Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

It went well for a while, and I want to share the good part before the wall hits, because we really earned those moments — and you deserve to see what it looked like when everything was working.

The vessel widened, region by region. We built it the careful way, just like Xue Ningzhi’s clock demanded — we didn’t go faster than the flood, we grew the world’s capacity exactly as fast as its memory, and we never lit a name that the weave wasn’t ready to hold. And it actually worked. The fen came first. Then the river-country to the east. Then the terraces. Each stretch was a little wider than the one before, town tied to town tied to region, spreading the far-shore way from throat to throat, until whole pieces of the world could carry their own grief at once and no single heart had to sink.

There was a kind of peace in it I hadn’t felt in this whole book. Building isn’t like fighting. Nobody died in a weave. We’d wake up, do some carpentry — Mu Chen working his load-charts, Tao Tao knotting new towns into the frame, Ji Lan running the shared thread, and Bai Qing showing a hundred new gate-keepers how to hold. In the evenings, we had soup that, surprisingly, wasn’t terrible, and Tao Tao would argue with Nai about whether a way-song counts as music if it lacks a tune, while Bai Qing sat off to the side with the quiet of a woman who had finally found the name for her whole life and was still turning it over, slowly, like a stone she couldn’t stop touching. I caught her at it one night, and she caught me watching, and she just said, ’It’s strange, being useful in the exact shape you already were,’ and I told her I knew the feeling — and neither of us said another word, but it was a whole conversation, the kind you only have with someone who’s walked the same long road. I didn’t push. Some people are still arriving at things; you have to let them arrive.

That was the good part. It lasted for three regions.

Then we reached the Unnamed Hundred, and our whole beautiful gospel of lighting names slammed into the first place on earth that didn’t want to be lit.

— • —

The Hundred — the day our plan hit a wall.

You could feel it before you understood it. We came over the last terrace into a wide, low country filled with a hundred small villages, and the silence there wasn’t peaceful — it was the kind of quiet you find in a house after someone has taken all the photos down. There was a hole where the names should be. The Scroll felt weird and dim around me, not because the dark was eating anything — there wasn’t anything there for it to eat — but because the people had, somehow, gone under the ladder on purpose. Nameless. Every last one of them. A hundred villages living below Storied, below even the bottom rung, in a quiet they’d picked out for themselves.

I didn’t get it until the Warden walked out to meet us.

She was old and didn’t show a lick of fear, which told me everything I needed to know, because most of the world is at least a little scared of the most powerful being that’s ever lived — yet this woman just looked at me like I was the weather. They called her the Warden, I learned, because someone has to keep a wound shut, and she’d been doing that for most of her life; she walked to the edge of her hundred villages with her arms crossed and said, before I could get out a single word of our gospel:

’We know who you are. We know what you do. You light the dark. You give people their dead back.’ She said it flat, without heat, like she was telling a peddler she already had enough pots. ’We don’t want them back. Turn around.’

I stood there with the whole vessel at my back, and I didn’t have a thing to say, because in a hundred and twenty Chapters of this weird life, nobody had ever once told me to turn around.

She saw it sink in, and something in her face — not exactly softened, but opened, like a person opening up because they’ve decided to tell you the truth so you’ll just stop and leave — and she told me what the Unnamed Hundred were, and I’m going to tell it to you just like she told me, because it broke something open in the whole plan.

Generations ago, she said, the water came.

There used to be a barrier, north of the Hundred — a great old wall that held back a high, cold lake from the low country where the villages sat. It held for a thousand years. Then, one spring night, it didn’t. The wall broke, the lake came crashing down on the Hundred in the dark, and it took — she didn’t say how many. She just said, it took the night, it took the morning, and it took most of everyone there was. A whole people drowned in one night because the thing holding back the water finally, after a thousand years, gave way.

And the ones who lived tried to carry it.

’We tried,’ the Warden said, and now there was heat there, old and banked and terrible. ’We did it your way, before there was a your way. We remembered. We named every one of them, we mourned, we told the story, we held it. And it drowned us too. Not the water — the water was done. The grief. It was too much and there was no bottom to it and no one to help us hold it, so we started to go under, all of us — a second drowning, slower, the whole surviving Hundred sinking into a sorrow with no shore.’ Her jaw worked. ’So we cut it out. All of it. We unmade the memory of the night the water came, we took down every name, we un-named our own selves so that no one could ever find the grief again and hand it back to us — and we lived. We are alive because we chose the dark. We have been at peace for three generations because we buried the thing that was drowning us so deep that not even you, with all your light, can dig it up.’ She unfolded her arms, not to threaten me, but to plead — one old woman guarding the only mercy that ever worked. ’You come here with your beautiful weave and your dead-come-home, and I am telling you: for us, the forgetting wasn’t the disease. The forgetting was the cure. Turn around, before you open a grave a hundred villages agreed to close.’

— • —

We made camp outside the Hundred that night, and it was the quietest camp we’d ever kept, since every one of us was stuck inside the same terrible knot.

’They need to remember,’ Tao Tao said, but she sounded uncertain, which I’d never heard from her regarding memory. My fierce junior, the one who built a whole movement on the dead can come home, staring at a hundred villages full of dead who’d been sent away on purpose. ’Their people drowned and nobody says their names. That’s — Lin Bo, that’s the exact thing. That’s the dark winning. A whole night of dead, gone quiet, forgotten. How do we just — leave that? How is that not everything we fight?’

’Because the alternative is worse,’ Xue Ningzhi said, as cold and clear as ever. ’Look at what she’s telling us. They tried to carry it and they had no vessel, and it nearly took the survivors too. She isn’t wrong. She saved her people the only way she could. And now we want to reopen it — just for our project. Because the vessel needs the whole world, and a hundred silent villages are a hole in the cradle.’ She let that sit, ugly, in the firelight. ’That’s the truth of what we’re tempted to do here. We need them to remember so the vessel works. That’s our need. And if we walk in there and make a grieving people carry a thing they chose to set down, just because it serves our great remembering — then we’re doing the exact thing the Empire did. We’d be a kinder Editor. Not a different one. A kinder one.’

Nobody answered her, because there was no answer, and that was the wall.

I sat with it for a long time, the most powerful being that’s ever lived, feeling entirely powerless in the one way that actually mattered. Because I could make them remember. That’s the horror of what I am. I could throw my light over the Hundred and drag the drowned night back up into every heart in those villages, and there isn’t a thing on earth that could stop me. It would serve the vessel, sure. But it would be such a total betrayal of everything we are that I’d rather the vessel never be finished at all.

You can’t conscript a person into carrying. The whole point of the vessel is that it’s held, together, willingly. A vessel built out of forced remembering isn’t a cradle; it’s a prison with better lighting. And the first age drowned precisely because it had too much remembering and no choice in it — an ocean of memory with no bottom and no consent, forced on everyone at once. That’s the drowning. That’s the thing we’re trying not to do.

So here was the wall, and I’ll state it as plainly as it stood: the vessel needs the whole world. And you can’t make the world join it. And a hundred villages had just said no, for reasons that were right.

I didn’t know how you build a thing that needs everyone without forcing anyone. I went to sleep not knowing. It was the first night of the whole construction that I was afraid we’d hit something the plan couldn’t solve.