Night Voices

> Ning Caichen's night journal at Lanruo Temple

> Autumn of the Guihai year, Kangxi; ninth day of the ninth month, written at Lanruo Temple, north of Jinhua city

**Day**

Nothing today.

The temple keeps no monastic hours, rings no bell; even the birds are few. The days are still to the point of dullness.

I rose and warmed my books, copying half a scroll of the *Book of Changes*. The sun was good, so I set down my brush and pushed open the gate to walk the temple grounds. Lanruo Temple has lain waste seven years; the gate is mottled, half a "Lan" character left of its gold-lettered plaque. Inside the gate, mugwort fills both sides of the blue-stone walk. The hall door stood ajar; I pushed it—the axle dry, a creak. The Buddha is still there, but thick with dust; the incense table bears a deep layer of ash, no incense, no candles, no cushions. Beneath the table a nest of dry grass, where wildcats once slept.

The Buddha's eyes are cast down. The little smile at the corner of his mouth, dusted over, is still clear to see. I stood and looked at him a while. A clay idol, seated in a waste temple who knows how many years; seven years the incense has been broken, and he neither speaks nor leaves.

I backed out and went around to look behind the hall. An empty plot behind the hall, grass to the waist. That white poplar stands at the west end of the hillside, one alone, very tall, its crown broad, spreading a deep shade. The bark is grey-white, flaking in layers. Beneath the tree the earth is newly turned, darker than the rest, damp—stirred not long ago. At the edge of the turned earth, paper money lies half-buried, a corner lifting in the wind, then falling back.

I did not go near.

I stood below the hillside a while. Wind came down from the hillside; the poplar's leaves rustled loud, and a few sheets of paper money were carried up, wheeled once in mid-air, and settled back at the earth's edge. I looked at that money—the sort burned for the dead: yellow paper, one corner singed black. I turned and went the long way back to the west wing, past the front of the hall, and did not go toward the back again.

Paper money is common enough in a waste temple's wilds, perhaps burned by some household nearby. But that earth was new. I thought of the woodcutter's words at the gate on the day I came—"the west wing is the least clean." And of Yan Chixia's sentence: "This temple is not clean."

In the afternoon I met Yan Chixia in the gallery. He sat under the east-wing eaves, before him the same coarse bowl, the same wine in it. Seeing me pass, he did not lift his head, only said: "Don't walk toward the back of the hall by day."

I answered him, thought a moment, and asked: "Sir, how is it there is new earth under that white poplar behind the hall?"

He raised the bowl, drank, and said: "I don't know."

"Have the temple's monks truly all gone?"

"The monks left long ago," he said. "Those that went, went; those that died, died."

My heart tightened. I meant to ask more, but he had already set down the bowl and risen, and the door shut behind him. He walks very lightly, so lightly it is nearly inaudible—standing in the gallery, watching his closed door, I thought suddenly: a man who has lived seven years in a waste temple, why does he walk so lightly?

I stood in the gallery a while longer. The east wing's door was closed; a dim yellow showed through its paper window—his lamp, lit in broad daylight. I thought: a man who shuts his door and lights his lamp by day, what is he doing?

At dusk I returned to the west wing and lit my lamp. The oil was the temple's store, fresh. I trimmed the wick, sat down, and went on copying my book. When I reached the *Xici* chapter, wind rose outside, rattling the mugwort. I set down my brush and listened. In the wind there was no other sound.

**Night journal · the third night (first night of the uncanny)**

At the first watch I was reading the third yang line of the *Qian* hexagram, when I heard—from beyond the temple wall—a woman's laughter.

My brushpoint paused.

Not a mishearing. The laughter came from beyond the wall, far off, light and brittle, brittle to the point of hollowness; in the waste temple's dark it stood out sharply. I set down my brush and listened. The laughter sounded again after a moment—nearer this time, having gone around to beyond the rear wall. It rang crisp and fresh, as if several women were gathered together over something amusing, one leading off and the rest following.

I sat a while and did not move.

The laughter stopped behind the rear wall. I waited for it to pass—it did not pass. It stayed there, beyond one wall, sound after sound. I took up my book and read on.

After the second burst of laughter stopped, I turned a page and read on. When the third burst pressed against the wall's foot, my brushpoint paused on the paper—the ink spread a small blot. I dipped the brush and covered the blot, and went on writing.

Reading to the line "the gentleman is vigorous and vigilant through the day," the laughter was still there. I did not look up; I only read. I counted—the laughter came four times in all, each nearer than the last. The first, so far off it was as across a field; the second, at the wall; the third, against the wall's foot; the fourth, round to the west-wing window, where it stopped.

That stopping was brief. I heard something by the window touch the sill very lightly—a clink, extremely faint. I could not tell whether it was a finger, or the wind.

I did not rise. Yan Chixia had said: if you hear something at night, do not open the door, do not make a sound.

After that one sound, the window went quiet for a while. Then the laughter sounded again—this time it was going away, someone dragging footsteps, slowly, toward the back of the hall. The steps dragged, muffled by one wall, one after another, and my heart tightened to hear them.

I finished the *Qian* hexagram and copied two more pages before putting down my brush.

As I lay down and blew out the lamp, I went back over the laughter in my mind, and the more I thought, the wronger it seemed—when the laughter began, I had glanced out through the window paper: that white poplar behind the hall had not moved at all. The wind had plainly risen that night; the mugwort shook all about, and the poplar stood without a tremor.

And one thing more, harder to understand. The laughter sounded like several people laughing; but listened to closely, the voices lay over one another too evenly—plainly one person, mimicking several.

I lay in the dark turning these two matters over and over. After a while I heard, toward the east wing, an extremely faint sound—a scabbard striking a stone sill, just so, once. Then, silence.

A dim yellow showed through the east-wing window paper—the lamp still burning. I stared at that dim yellow for a long time. When the lamp went out, I do not know. When I opened my eyes again, half-dazed, the temple had gone still but for the wind.

The east wing's lamp was not put out until midnight. Before it went out, the dim yellow on the window paper burned on. I counted it, and lost count of where I was.

Tonight I did not read by night. I blew out the lamp and lay listening to the temple's noises. No more laughter beyond the wall. In the latter half of the night, only wind, driving the window paper, sighing and sighing. In the sound of the wind I heard my own heartbeat, one, one, uncountable.

**Tonight I record this**: a woman's laughter beyond the temple wall, come at midnight, four times, each nearer. The last pressed against the window, and the sill clinked. When the laughter came, the white poplar did not move. The laughter sounded like several people; listened to closely, it was one person's voice. I heard the east wing's sword sound. Tonight I did not open the door, and did not make a sound.