The Window Shadow

> Ning Caichen's night journal at Lanruo Temple

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

**Day**

The wind is high today.

I sat at the window reading, and could not read. The night's affair, weighed in daylight, was only laughter—a waste temple in the wilds; perhaps village women passing beyond the wall, talking and laughing. But two things sat in my heart: the laughter had gone toward the white poplar; and I had heard the east wing's sword sound once.

After noon I went for water, passing the east wing; Yan Chixia's door was shut. I stood a moment; I did not knock. He had said "don't walk toward the back of the hall by day," and I remembered it. But I still wanted to ask—had he lain awake last night too, and what had he heard.

I did not ask. In the water jar the fish rose, sank again; rings spread one by one across the surface. I crouched by the jar watching a while before taking up my bucket and going. A film of moss grew along the jar's rim; I touched it—slick. The fish swam up, swam away. I thought of last night's business, and crouched watching for a long time.

Back in my room I set the book chest in order. I turned out an old padded coat, shook the dust from it, and spread it on the window sill to air. The sun was good; I looked over the window paper as I did—last night's wind had lifted one corner loose, and I pasted it firm again with rice-water. Pasting, my hand stopped: on the outside of the paper, near the lower corner, was a patch of colour darker than the rest, soaked in—something had pressed against the paper, and stood there a long while.

I pressed the dark patch. The paper under my fingertip was dry. I did not dwell on it. Dew, perhaps, soaked through. Outside the window the sun blazed white; the mugwort stood still; the wind had died long since.

In the afternoon Yan Chixia's door opened. Through my window I saw him standing under the eaves, no sword in his hand, just standing, looking toward the back of the hall. He stood a while, felt my gaze, turned his head, and looked at me.

"Did you sleep well last night?" he asked.

"Well," I said.

He looked at me a while, and said: "If you slept well, that is well."

He finished, turned, and went in; the door shut again. I stood at my window turning his sentence over and over. Had he heard something, and that was why he asked? Or had he heard nothing, and was only speaking at random?

I went back to my desk and sat a while. The sun had shifted west; the room darkened. I did not light the lamp. I sat in the dark, looking at the window paper. The paper was milky white; there was nothing on it. But I knew that once it was dark, nothing could be said for sure.

At dusk the wind dropped a little. I lit my lamp and read. The oil was fresh; the wick I had trimmed myself, neither off to one side nor askew. I looked at the flame, a steady flower, and my heart steadied too.

**Night journal · the fourth night**

After nightfall the wind stopped. The mugwort did not rustle, the poplar did not rustle, even the fish in the jar did not turn. The temple was quiet beyond all quiet.

Half past the first watch, the lamp-flower burst.

I was writing with my head down when I felt the window darken—something had come to stand outside the paper.

I looked up.

On the window paper, a shadow.

A person's shadow. Shoulders, neck, head—a woman's outline, standing outside the window, facing it, without moving. Hair loose, hanging to her shoulders. The paper was milky white; the shadow lay on it a thick black stroke, standing straight.

I held my brush and did not move.

The lamp-flame stood straight, without moving—there was no wind; the flame should have stood straight. I looked at the shadow; the shadow faced me. Through one sheet of paper, neither of us moved first.

The shadow did not move either. It stood there, through the paper, whether looking at me or only standing, I could not tell. Its head leaned a little, listening to the room's sounds—listening to my brush, falling on the paper.

I sat the length of half an incense-stick. The ink at my brushpoint dried. The shadow was still there.

I thought of Yan Chixia's words: "If you hear something at night, do not open the door, do not make a sound."

I set down my brush, rose, and walked to the window. Through the paper, I and the shadow were one sheet apart.

I reached out and shut the window.

Click—the latch fell. The shadow did not draw back. It was still there, just outside, nearly against the paper—I could even see her shoulder rise and fall, softly.

I stepped back.

Then stepped back again.

I returned to my desk and sat. The ink in the stone was dry; I ground it again, slowly, stroke after stroke. The ink was left from last night; ground open, it still had a rough smell. I took up my brush, dipped it, and went on writing—copying the *Book of Rites*, the section "Be never irreverent." My hand did not shake. Character by character I wrote, steadier than by day.

The shadow outside the window stood half the night.

I finished two pages, laid down my brush, and looked up—the window was empty. When the shadow had gone, I do not know. I heard no footsteps. Outside the paper, moonlight lay over a ground of mugwort shadows, rising and falling unevenly; when a night wind passed, the whole ground seemed to move.

I looked once more at the window paper—in the moonlight, milky white, nothing. I blew out the lamp and lay down.

In the dark I heard, outside the window, a laugh very faint, as if someone muffled it with a hand, one laugh. Then footsteps, light, going down the gallery.

That laugh—I knew it. It was last night's laughter, from beyond the temple wall.

I gripped the bedclothes and did not move. The laugh passed; a long while later, I let go.

I lay open-eyed in the dark. Outside the paper, moonlight leaked in, laying a thin layer on the floor. I thought of the dark patch I had pasted over by daylight. I lay without moving until, near dawn, I slept a little, dazed.

Dawn came.

I rose, and the first thing I did was look at the window paper.

Sunlight came from the east; the paper was a sheet of milky white. I went to the window and looked down at last night's dark patch—still there, darker now than by daylight. I followed it upward, and in the middle of the paper, near the sill, there was a mark, very faint, as if something had been drawn across it—coming down the paper, and stopping halfway. So faint it was almost invisible; only with the light at an angle could one see a line.

A fingernail's scratch.

I gathered up the two pages I had written and looked at them. The strokes were steady, the same as by day. My heart steadied again—but then I thought: last night I plainly saw the shadow in the window. How could I have written so steadily?

I reached out and measured the mark's length with my fingertip. Not long. Someone stood outside the window and drew a nail lightly down the paper—and stopped halfway.

I stood at the window a long while. The mark was on the paper; in the sunlight, a pale white line. I reached to touch it, and my finger stopped in mid-air, and drew back.

I did not touch it. Outside the window, the poplar's shadow lay long across the wall. The sun stood high. Sunlight fell on the poplar, and the leaves shone. I looked a long while.

**Tonight I record this**: a woman's shadow stood outside the window half the night. I shut the window; she was still there, against the paper. In the latter half of the night she went away, without footsteps. Before she went, there was a laugh outside the window—the laughter of last night beyond the temple wall. At dawn the window paper bore a mark, so faint it was almost invisible: a fingernail's scratch, drawn halfway, and stopped.