The Leave

> *This page is rubbed at the edges, as if it had been held many times. It records the matter of receiving the leave. According to the records of the Selection Hall, leave granted to a City God is an instance occurring only two or three times in a hundred years; the leave document is issued uniformly by the Hall, of the same form as the examination summons, with a vermilion seal added on the cover. At the end of the page a note is appended: "He who receives the document always turns back, when he leaves the hall, to look at the tablet above."* After Zhang Sheng left the hall, the hall was empty. The officials sat at the head, eyes lowered, no one looking at me. I stood in the middle of the hall, not knowing whether to withdraw or to stay. "Song Tao." "Here." He looked at me, and looked a long while. The gaze was not heavy; it rested on me as on a thing that had lain long in one place. "Your plea for filial duty—granted. Leave of nine years, to care for your mother to the end of her days. When the leave ends, you will be summoned again. Be diligent." "Thank—" "Wait." He raised a hand. "Zhang Sheng acts for you, term of nine years; you must remember. The affairs of the office, you need not concern yourself with; your mother's affairs, do them well." "Yes." He finished, and let his eyes fall, as if the words were done, and yet as if there were more, pressed beneath his tongue, not come out. The hall was still. I kowtowed once, rose, and waited. My knees pressed the brick; the brick was cold, and the cold climbed up from the knees. No one in the hall spoke, no one looked at me. I knelt, hearing my own breath, light, steady. Under the eaves a drop of water fell, pat, on the brick. After a while, another fell.

I waited.

How long I waited, I do not know. There was no sun in the hall; the hours could not be told. I knelt, counting the drops: one, two, three. When I had counted to the seventh, the side door opened. An official came in from the side door, bearing a lacquered tray; on the tray lay a document. He walked to me, and stopped. I reached out, and took the document. The paper was thick, thicker than the examination sheet. The corner was folded—the moment I saw that fold, my heart knocked once. That way of folding, that crease, I knew it. When the guide brought me his summons, it was folded so: in half, then in half again, the corner tucked inward, tucked tight and seamless. I held the folded corner, and held it a while. **[Archival Check]** Register of the Selection Hall, entry "the folded corner of documents": the official papers of the Hall are folded to one rule: in half, in half again, the corner tucked inward. The examination summons, the leave document, the guide's summons—all of the same fold. The Hall's history says this fold began in a former reign, handed down generation to generation, not one man has altered it. Recorded for reference.—vol. 3 · Miscellany

I unfolded the document.

The paper was thick. Against the light, the laid lines showed, one by one, close and even. The edges were cut clean, no fibers. At the top, a line of small characters, my name: Song Tao, stipendiary scholar of such-and-such county, Henan. In the middle, one line: "Leave granted, nine years." At the foot, in the place of signature, a vermilion seal, four characters, seal script; I could not read them, could not make them out. The seal paste was old, dark red, not freshly stamped.

I held the document, and stood.

Leave of nine years. My mother had nine years yet. In nine years, I would return to my post as City God. This document was my leave—but it was folded at the corner, in the same fold as the guide's summons. The guide's summons had taken me to the examination; this document took me home. Two roads, the same door.

I lowered my head, and looked once more at those four seal characters. I could not read them, but the seal was set square and true, as if it had been set so for many years, set until the hand was used to it.

It came to me suddenly—where was the guide's summons now? When he carried me on horseback, the document lay against his chest. Later, entering the city, entering the offices, sitting the examination—the document was never seen again. I had forgotten it, as a man forgets the road by which he came. Now I held this new document in my hand, and remembered—documents are taken back. I put the document away, kowtowed once more, stepped back two paces, and turned toward the door of the hall. At the door, I paused.

I had not looked about when I entered. Now, standing at the door, I raised my head, and looked at the hall.

Above the hall hung a tablet. The tablet was old, the wood darkened, dust gathered in the corners. On it, two characters, regular script, written square and true—"无心" (Without Mind). Without Mind. I read it once. Those two characters I knew. On the day of the examination, the eight characters of the question sheet: "One man, two men; with mind, without mind." In my answer I had written: "Kindness done with mind, though kind, is not rewarded; evil done without mind, though evil, is not punished." And now here, on this tablet, hung the very characters "Without Mind," hung above this hall, hung who knows how many years.

I stood at the door, looking at the tablet, and looked a while. Without Mind. Those two characters hung above the hall. In my answer I had written "Kindness done with mind, though kind, is not rewarded; evil done without mind, though evil, is not punished." That was the passage of my life I was proudest of—I thought the examiners passed my paper about, and praised those two sentences. Now I stood beneath this tablet, raised my head, and saw the characters "Without Mind," and it came to me suddenly that my proud sentences had been written as if to match this tablet—or as if this tablet had been written to match them. The officials beneath the tablet sat with eyes lowered, as if they had not seen me. The one of imperial bearing sat in the middle, head bowed. The hall was very still, without sound. I drew back my gaze, and stepped out of the door. **[Archival Check]** At the head of the Selection Hall register: there is a tablet in the hall, bearing the two characters "无心" (Without Mind); in what year it was hung, and by whose hand written, is not recorded. The Hall history does not carry it. Only in the Miscellany there is a small line: "These two characters, set on the beam of the hall; every candidate who sits the examination raises his head and sees them." Recorded for reference.

Under the eaves, I stopped, and unfolded the document once more.

Wind came from the courtyard, stirring the paper's corner. I pressed the paper down, afraid the wind would carry it off. The vat under the eaves, its water still full, the surface level, mirroring the grey sky. It came to me that when I entered this courtyard, the water in the vat was full to this height; now I came out with my leave, and it was still full. The things in this courtyard seemed not to change. Men came, men went; the water stayed full, the tablet stayed hung, the officials stayed seated.

Holding the document, a thought rose in me of itself—the guide's summons had been taken back. This leave of mine, nine years from now, would someone come to take it too? I stood where I was, and put the document away in my bosom. The vat under the eaves, its water still full. I walked past it, and did not look. The wind of the courtyard was a little colder than before. I followed the road by which I had come, toward the gate of the courtyard, my pace not fast. The grey-clad man was not waiting at the foot of the steps—this time, there was no guide. The road was the road I had come by; I remembered how it went.

I stepped out of the gate, and stood on the road without sun.

The road was the same road, an earthen road, level, no hoof prints. When I came, I had come on horseback; the horse was white-browed, its steps very light. Now the horse was gone, the guide was gone, the document changed for a new one. I stood at the crossroads, and felt the document in my bosom; the paper's corner was hard, pressing against my chest.

I lowered my head, and looked at the road under my feet. The earth was dry, level, running west. No wheel ruts, no footmarks. Riding, I had not minded the road; now walking, I found this road had not one blade of grass, not one stone—level as if ironed. On either side, grey country, hard to make out, as if seen through a film of water. I set out, walking west. After a few steps, my soles on the earth made no sound. I thought again of the white-browed horse—when it carried me here, its hooves touched earth without sound. Nothing on this road made a sound. I walked on, the leave against my chest, and a thought came: in nine years, when a man rides to fetch me again, will his horse's hooves also be without sound? I did not look back. The road was under my feet, running west, toward the way I had come. I walked on this road without sun, a leave in my bosom, thinking of those two old characters, walking.