Increasingly agitated, I remember how covering my ears with the pillow last night reduced the stimuli. I put my hands over my ears now, and to my amazement, things mercifully fade once more. Even though the reprieve is welcome, my heart races as the implications slam into me. What I’m perceiving when two objects hit each other, the way my ears respond . . . it’s almost like the way the old writings describe . . .
. . . sound.
I immediately shake my head for even considering such a ridiculous thought. It’s ludicrous and impossible. Growing wings would be only slightly more farfetched.
You are unwell? Elder Chen’s hands sign in front of me.
I realize my hands are still pressed to my ears, and I quickly lower them. It’s just a headache, I lie. It’s nothing.
His sharp eyes take me in for a few moments and then turn to my work. Even I can see the imperfections. My mortification increases when he takes up the brush himself and repairs some of my sloppiness. When he finishes, he tells me, Stay back today and rest.
I feel my eyes widen in astonishment. We’ve been taught that doing one’s duty is crucial. Only the direst of illnesses should keep us in bed. The miners, whose work keeps us alive, never get days off.
Elder Chen smiles. You are clearly not yourself today. It’s written all over you. You are one of the most talented artists I have seen in a long time. I’d rather lose one day of labor than risk a long-term ailment. They will make you tea in the kitchen to help with your headache. Spend the duration of the day in rest and study.
There’s nothing to do but bow at the great act of generosity he is showing me. I’m embarrassed at being singled out but even more relieved not to have to face the blur of village activity.
Thank you, master, I tell him.
Who knows? he asks. Perhaps I will take a walk and keep watch at your post. If not, we still have your sister on watch over there, so that part of the mines won’t go unobserved.
My sister! At his words, a jolt of panic hits me. Master Chen’s presence tells me the other elders must be here as well. I didn’t have a chance to check Zhang Jing’s work last night and promised myself I’d do it this morning. I look across the room, and Elder Lian is strolling around, making her way to Zhang Jing’s canvas. Desperately, I search for some sort of distraction, something that will slow Elder Lian and allow me to save Zhang Jing like I always do. Maybe someone will faint from exhaustion. Maybe a servant will burst in with news of another food theft.
But none of that happens. Elder Lian comes to a stop beside my sister, and I am frozen where I stand, unable to help her. It is an unusual and terrifying role for me to be in. Zhang Jing appears calm, but I can see the fear in her eyes. I think she, like me, is ready for Elder Lian to turn on her in rage, to call her—and me—out for the deception we’ve been furthering. But that doesn’t happen either. Elder Lian sizes up my sister’s work for long, agonizing moments before finally moving on. I nearly fall over in my relief.
Things proceed as usual, and soon the apprentices are carrying the canvases to the village center. They move too quickly for me to get a good look at Zhang Jing’s portion, and I pray it was a good day for her. I wave goodbye to her and then heed Elder Chen’s instructions to go to the kitchen for tea. It’s rare for the elders or apprentices to set foot in there, and the servants scurry and bow to me as I wait. The clothing they wear is stained with grease and smoke, only a little better than what the miners wear. One of the cooks sets an iron kettle down heavily on the counter, and the resulting effect makes me wince and grit my teeth.
At last, an older servant deferentially brings me a cup of medicinal tea. Although she is too intimidated to make much in the way of eye contact, she nonetheless explains that I should drink the tea and go to bed. If my headache isn’t gone in six hours, I can return for more. I thank her and take the tea away, but I don’t go to my room to rest.
Instead, I head toward the school’s library, carefully sipping the tea as I walk. I haven’t been able to shake my earlier suspicions about sound, despite every reasonable part of me knowing it’s impossible. I decide this may be the only chance I have to figure out what’s happening to me, short of asking a person for help. And I know better than to do that. If I described what’s been happening to me, I’d be labeled insane.
I finish the tea as I enter the library. Immediately, I seek out the oldest section. It contains writings from when our people could still hear. I’ve skimmed them before, and there is one author in particular I’m seeking. Her words meant little to me in the past, but now they are perhaps my only hope.
The writer’s name was Feng Jie, and she was one of the last of our people to lose her hearing. Three of her scrolls are in the library, and I settle down with them, pleased that my headache has abated. I begin reading the first one:
I wish I was writing some great wisdom, some understanding of why this great tragedy is happening to us. But there is none.
I pause, contemplating her words. Throughout my life, the loss of our people’s hearing has always been referred to as a tragedy, but I’ve never really seen it that way. I haven’t really thought much about it at all since it’s hard to miss something you’ve never known.
Feng Jie continues: Those wiser than me have long sought answers for why hearing is disappearing, and their ponderings have come to nothing. I don’t expect to achieve what they could not. Instead, it is my intent here to record a memory of sound, for I fear what will happen to future generations if they have no knowledge of it. Already, children born today have no understanding when those few of us who still hear try to explain it. With each passing day, my hearing declines more and more. Sounds become fainter and fainter, softer and softer. Soon what is simply quiet will become silent.
And so I want to describe sound to those who don’t have it, so that the words will not be lost and so that those who will never hear have as close an understanding as they can. And perhaps someday, if sound returns, this will guide those who might have forgotten the words of sound.
