Six Agarwood Records · Tale Seven: Winter Solstice

Six Agarwood Records · Tale Seven: Winter Solstice

One: Counting the Nines

On the day of the winter solstice, the first snow of the year fell on Bianliang.

Liu Zhiqiang opened the shop door at first light, and the first thing he looked at was the top shelf: six bundles of incense ash wrapped in coarse paper, and an old camphor box — seven items in total, standing just as they had been left since the Frost Descent, nothing missing. The ash was scattered, the box sealed. Sealed for two months, and he had not touched it.

The snow flooded the street, and footsteps came out light. Footsteps stopped at the shop door — heavy, as if the bearer was carrying something.

It was a young man, snow on his brows, and in his arms a camphor box — its corners lined with copper gone green with age, similar to the box that had come on the day of Frost Descent.

“Master Liu.” The young man set the box on the counter and took a letter from his pocket. “The Lin family of Quanzhou. I am Lin Wandu. My grandfather Lin Biguan passed away last month. And his last testament was: the box is to be delivered to the Liu family in Bianliang, by his own hand.”

Liu Zhiqiang took the letter. The handwriting on the envelope was similarly hurried, with an edge like that in the record. Inside were two lines:

“The Wen family record to the Lin family of Quanzhou; to be opened on the day of the winter solstice. The matter is not completed, return it to the Liu family.”

“Old Chen — who carried the first box — came back and said you found a drawing in the record: three sticks of incense, one long and two short, not to be burned at the same time,” said Lin Wandu. “So my grandfather said: look, the two boxes also are not to be opened together. The first at Frost Descent, this one at the winter solstice — a month between them. Master Wen did not want them opened at the same time. And my grandfather guarded this box all his life, and allowed no one to touch it. And on this winter solstice, the whole family opened it according to what was on the lid. And inside there was nothing but this letter.”

“Master Wen divided the two boxes between two seasons,” Liu Zhiqiang set the letter aside. “One to be opened in autumn, one in winter.”

“And my grandfather also said: the matter is not completed, so the box must not be dissolved in Quanzhou.”

Two: The Second Box

Wang Wanshu arrived faster than the snow. The white fell on the mat as she entered, even on her lashes.

“The two halves of the seal have found their places.” She took off her coat and shook off the snow. “The old site of the Wen family spice shop, I restored it two years ago and it became a perfume hall in the neighborhood. And I asked the hall to make a silk box, and the two halves were placed side by side — not joined into one seal, but placed in one place. The share is preserved: the share was divided, but the preservation must remain together.”

And the second box was also unlocked, closed only by a bamboo pin. The pin was drawn: oiled paper, five letters, and a small porcelain box.

No seal inside. The bottom of the box was lined with dried orchid leaves, pressed with dried jasmine petals — an aromatic flower that came from the southern seas and settled in Quanzhou in the Song and Yuan dynasties, and in its dryness still has a faint sweetness. Between the petals lay a small porcelain incense burner, fitting in one palm, with a single opening, and around its body a wreath of lotus petals. Under the burner a bundle of letters, five in total, all in one hand:

“To my sister Wen. — Wen An.”

Three: The Letters of Wen An

Liu Zhiqiang reads a page, and Wang Wanshu copies a page.

The first: “To you, my sister: the orchid amber has reached Quanzhou; the Lin family ship has docked and not one thread is lost. Three nights I did not break the seal. The amber is in the box, and I am outside it — each in its own state.”

The second: “I divided the orchid amber into three threads: a thread for the chief clerk of the Maritime Trade Office, a thread for the lamp keeper of Kaiyuan Temple, and a thread I kept for myself. Not that I cannot bear parting — the measure is not one. Mother’s amber in Choushui is a measure, the scattered amber of Bianliang is a measure, and Quanzhou must have its own measure. Three measures measure one thing: it does not matter in whose hand the amber is — what matters is who comes forward to divide it.”

The third, the shortest: “I will not return north. Southern ships carry perfume and do not carry those who return. You keep the Wen spice shop, and I keep the southern thread. Each is safe in his share. Do not think of me.”

The fourth to the Liu family: “To the pious one of the Liu family in Bianliang: I was entrusted with dividing the orchid amber, and the matter is done. The thread I kept, I engraved a small burner to carry it; if it runs out, it runs out. And one record enters my shroud. And there remains only three words — ‘if divided, it settles’ — I pass them to those who come after us.”

The fifth without words, containing only a drawing: a burner, three sticks, one long and two short.

The ink of all five letters is faded, and the edge of the pen remains. As if the writer was ahead of time — holding on to finish what must be said before the incense runs out.

“Three sticks,” Wang Wanshu said in a low voice. “The long one for Mother, and the two short for the share. The long is Rangkatai, in Choushui; and one of the short is in Bianliang — it ran out on the night of the distribution incense festival, and it is these six bundles of ash; and the other is in Quanzhou, divided into three threads.”

“All the sand has become ash.”

“It has become ash.” She said. “But the three sticks, which are not burned at the same time, have all been burned. This record, it took from Frost Descent to the winter solstice to be completed.”

Four: The Night of the Winter Solstice

The snow stopped at dusk.

Liu Zhiqiang took the small burner out of its box, and placed it on the counter beside the wooden box. And in the corner of the box an aromatic disc: orchid amber dust mixed with local Quanzhou stems, pressed into a disc, and the seal on its face a single word — “Tranquility” — half of it missing.

“Xianchen agarwood, from the stems that used to dock at the Quanzhou port in the Song and Yuan dynasties,” said Wang Wanshu. “Wen An mixed the orchid dust with local stems — acclimatization to the place, and preservation of rank together: the measure of Bianliang measures Bianliang, and the measure of Quanzhou measures Quanzhou.”

The disc was not lit. Orchid amber is not gathered, nor burned lightly. The southern measure has not yet returned home; let the disc remain honored in waiting.

Six bundles of ash, a wooden box, a small burner, and one disc. He counted them twice: nine items.

“Kiyokiku gathered perfumes for eight centuries, and went bankrupt in the end,” said Wang Wanshu.

“Kiyokiku’s emptiness is ‘annihilation’,” said Liu Zhiqiang. “And the emptiness of these nine items of mine is ‘distribution’.”

The winter solstice night is the longest night of the year. Wang Wanshu baked the disc, and Liu Zhiqiang cooked the pancakes, and they sat face to face until midnight. She did not stay the night. And before leaving she dipped her finger in the warm tea in her cup — it was not the rain of Frost Descent — and wrote three lines on the shop door:

We divided the orchid at Frost Descent,
and opened the box at the winter solstice,
and drink tea in the Grain Rain.

“What I said in the last Grain Rain was a covenant between me and you,” she turned while standing in the snow. “The coming Grain Rain completes a full year. The share is divided, and the covenant must be kept.”

“It must be kept.”

And she went. Two lines in the snow, one east and one west, meeting at the alley entrance and then separating.

Liu Zhiqiang closed the shop door and turned to the top shelf. That small spot in the darkness: six bundles of ash, a wooden box, a small burner, and one disc. Nine items, still in silence.

He remembered the last line of Wen An’s fourth letter: each is safe in his share; do not think of me.

Do not think of me. And he thinks of him.

— To be continued · Tale Eight (Grain Rain · New Tea)

> This is a serial fictional work from “Six Agarwood Records”; the characters and plot are fictional. The knowledge of agarwood and aromatic stems is gathered from public sources, and does not constitute investment or medical advice.