The Two Messengers

The scholar Song was a man of quiet repute in his village. He had sat for the provincial exam three times and failed, but he was not embittered; he read his classics, taught a handful of boys, and kept a clear conscience, which he valued more than the rank he had not won.

He lived with his widowed father and a young wife in a house of two rooms at the end of a lane. They were not rich. They were, in their own way, content; and Song was the kind of man who lies awake at night, not over his own grievances, but over the wrongs he cannot mend in others.

On the evening in question he had finished his supper and was washing his brush when two strangers walked unannounced into his courtyard. They wore dark robes without decoration, and their faces were composed in the way of minor officials on an errand from a superior.

"Master Song," said the elder, with a stiff bow, "we are sent to attend you. An examination is to be held, and your name is upon the list. Will you come with us at once?"

Song expected some jest from a neighbor. He looked about for the grinning face of a friend, but the lane was empty. The two men waited, patient and grave, and the lamp in their hands burned with a pale, steady flame that did not flicker.

He asked where he was to be taken. The elder said only, "You will see." There was nothing in the tone to alarm him, and yet his heart beat slowly, as though it had remembered something he had forgotten.

He went in to tell his father. The old man was drowsy by the fire and did not seem to hear him. His wife, who was embroidering in the next room, looked up, frowned, and said, "You look strange. What is it?" He kissed her forehead and said he would return shortly; she pressed his hand, and let him go.

The three of them walked out through the village gate and along a road Song had never seen, though it ran, he thought, in the direction of the county town. The fields on either side were familiar and not familiar; the stars above were the right stars, but they did not move.

After a while they came to a walled city. Its gates were of black brick, and over them hung a board whose characters were written in a color that was not quite ink. Within, the streets were broad and silent, lit by no lamps but by a soft glow that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

They stopped before a great hall. Rows of scholars were already assembling in the forecourt, in the conical caps and dark gowns of the examiners' waiting rooms. Song recognized, with a start, the face of a man who had died in the village three years before. The man smiled at him as an old classmate might, and said, in a low voice, "You are early. The paper will be distributed directly."