Six Records of Agarwood · Tale Four: The Seventh Note

Six Records of Agarwood · Tale Four: The Seventh Note

The blood ledger lay spread under the lamp, like a slice of an old wall that had peeled. Liu Zhiqiang lifted the adhesion of the thirty-seventh page with a bamboo spatula, and the paper crumbs fell with a faint rustle into a brass tray. Wang Wanshu stood half a step behind him, holding half an incense ring — the Liu family's "Preservation" ring, its corner broken off, taken out of the fire that year.

"Turn faster," she said. "Wen Yi has been waiting downstairs for half an hour." "Let him wait." Liu Zhiqiang did not raise his head. "He is waiting for Grain Rain, not for this day." The page turned, and the breath of ink came to him. Northern Song ink is pine soot blended with musk; after nine hundred years it still bites the paper.

But this page was not intact — in its lower half were seven lines in small, regular script, each beginning with the three characters "Seventh Note," which should have been followed by names, but all were sealed with thick ink, sealed so that not even a breath could pass, as if someone had stabbed the page seven times with a pen.

"Sealed seven times." Wang Wanshu bent to look closely. "One hand. And the last time it was sealed with the heaviest stroke in the hand — even the pen tip tore." "Count the lines," and Liu Zhiqiang lit the lamp wick.

Seven lines. From the Northern Song to the Republic, from the Liu family to the Wang family, each generation of incense keepers added a line for the "Seventh Note" to the ledger, then sealed it at once. And at the seventh line the ink broke off suddenly — the eighth line bore only the three words "Seventh Note," then a blank, clean and empty, as if waiting for someone to fill it.

"A blank." Wang Wanshu lowered her voice. "A blank means…" "It means she is still alive." Liu Zhiqiang turned the ledger half a turn toward the light. To the right of the blank line was a very faint stroke, the trace of a pen tip that had paused a long time. He took out a magnifying glass; in the stroke was embedded a dot of cinnabar — the cinnabar of incense rings, a formula of the Liu family alone, blended with agarwood water.

"A grain of your father's ink," said Wang Wanshu.

"Your father's ink," replied Liu Zhiqiang.

The two fell silent at the same time. Wang Shuzhou had died in the fire of the incense hall, but the grain of ink had remained in the Liu house. And the ink was the last thing Wang Shuzhou had ground in his life, blended with crumbs of Nha Trang sent by Shuxuan — the mother incense's acknowledgment, used only for verification, never entered into the ledger. But this line had used it — deliberately.

From below came Wen Yi's voice: "Master Liu, I have brought the Grain Rain invitation, won't you give me a definitive word?" Liu Zhiqiang closed the ledger. "Send him up." Wen Yi entered with the smell of damp earth before rain. He was in civilian clothes, with a bulge at his back waist — a pistol. Wang Wanshu stepped aside, and the thirty-seventh page of the ledger appeared.

"The Seventh Note." Wen Yi glimpsed it and smiled. "The Liu family's inherited riddle. My grandfather Wen An wrote a line in his commentary on 'Dreams of the Eastern Capital': 'The Seventh Note is not incense; it is the incense keeper.' And that day I thought the old man had gone senile." "He had not gone senile." Liu Zhiqiang pushed the magnifying glass to him. "Look beside the blank line — someone has added new words."

Wen Yi lowered his head. A little below and to the right of the blank line, three characters in tiny fly-head script, their ink new and glossy as if not yet dry: Grain Rain.

"In three days." Wen Yi straightened. "Who wrote it?" "I don't know." said Liu Zhiqiang. "But the ink is the old Liu family incense hall formula — agarwood water with pine soot, unchanged for nine hundred years. Only three grind this ink: I, Wanshu, and…" "And my father," Wang Wanshu finished. "But he is dead."

Wen Yi stared at the three words for a long time. "Grain Rain is the day the incense market opens for its vaults. As for Kyokiko, Liu Shengjingma arrived in the capital yesterday, staying at the Japanese club in the twelfth alley of Dongsi. And in his luggage is a box of incense ash; customs inspected it, and it was said to be earth from a war site in Kosovo." "He blended his sister's ashes with incense," said Liu Zhiqiang. "Kyokiko's rule: the bone and blood of the dead enter the incense, and it is called 'soul-binding.' He wants to light a great furnace on Grain Rain." "Light it for whom?" "Light it for that living Seventh Note."

Wang Wanshu returned the ledger to its first page. "Look beneath these seven sealed lines — I wiped them with side light. Beneath the Northern Song line is a low character: 'Wen.' Beneath the Southern Song line, 'Wang.' Beneath the Yuan line — 'Zhu.'" Wen Yi's eyebrows jumped. "Zhu Huaisha?" "The Zhu family of the descendants of the Zhu clan, incense descendants of the Qiu Yuan branch. And the Zhu family honored orchids and used division to reverence the gods — this is directly against Kyokiko's 'gathering incense with chrysanthemums.'"

Liu Zhiqiang closed the ledger. "Seven lines, and beneath them seven lineages, all incense keepers. Not incense; people. In each generation a 'seventh note' remains alive, whose task is to prevent the six incenses from gathering. And this is not written in the ledger — written, and one dies — and so it is sealed. In the end, even the one who sealed it disappeared."

"And this blank line now…" "No one seals this line now, which means the seventh note of this generation is still alive, and someone knows who she is." Liu Zhiqiang tapped the two words "Grain Rain" with his finger. "This was sent to us: meet in three days." Wen Yi returned the pistol to his waist. "And perhaps it was sent to Liu Shengjingma." "Both."

Wang Wanshu spoke suddenly. "If the Seventh Note falls into Kyokiko's hands, the six incenses could truly gather. Before he died my father left one word: 'Incense remains, the family remains; incense scatters, the family ends.' That day I thought it meant the flame of the incense hall. Now I understand — he meant people. As long as people live, incense can be kept distributed; when people die, incense goes to the gatherers."

From below came a car horn. Wen Yi looked out, and his face changed color: "Liu Shengjingma's car. He is coming here." Liu Zhiqiang put the ledger into a camphor wood box without haste. "Officer Wen, on Grain Rain bring a few men to the agarwood and sandalwood shop. Not many — three will do." "And what do you want to do?" "Wait for someone." Liu Zhiqiang locked the box. "Wait for the one whose name should be written in that blank line, to enter of her own accord."

Wang Wanshu took Wen Yi downstairs. At the turn of the stairs she suddenly turned: "And your father's grain of ink is still in the Liu house?" "Still." "Before Grain Rain, do not let anyone touch it." Wang Wanshu did not answer. She saw Wen Yi's car merge into the traffic, then turned back inside. And Liu Zhiqiang stood at the ledger table, in his hand the half "Preservation" ring, turning it toward the lamp to see the trace of cinnabar remaining at its base.

"Wanshu." He did not turn. "When your father ground that pool of ink, were you beside him?" "I was." "And what did he put in the ink?" Wang Wanshu was silent a long time. "He put in a hair. His own." Liu Zhiqiang turned the ring; in the cinnabar at its base was indeed embedded a very fine white hair, its break clean and straight, as if cut with scissors.

"The Seventh Note," he said in a low voice. "So you have been in the ledger all this time."

Outside the window the wind rose, and the rain had not yet fallen. Countdown to Grain Rain: three days.

— "Six Records of Agarwood," Tale Four, concluded · Tale Five follows

> This is a serialized fictional work of "Six Records of Agarwood"; the characters and plot are fictional. The knowledge of agarwood and aromatics is drawn from public sources and does not constitute investment or medical advice.