Chapter 227 — Kin

Song Dayi walked silently toward the Hall of Quiet Cultivation. After two steps he felt something amiss and looked back, and found Ming Li standing rooted where he was, staring at the hall, his feet not moving to follow.

"What is it?"

Ming Li's face looked very pale. Somehow, gazing at that hall with its drifting smoke and its sound of weeping, he felt a measure of dread in his heart—like a child who has done wrong and dares not face the parent he is about to grieve.

Song Dayi seemed to read something in him. He sighed and said: "Come." And with that he reached out and patted his shoulder. Ming Li stirred, glanced at Song Dayi, nodded silently, and stepped forward.

The nearer they came to the Hall of Quiet Cultivation, the stronger the smell of smoke and incense, and the clearer the sound of choked weeping—yet though among those sounds there were voices familiar to Ming Li's memory, there was no woman's weeping among them: not Su Wan's, and not that of the senior sister he had expected to find, Tian Lingsu, now married into another house.

At last, led by Song Dayi, he once again stood at the entrance of the Hall of Quiet Cultivation.

Several gazes turned in an instant and came to rest upon him. Ming Li's body was trembling faintly. One by one, his eyes moved from face to face.

Wu Dayi, Zheng Dali, He Dachuan, Lü Daxin, Du Biyan!

These familiar faces now appeared before Ming Li one after another. Many years ago they had been the dearest kin in all the world to him, the senior brothers he trusted most.

At their waists, just like Song Dayi, were bound strips of white hemp cloth worn in mourning, and sorrow was written on every face; some had wept until their eyes were red and swollen. In the Hall of Quiet Cultivation stood a great iron cauldron with a fire burning within, and the senior brothers standing beside it slowly fed paper money into the flames.

Smoke and sparks curled upward, and the haze spread through the hall.

Ming Li stared blankly. Beyond the smoke, Tian Buhui lay quietly upon a bier, his soiled garments changed for a clean set, neatly arrayed upon him, and his face seemed to have grown much more peaceful. Their master's wife, Su Wan, sat now beside the body, her hand reaching out to clasp Tian Buhui's hand, holding it tight.

Her expression was one of deep grief, yet she shed not a single tear. Tucked into the hair at her temple was a small white flower, a wild blossom still faintly beaded with dew from the morning, plain and lovely, touched with a measure of sorrow. She only held her husband's hand tightly and gazed upon Tian Buhui's face. But her daughter, Tian Lingsu, had not appeared in the Hall of Quiet Cultivation.

And the great yellow dog that Tian Buhui had raised from a pup lay now soundlessly on the ground beside the bier, its head drooping listlessly against the floor, utterly stripped of its usual frisking spirits.

Once Ming Li's gaze fell upon Tian Buhui, he could not move it away again. His steps were heavy, and slowly, one by one, he shuffled forward. Song Dayi walked over without a word, fetched a length of white hemp rope, and handed it to Ming Li. Ming Li looked at him, a trace of gratitude passing through his eyes, nodded, took the rope, and said in a low voice, "Thank you."

Song Dayi glanced toward Su Wan and said, "Go on over to our master's wife." With that, he walked silently back among his fellow disciples, knelt before Tian Buhui's remains, and knocked his head three times against the floor. When he lifted his head his eyes were rimmed with red again. Turning, he took a stack of paper money from Wu Dayi, who knelt beside him, and began slowly to drop it into the fire.

Ming Li looked at the hemp rope in his hand for a long while, then bound it about his waist. The ash-white cord wound around him, carrying with it a certain sorrow, and yet it seemed also to bind his heart once more to this place.

He walked on in silence, came before the bier, and knelt. Three times he struck his head to the floor before Tian Buhui's remains. Then he turned and knelt prostrate before Su Wan.

"Your disciple..." His voice broke off abruptly. A long while passed before he was heard to begin again, in a low, deep tone: "Your disciple Zhang... Xiaofan pays his respects to our master's wife."

Behind him, Song Dayi and the other five disciples of Dazhu Peak looked toward him, their expressions somewhat complex, but what showed most was still that joy and closeness of blood thicker than water.

Even Su Wan's face revealed a faint trace of comfort. She gazed at Ming Li and nodded, then a flicker of pain crossed her features. Looking to Tian Buhui, she said softly, "Buhui, do you hear? It's Old Seven. He's come back to knock his head for you."

Ming Li knelt prostrate at Su Wan's feet, unable to speak.

Behind him came the sound of choked sobbing.

The smoke curled and drifted slowly, and the Hall of Quiet Cultivation seemed to blur into a kind of haze. Whether it was because its master was gone, even this hall now looked hollow and empty, not in the least loud or crowded for all the people gathered in it.

After a good while, Song Dayi wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and stepped forward to Su Wan's side. In a low voice he said, "Master's wife, pray instruct us concerning the funeral rites for our master. Word must be sent one by one to the elders and seniors of every branch, and I had thought to hurry to Longji Peak to inform our sister Linger, so that she might..."

"There is no hurry for that!" Su Wan suddenly cut Song Dayi short, saying mildly.

Song Dayi was startled, and the disciples behind him, Ming Li among them, were all struck dumb for a moment. In the Hall of Quiet Cultivation all fell hushed, without a sound.

Only after a good while did Song Dayi muster his courage and venture cautiously, "Master's wife, our master has passed, and your disciples all understand your grief. Only these rites... they cannot be delayed."

Su Wan's expression did not change in the slightest. More than that, she did not even glance at Song Dayi. In her eyes there was nothing but the figure of Tian Buhui, save that one look she had given the Old Seven who had just returned.

Embarrassment showed on Song Dayi's face, and for a moment he did not know what to do. He looked back at the junior brothers kneeling on the ground and burning paper money, but they too exchanged glances, at a loss. Just then Su Wan spoke and called out, "Daren."

Song Dayi hastened to answer, "Yes, master's wife. What are your orders?"

Su Wan said, "You and the others step outside for now. Without my summons, you are not to come in."

Song Dayi froze for a moment, then retreated a few steps. The junior brothers beside him all looked over. Song Dayi frowned and said nothing. He Dachuan, usually the sharpest of them, standing at his side, gave him the slightest shake of the head, anxiety written on his face. Seeing it, Song Dayi only knit his brows the tighter.

He had been with these junior brothers longer than he could reckon, and he knew full well what weighed on He Dachuan's mind. Of all the disciples he had followed Tian Buhui and Su Wan the longest, and no one understood better than he the deep devotion between master and wife. If, with the rest of them gone, their master's wife should in her grief take some desperate notion, would that not...

At that thought Song Dayi went white with fright, and his feet would not stir no matter what. Just then Su Wan shot a glare at the several of them and said with a touch of anger, "What are you about? Is it that once your master is dead, you no longer set any store by the words of this master's wife?"

"Thump! Thump!"

Several times in succession, save for Ming Li, who already knelt before Su Wan, Song Dayi and the other disciples of Dazhu Peak all dropped to their knees, knocking their heads to the ground. Song Dayi kept saying, "Your disciples dare not, your disciples dare not!"