. He’s spent thirty-one years being the man who took away the names and left the grief. And he’s about to walk into that garden and find out.”

And the dark came in, then, gentle over the slow green river, the way it always does at the exact moment I have nothing left.

Leave her be, it said, and it was kind, and it was not entirely wrong, which is the terrible thing about it.

Look at her. She is at peace. She has been at peace for thirty-one years. You are about to walk into a garden and hand a happy old woman the worst day of a life she doesn’t remember living. You call HIM the cruel one. What do you call this? You would tear open a scar this well-healed to win an argument about a column of figures.

Let her plant her flower, said the dark. Let her not know what it’s for. Isn’t that the very mercy you’ve spent a hundred Chapters fighting me over? Some weights are too heavy. You said so yourself. Leave. Her. Be.

And I stood there and had no answer, because it was the best case the dark had ever made to me, and I could not for the life of me see the hole in it.

Then Xue Ningzhi touched my arm.

Down at the end of the lane, where the road came in from the north, a small mild elderly man in travelling grey had stopped walking.

He was looking at the garden.

He had, I understood, been walking past this exact gate every spring for thirty-one years and never once stopped.

He was not walking past this time.