Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

Sedgewater wrote to us in the spring, and the letter was four lines, and the fourth line broke the fire up for three days.

The first three were ordinary. They were putting up a stone. They wanted help getting the names right, because it had been a long time and some of the families had moved and one of the dead had two spellings.

The fourth line said: Grand Archivist Lu has written to us asking to cut the names himself. We do not know what to say. We are sending the question to Tao Tao because everyone here says it is hers.

— • —

I should explain about the stone, because it took me a while to understand why Sedgewater needed one and why it had taken them twelve years to ask.

Everybody else got a homecoming.

That’s the thing. For twelve years this world has been a place where the lost come back. Eight million of them. You say a name in a tent and a man stands up in a field and somebody gives him a chair. It has been the greatest run of good news in the history of anything, and I have been extremely glad about it, and I still am.

But it only works on the erased.

Old Ru was not erased. A soldier killed him in the west lanes of Sedgewater while I was holding the east, and Old Wen carried him out of the reeds saying his name the whole way, and he is dead, and he is staying dead. So is Toma the kettle-mender. So is Sile. So is Sen. So are nineteen people from Sedgewater’s west side whose names I have carried around in my head for twelve years.

For twelve years those families have watched the whole world get its people back.

”Nobody’s said it out loud,” Ji Lan said, when the letter came. ”That’s what this is. They’ve been standing in the middle of the biggest party in history with a hole in the town, being pleased for everybody else. Twelve years of that.” She turned the letter over. ”They’re not asking for a memorial. They’re asking for somewhere to put it down.”

— • —

I went out to Sedgewater about the first three lines, because somebody had to sort the spellings and because I wanted to see it.

It is a good town now. That is the part that surprised me. I had it in my head the way it was the night it burned and the morning after, and it is not that — it is a working fen town with a new mill and about four hundred people and a great many children, and the west lanes were rebuilt eleven years ago and you cannot tell which half is which unless you know to look at the stone.

The woman who met me was called Shan. She had the list.

”Two spellings on Hou,” she said. ”His widow writes it one way and his brother writes it the other and they’ve not spoken in nine years, and I’ll tell you now that is not about the spelling.”

”What do you want to do?”

”Put it the way his widow writes it and let his brother be annoyed,” said Shan. ”He’s been annoyed since before the burning. It’s load-bearing for him.”

We went through all twenty-five. It took most of a day and it was almost entirely admin, which is how these things actually go, and about four times an hour she would say something that stopped me.

”You’ll want to know why now,” she said, at one point, without looking up.

”I’d wondered.”

”Twelve years is a long time to not do a thing.” She turned the page. ”It’s the children. Half this town’s under twenty. They’ve grown up in the best years anybody’s ever had — everybody’s grandmother came back, there’s a man on the mill lane who’s nine hundred years old and mends shoes. And the burning’s just a story to them. Something that happened before, in the bad time.”

”That’s what we were trying for.”

”I know. I’m not complaining, I’d not swap it.” She set the pen down. ”But my father is in that story. And when a child in this town says the nineteen, they mean it the way you’d mean a battle in a song. They don’t mean a man who was forty-one and couldn’t whistle and went back for somebody else’s dog.”

”Is that yours?”

”That’s mine,” said Shan. ”Dou. He’s fourth on my list and first on my own.” She picked the pen back up. ”Everybody else in the world got theirs back. I want that said properly, because I’ve not said it and I’ll only say it once. I have been glad for twelve years. I have carried chairs to people’s homecomings and cried at them and meant it. And every single time, somewhere under it, I have thought: not mine. Never mine. Mine is the one kind you can’t fix.” She shrugged. ”So. A stone. So there’s somewhere to put it that isn’t the inside of my head.”

— • —

Then there was the fourth line.

”He wrote to them,” said Tao Tao. She had read it about nine times. ”He wrote to Sedgewater. Behind my back.”

”It’s not behind your back,” said Xue Ningzhi. ”You’re not the town.”

”He didn’t tell me.”

”He told them, and they told you, which is the correct order for a man asking a town for something.” Xue Ningzhi was not being kind about it; she is never kind about it, which is why Tao Tao goes to her. ”The question is what you’re going to answer.”

”I’m not answering. It’s not mine.”

”They’ve said it’s yours.”

”They’re wrong,” said Tao Tao, and then sat down hard on the log, because she had heard herself.

— • —

Lu, when I found him, was at his own table with his own list, which is where he has been every morning for eleven years. He is through about four hundred thousand of his two million four hundred and eleven thousand six hundred and nine. He will not finish either. He knows that. Ping taught him not to mention it.

”You wrote to Sedgewater,” I said.

”Yes.”

”Why?”

He put the pen down, which he does not usually do.

”Because I can cut stone,” said Lu. ”That’s all. I learned it as a boy, before the Archive, and I have not done it in sixty years and my hands still know it.” He looked at his hands. ”I have spent eleven years reading names at a table, which is right, and which is also comfortable. Nobody watches me do it. Nobody has to have an opinion about me. I sit in a tent and I am useful and I am invisible, and I have started to notice how much I like the invisible part.”

”So you asked to go and be seen.”

”I asked to do a job in a town that has every reason to throw me out of it.” He picked the pen back up. ”They will probably say no. I would say no. I am not asking you to help and I am certainly not asking her.”

”She’s going to be asked anyway.”

”I know,” said Lu. ”I’m sorry about that. There was no way to ask them that didn’t land on her, and I decided a long time ago that I do not get to protect her from things by keeping them quiet. That is what my Empire did.” He found his place on the sheet. ”She should be allowed to say no to my face. It is nearly the only thing I can still give her.”

— • —

Tao Tao did not sleep for two nights, and on the third she came and found me at the pot at an hour when only the two of us are ever up.

”I keep waiting to know,” she said.

”And?”

”Nothing. It’s just not there.” She sat down. ”Every other hard thing I’ve ever had, I knew. I knew about the Crossed. I knew about Ma Jun. I knew about Ping, right up to the end, I knew exactly what I was doing.” She pulled her knees up. ”This one, I open my mouth and there’s nothing in it. And I’ve worked out why and I don’t like it.”

”Go on.”

”Because I’ve been doing a job.” She said it fast, like pulling something out. ”Twelve years. Not forgiving him. That’s been a job. It’s got hours. I turn up, I don’t forgive him, I hand him a bowl, I go home.” Her jaw was going. ”And somewhere in it I stopped asking whether I even still feel it or whether I’m just — clocking on. Because if I ever stopped doing the job, then who’s keeping old Ru? Somebody has to keep being angry about old Ru, or what was he?”

I let that sit.

”Tao Tao,” I said. ”Who else is angry about old Ru?”

She looked up.

”Old Wen,” she said.

”Old Wen.”

”...Who I have not asked. In twelve years.” She put her face in her hands. ”Oh, that’s awful. That’s genuinely awful. I’ve been the keeper of a grief that isn’t mine and I never once asked the woman who carried him out of the water.”