The Quiet Visit

**【County archives】Deposition of Wang, eighth statement. Interrogator: the vice-prefect's office. Scribe: Zhao. Attached: one written submission of the Daoist of Qingyan Temple. The scribe's annotation at the end was added afterwards.**

When Your Honor asks of the Daoist, this student tells what he knows.

On the twenty-second of the ninth month, this student left the city at dawn. Qingyan Temple stands three li beyond the walls; when this student arrived, the sun had just topped the wall. The temple gate stood half open, the incense cold, an old pine in the courtyard, pine needles fallen on the ground. This student pushed the gate in and saw an old Daoist squatting in the veranda, spreading herbs to dry. Without looking up he said: "The medicine is bitter. The donor will not like the taste."

This student said: "This student has not come for medicine. This student has come to find someone."

Only then the old Daoist raised his head and looked at this student. He looked a long while, long enough that this student's heart began to crawl. Then he said: "So you came."

This student started: "Does the master know this student?"

The old Daoist did not answer; he turned the herbs over and said: "That smell on you carries across a street." This student's heart tightened; he asked: "What smell?" The old Daoist said: "Paper and ink." A pause. "The kind that presses on a man."

This student stood under the veranda, unable to speak a word. The old Daoist turned over another herb before asking: "These days, has anything stirred in your house?"

This student told him of the third watch, and of the sound of paper. He had not told half before he could not go on — those things, seen in daylight, were too absurd to tell. How could a living person turn hide in the middle of the night? But even as he spoke, the roomful of choking paper-and-ink smell came back, and his throat tightened again. When he had done, the old Daoist was silent a long while.

After a long time the old Daoist said: "She still lacks the last stroke."

This student asked: "The last stroke of what?"

The old Daoist did not answer. He rose and went into the hall, and after a while brought out a horsetail whisk. It was woven of palm fiber, the handle bound in old cloth, the tassels loose, giving off a smell of incense. He held it out to this student: "Take it. Hang it over your door."

This student took the whisk and asked: "If I hang it up, all will be well?"

The old Daoist said: "Hang it up, and she will not dare go in." A pause. "But let the donor remember — what that thing fears is the incense on this whisk, not you. If the donor keeps a single grain of hope in his heart, the whisk will not save him."

This student gripped the whisk and asked again: "Master, what is she, after all?"

The old Daoist looked at this student a long while. A pine needle fell and landed on his shoulder; he did not brush it off. He said: "In his heart, the donor already knows."

This student's heart gave a thump; he made no answer. The old Daoist went on: "If she were an ordinary woman, why should the donor ask? The donor asked because he knows. And knowing, he still comes to ask — the donor wanted to hear this poor Daoist say 'she is not,' so that he could rest easy."

This student opened his mouth, and could not speak.

The old Daoist squatted down again and turned his herbs, saying: "Go. Hang up the whisk and put your heart at rest. If after some days the thing is still there, the donor may come again."

This student took the whisk and went out the temple gate. After a few steps he looked back — the old Daoist was still squatting in the veranda, drying his herbs, as if nothing had happened. The temple gate closed softly behind this student.

This student returned to the study as dusk fell. He hung the whisk over the door; the palm tassels hung down, swaying a little in the wind. He pushed open the door, and his wife came to meet him — and caught sight of the whisk over the door. The smile on her face stiffened for an instant. One instant, and it was smooth again.

"Did the young master buy a whisk?"

This student said: "Bought it on the road. Autumn insects are many; it will drive the flies."

She made a sound of acknowledgment, turned to fetch the meal, and asked no more. But that instant of stiffness, this student saw it. His heart sank a little — if she were an ordinary woman, why should a whisk over the door make her stiffen?

That night this student bolted the door and lay down. The whisk hung inside the door; the shadow of its tassels lay on the floor, swaying with the lamp flame. This student did not dare sleep deep.

One night, nothing happened.

The next day, nothing. The day after, still nothing. This student grew easy by degrees — the Daoist's words, it seemed, were true. She did not dare enter a room that carried the whisk. By night this student slept in the study as before, and she slept in the outer room. Through the door he listened to her breathing, and listening, fell asleep.

On the fourth night, this student slept deep. In the middle of the night, he woke suddenly.

It was not a sound that woke him. It was that the room was too still.

This student opened his eyes. The room was dark. The whisk hung on the door, its tassels at rest. Moonlight came in through the window paper, very faint. He lay listening a while — in the outer room, there was no breathing.

This student's heart tightened; he had just started to rise, when he heard — a stir beyond the door.

Very light footsteps, coming from the outer room, step by step, to the door, and stopping.

Stopping before this door — no, before the study door, at its very threshold.

This student lay stiff in bed, not daring to breathe. On the door hung the whisk, its palm-woven tassels resting on the lintel. He watched that door — under the door-crack a little moonlight lay on the floor, and nothing else.

From beyond the door came a sound.

It was not a human voice. It was a very light, drawn-out noise — "shh —". Like paper turning, or like a sigh. Once, twice, pressing against the door-crack, seeping into the room.

The whisk on the door stirred, suddenly. The palm tassels moved without wind, trembled lightly, as if something on the other side of the door, facing this whisk through the wood, had lowered its head.

This student watched the trembling tassels, cold all over. Beyond the door the "shh — shh —" sank lower, as if drawing back a little.

Then he heard — from beyond the door, a very low, muffled voice, like sleep-talk, yet not like sleep-talk:

"...One stroke still missing..."

This student clutched the bedclothes, his knuckles white. The voice sank again; the footsteps drew back slowly, back toward the outer room, and away. The room fell still once more.

All night, this student did not close his eyes.

At dawn this student opened the door. The whisk still hung there, tassels at rest, quiet. In the outer room she sat by the window, combing her hair. Hearing the door, she turned her head and smiled:

"Is the young master awake? Did you sleep well?"

This student looked at her, at the comb in her hand, drawn tooth by tooth through her hair. He said: "Well."

She made a sound of acknowledgment, turned back, and went on combing. Sunlight came in through the window and fell on her; her shadow lay slanted on the wall.

This student stared at that shadow a long while. It swayed with the movement of her combing, once, once.

It came to him suddenly — where she sat, the sun fell straight in through the window. She should cast a shadow; behind her, there should be one.

This student counted the shadows on the wall. One. Only her human shape, that one.

On the study door hung a horsetail whisk. Its tassels rested. This student looked at it a while, hardened his heart, turned, and went out the gate, toward the city wall.

He was going to Qingyan Temple again.