Riveted, I feel my breath catch. This was why I sought out this scroll, what I remembered from my long-ago browsing. At the time, it had seemed fanciful, the idea of sound returning. But now . . .
Feng Jie’s writings go on to detail a list of sounds. Reading them is like trying to understand another language. I can’t even follow some of the words she uses to define other words.
When a small bell rings, the sound is high and sweet, clear and often staccato. It is a tinkling, almost like the babbling of a brook. When a large bell rings, the sound is deep and ponderous. It echoes in the soul, causing vibrations you can feel in your entire body.
A whistle is the sound made when you blow air between pursed lips. It is high-pitched and often continuous, unless you start and stop the airflow to create some tune. Whistling is also a primary component in birdsong, and their range far surpasses ours.
My mind struggles to hold on to all these new terms and assign them meaning. Ring. High. Staccato. Tinkling. Babbling. Deep. Echoes. Whistle. Pitch. Tune. Song.
All three of her scrolls are written this way, and I absorb as many new concepts as I can. I think back to what I already observed in this short morning. My bed frame was knocking against the wall. Zhang Jing’s breathing was quiet. The dish crashed loudly in the workroom. And the iron pot on the counter . . . was that a clang? Or a bang? What’s the difference?
As the afternoon wears on, my head is starting to hurt again—and it has nothing to do with sound but rather with the overload of knowledge from the scrolls, which I have now gone through several times in the hopes of memorizing them. Some of the concepts are so hard to understand that memorization is useless. Still, there is comfort in the terminology. It’s a way to reconcile this unknown sense with the ones I do know.
Something startles me from my study—a sound, I tell myself, trying to use the terminology correctly. It seems neither
particularly loud nor quiet, and I wonder if medium is a correct term for volume. Feng Jie didn’t mention it.
The sound came from the library door opening, and I look up to see Elder Chen entering. I quickly put the scroll away and get to my feet so that I can bow to him. He told me to spend the day in study, but I’m nervous he’ll ask what it is I’ve been researching.
You’re feeling better? he asks.
Yes, master, I say. Thank you for this day of rest.
He looks amused, and a soft sound comes from his throat, making me wonder which of Feng Jie’s words apply. Laugh? Chuckle? Giggle?
You didn’t rest much, from what I hear, he replies. The servants say you’ve spent most of the day in here. Even when you have a day off, you still work.
There was pleasure in it, master, I say, hoping to hide my purpose. Not all of it was serious reading.
I used to spend much of my free time here too when I was your age. He pulls out a scroll, seemingly at random, and opens it, revealing images of fanciful creatures. He admires it a moment before returning it to its place. Those are the things I would read over and over—I was always off on an adventure with some fantastic beast. Dragons, pixius, phoenixes.
Something he has said stirs a memory, and I ask carefully, Isn’t there a story about pixius and our ancestors losing their hearing?
I’m not really interested in imaginary creatures, but my hope is that Elder Chen might say something about sound that could be of use to me. Still smiling at me, he nods.
Yes, just a story. One my mother used to tell me. Legend says the pixius used to roam our village long ago. Then they decided to rest and took away all the sounds on our mountain so that they could sleep in peace.
It’s a silly reason for losing our hearing, but no more outlandish than most. All sorts of stories abound about why hearing went away, many having to do with divine retribution. I hope Elder Chen will say more about sound disappearing, but as his thoughts turn inward, I can see he’s more caught up in the pixius than sound.
I always wanted to paint pixius, he remarks. Like winged lions. Can you even imagine? My master would chastise me for having my head in the clouds.
Seeing my surprise at that admission, he laughs again. Yes, you aren’t the only one who daydreams. You remind me of myself at your age. He pauses, and that humor fades from his features. That’s why I want you to come with me.
He turns, and I follow quickly, my heart rate picking up. Has he found out about what’s happened to me? Has someone reported me? The thought is terrifying as I follow him back through the school. A part of me almost welcomes the chance to unburden this secret. Because while Feng Jie’s writings were full of information about hearing, there was no mention of how or why it might come back after being gone for generations. To my knowledge, no one has ever written about such a thing—because it’s never happened.
Elder Chen brings me to a small room usually reserved exclusively for the elders. There, inside, I see Zhang Jing standing before Elder Lian, with the other elders seated beyond them. One look at my sister tells me this isn’t about me at all.
Elder Lian is surprised by our presence. What is Fei doing here?
I thought it appropriate she be present, Elder Chen responds.
This has nothing to do with her, Elder Lian insists.
I am the only family she has, I quickly interject, even though I know it’s impertinent. If she is in trouble, I need to know.
A gleam of triumph shows in Elder Lian’s eyes. You’ve known she has been going blind for some time, haven’t you?
I make no response.
There is no place for blindness among the artists, Elder Lian declares, looking back at Zhang Jing. You’ve lost your apprenticeship. You must gather your things and leave.
Zhang Jing cannot speak. In fact, she goes so pale I’m afraid she’ll pass out. My instinct is to comfort her, but instead I take a bold step toward Elder Lian. She’s not blind yet! I notice some of the other elders are holding up pieces of canvas: samples of Zhang Jing’s past work. Look at those. She still has skill. A blind person couldn’t do that.
