The Missing Shadow

> Yuyang County Office, Taiyuan Prefecture. Case file.

> Matter: Death of Wang, a licentiate of Taiyuan.

> Case number: Kangxi Guihai year, Criminal, No. 17.

> Deposition III: continued testimony of the servant Afu; third supplementary statement of Wang; deposition of the doorkeeper Old Li. The interrogating official, deeming Afu's earlier mention of "white light through the door crack" obscure, ordered him re-examined.

> — Liu, chief clerk, respectfully noted.

**【Deposition · the servant · Afu · continued】**

Your honor, what I said the other day was every word true. Your honor says my accounts do not agree, and I dare not argue; I will only tell again, from the beginning, what happened on the morning of the fifth day of the ninth month.

On the fifth, at first light, I went as usual to carry hot water to the study. Those days the young master had given orders: the lady Zhang rose early, the water was to be left at the gate of the study yard—knock three times, set it down, and go. Never enter.

I was at the gate of the study yard, lifting my hand to knock, when I looked up and stopped.

The lady Zhang was standing in the yard.

That day was clear. The sun had just risen and came over the eastern wall, laying the whole yard open and bright. She wore her red clothes and stood in the very middle of the yard—facing the sun, standing full in its light. She was looking up at the sky, and the pale grey of her face showed whiter still in the sunlight.

I saw, at her feet, nothing at all.

The yard was paved with grey brick, grass growing in the cracks. The sun came from the east: the shadow of the wall, the shadow of the tree, even the shadows of the grass-blades, all lay slanted on the ground. But where she stood—at her feet—nothing. She stood there, as if suspended; the ground had no shadow of her.

I thought my eyes were wrong. I rubbed them and looked again. The sun was bright; her red clothes burned against the eye. At her feet, still nothing.

My legs went soft. The kettle nearly slipped from my hand. The lid struck the rim with a small clink.

She heard it. She turned her head and smiled at me—the same smile as always, the mouth red. She said: "Afu. Good morning."

My throat was too dry for speech. At last I forced out: "Lady, good morning. The water… the water is at the door."

She said: "Thank you. A fine sun."

I bent and set the kettle on the stone by the gate. When I straightened, she was no longer in the middle of the yard—she stood in the shade of the gallery, watching me, still smiling. I do not know when she crossed over. My eyes had not left her. There was a shadow in the gallery, slanting; I did not dare look at whose shadow it was.

I set the kettle down, turned, and ran. I ran out of the back garden and crouched behind the rockery a long while, my heart hammering. I did not dare tell the young master. Those days he was not himself, and even if I had told him, he would not have believed me.

I have thought about it countless times since: that morning, the sun came over the eastern wall and laid the yard bright. The shadow of the wall was there, the shadow of the tree was there, the shadows of the grass were there. Only at her feet—nothing at all.

**【Marginal note】** At this point Afu's voice suddenly shook; he asked "is what I said right?" and covered his eyes with his hand for a long time. The interrogating official judged his words confused, but they accord with the later inspection record; noted for the record.

**【Deposition · Wang · third supplementary statement】**

Your honor asks about the morning of the fifth. I remember it. That morning I rose early as well, and stood outside the study a while, meaning to see whether she was up.

When I pushed open the gate, Zhang was standing in the yard.

Your honor asks where she stood. I answer: she stood in the shade of the gallery. I said: "The dew is heavy at dawn; do not stand in the open wind." She smiled and said: "I was looking at the sun." I said: "Go inside, or you will catch cold." And she came in with me.

Your honor asks whether she ever stood in the open sunlight. I answer: no. When I saw her, she was in the gallery. I never saw her stand in the open sun.

(At this the deponent fixed his eyes on the teacup before him, and was silent a long while. Asked why he remembered it so exactly, he answered:) Because afterward I often thought, if she had stood in the sun, I might have seen something else about her. But she never did. She never stood in the open sun.

(Marginal note of the clerk: at this point the deponent's meaning was obscure; ordered to repeat himself, he only shook his head and would say no more.)

**【Marginal note】** Afu testifies "the lady stood in the open sunlight, and had no shadow at her feet"; Wang testifies "the lady stood in the gallery and never entered the sunlight." For the same moment, the two accounts do not agree. The one is specific; the other evasive. The interrogating official further asked Wang: "Did you ever notice whether Zhang had a shadow?" Wang did not answer, and his color changed. Noted.

**【Deposition · the doorkeeper · Old Li】**

Your honor, I am Old Li. I have kept the Wang gate for twenty-one years, from the time of the old master. Your honor asks about the study in the back garden. I will speak plainly.

In twenty-one years of keeping the gate, the corner gate to the back-garden study opened perhaps a few times a year. The young master read in the front study; the back study stood empty, holding old books, old scrolls, and furniture not in use. In the first days of the ninth month the young master said the study now lodged a guest—a distant cousin.

I answered him, but in my heart I doubted it. I keep the gate; those who come and go pass before my eyes. Yet in all those days, no one had entered or left by the corner gate. I mentioned it once to the young master. He said: "She does not go out. She is shy of strangers."

If she did not go out, still she must eat and drink. I kept watch: the water jar in the study yard stood full; the kitchen was in the front court, the study had no stove; the privy stood at the west corner of the back garden, and every morning I cleaned it—those days it stayed perfectly clean, untouched. The water did not fall, the stove did not burn, the privy knew no one. Yet the young master said a living person lodged in that study.

I was afraid, and did not dare ask much. One night I rose to bolt the gate and passed the back garden. I heard a sound from the study: shua, shua, shua—even, stroke after stroke, like someone drawing a brush over paper, or like someone drawing a knife over a skin. I stood and listened a long while. The sound did not stop. I did not dare listen longer and went back.

The next day I asked the young master: "Does someone write in the study at night?" He paused, then said: "She does needlework at night." I did not dare ask again. But in twenty-one years at the Wang house, needlework does not sound like that.

**【Marginal note】** Old Li's testimony read with Afu's raises a deeper doubt: Afu says he carried hot water into the study every day; Old Li says the study bore "no trace of a person living." Afu says he saw the lady standing in the yard at dawn; Old Li says no one ever came or went by the corner gate. In one house, two servants, two accounts. As for the "shua shua" sound, Old Li insists it resembled "a brush on paper, a knife on a skin"; the interrogating official found the words strange, yet ordered them recorded, to be proven in a later volume.