They’re imprecise, Elder Lian argues. Flawed. We know you’ve been covering for her. We need perfection in the record, and that requires a perfect set of eyes.
She might get better, I protest. Elder Lian snickers in disbelief. I do not like the sound. It is harsh and ugly.
No one’s sight gets better, Elder Lian says. We all know that. Be grateful her vision is good enough to let her join the miners. At least that way she will be able to contribute. It’s better than begging.
An image of the beggars in the village’s center comes back to me, and I can practically see Zhang Jing among them. It makes me feel sick. But Zhang Jing joining the miners isn’t much better. I think about Li Wei and his father, how dangerous it is to be in the mines with limited vision. I think about how even then, the rations miners receive are smaller than what we get here. It was what drove the servant to steal for his family.
Don’t send her away, I say suddenly, addressing all the elders. There’s an opening among the servants, right? After yesterday’s theft? Let Zhang Jing take it. Please. Her vision is more than adequate to perform those kinds of duties.
I don’t know if that’s true or not. I’ve never thought much about what the servants do. I haven’t had to. But it has to be a better fate than mining or begging.
The shock that meets me in Zhang Jing’s eyes suggests she disagrees, but I make a small gesture, urging her not to protest as the others deliberate.
The elders exchange glances, and it is Elder Chen who finally speaks. It’s true that we lost one of the cleaners yesterday. Zhang Jing needs a place, and a place has opened up. It is a fortunate thing. Balance, yes?
Elder Lian looks skeptical for a moment and then shrugs. I will allow it. Behind her hard exterior, I catch a glimpse of regret in her eyes. Maybe her initial decision to kick Zhang Jing out wasn’t born of cruelty so much as necessity. Elder Lian pities what’s happened to my sister, and somehow that makes all this even worse.
The full impact of what I’ve just brought about hits me. My sister, a servant? Not just any servant—a cleaner? We’ve spent so much time as artist apprentices that I’ve come to take this lifestyle for granted. It’s demanding, but there is a prestige to it. There’s a pride in knowing our craft is what keeps the village orderly, that hundreds of years from now, our descendants will look upon what we’ve created and learn from it. Our art will endure when the rest of us are gone. Others rightly treat us with deference, just as the servants in the kitchen did earlier. I suddenly imagine Zhang Jing groveling as they did, bowing and avoiding eye contact with the other artists. Worse, I imagine her scrubbing the floor or doing some other demeaning task.
I see despair in Zhang Jing’s face, but she is nonetheless quick to give the proper response. She bows three times to Elder Chen. Thank you, master. It is a great honor. I will fulfill my new duties with as much dignity as I fulfilled my previous ones.
My heart sinks. Honor? There is no honor in this, but at least I will be able to sleep easy knowing my sister has a roof over her and food to eat. Elder Chen dismisses us with a small gesture, and after more bowing, we retreat to the hallway and head back to the girls’ dormitory.
Don’t worry, I tell Zhang Jing. Once your vision comes back, they will reinstate you in your apprenticeship.
She comes to a halt and shakes her head sadly. Fei, we both know that’s not going to happen. I must accept this miserable fate now.
Miserable? But you were grateful back there.
Of course, she says. I had to be for the sake of your honor after you pleaded for me. But I would have rather walked away with my dignity and gone to the mines than slink around in the shadows of my former position. As though making her point, a servant comes by pushing a broom, sweeping up dirt tracked in from the
apprentices. The noise made by the broom’s bristles is interesting, but my grief and outrage are too great to give it much thought. I can understand Zhang Jing’s disappointment, but how could she prefer to be out on the streets? This is a good place for you, I insist. You’ll be safe here. Fed. Protected.
I suppose that’s something, says Zhang Jing. At least this way I won’t have to lie anymore, and I’ll be able to do tasks around here for a long time, even if my vision gets worse. Then I really will have to find another place.
Don’t say that, I protest, unable to handle the thought. Everything will be okay as long as we’re together.
I hope so, she tells me, just before pulling me into a hug.
When we get back to our room, we find another servant waiting for us. I’m here to show you to your new quarters, she explains to Zhang Jing. You will sleep with the servants now.
Zhang Jing’s earlier calm turns to embarrassment, and her face reddens. The other girls stop and gawk at this news, and it’s all I can do not to shake my fists or kick something in my rage. I hadn’t expected this when I made my plea. Zhang Jing’s demotion was bad enough, and now she’s also being taken from me. Who will look after her without me by her side? Ever since our parents died, we’ve been inseparable. How can I go on without her, especially in this new and terrifying time? How am I supposed to contend with this plague of sounds that’s bombarding me if I don’t have her to rely on?
Zhang Jing holds her head up, mustering every last bit of pride she has as she gathers her few possessions and ignores the covert conversations that are flashing around the room as our peers take in this new development. I want to tell them this is only temporary. . . but I can say and do nothing as the servant escorts her out. Zhang Jing gives me one last sweet smile before she steps out the door, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly alone.
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