by Mark Swaine
“Not this day father,” says Xiaojian quietly to herself.
The hour is late now; the dying men and women can only wait for peace in the plain darkness to show them through the night. Yu-Huang stays with them, pulling up the quilts of the cold and soaking up their sweat laden foreheads. Yu-Huang returns to check on the condition of the lone teen, and with a saddened expression he leaves him to his peace, until the dying man speaks.
“Don’t leave, please,” whispers the teen, in laboured breathing.
Yu-Huang gently slides a small stool to his bed side and sits quietly. The young man's breathing eases a little in the company of the kind stranger, and he appears consoled at having somebody by his side. As the two men remain silent, Yu-Huang observes a pair of identical swords resting at the foot of the man's bed. The swords appear to be in terrible condition, chipped, blunt and rusted. At first glance they don't appear good for anything but smelting on a forge. But the two swords were ancient, and the carvings inscribed in the hilt dated back to the beginning of the Yù Xīng Dynasty.
“Indeed a rare find,” thinks Yu-Huang, complimentary.
Yu-Huang dismisses the blunt relics and observes their owner as he begins wheezing long drawls of breath. Hours pass until one of them finally speaks.
“You don’t talk much,” whispers the teen in a coarse voice, in a dead stare at Yu-Huang.
“Do not speak young one, rest,” replies Yu-Huang, attempting to keep the silence of the atmosphere intact.
“I don't want to rest...” whispers the youngster, staring back at the ceiling.
The youngster fights the urge to break down in the presence of the stranger's company and tries hard to hold onto his dignity in the face of fear. Yu-Huang would have preferred the youngster rest and preserve his much needed strength. Nevertheless, the desperate man persisted in conversation, seeking solace in his company.
“I don't want to die,” continues the young man as his eyes well up in glistening pools of tears.
Yu-Huang clasps the kid's bloody bandaged hand and he breaks down completely as he softly cries out for his lost friend.
“A spirit as brave as yours need not fear death,” states Yu-Huang.
“I could only but dream of my spirit possessing such a quality,” wheezes the youngster. “I never imagined this day would come so soon; this cannot be happening,” continues the youngster.
“Death is but the beginning of an undiscovered journey, and one day you will be reunited with your loved ones upon your divine travels,” says Yu-Huang, encouragingly.
“Tis not the parting of my life that I fear,” groans the man, as treasured memories pass behind his tired bleeding eyes.
“What are you afraid of?” asks Yu-Huang.
“I cannot leave my family. What will they do without me, how will they live, who will provide for them now?” stutters the teen.
“Do not focus on what is out of your control, and centre your thoughts on those you live for,” says Yu-Huang.
The sick teen considers Yu-Huang's advice, and his dry cracked mouth draws a smile as he imagines their faces. But as he begins to recall the horrific chain of events leading to his demise, it fades to a quivering mouth.
“What happened down there... was not natural,” he says, shaking his head strongly.
Yu-Huang listens intently, questioning as to whether he should urge the sick man for answers, but he doesn't need to.
“I have cornered rats in the sewers many times, one day I killed one half your size,” continues the man, accentuating the size of his kill.
A violent raspy cough escapes his mouth followed by sprays of blood and he winces through the pain as he recalls the memory.
“It was the biggest rat I had ever seen, and they never go without a fight,” concludes the sick man.
Coughing and retching violently into his hands, they shake as he looks at the small clots and sprays of blood visible in his palms. He pants in slow shallow breaths and attempts to continue, but cannot.
“No more talk, save your strength,” states Yu-Huang, severely.
Yu-Huang's good advice is not yet heeded as the man persists.
“But never in my seven years of labour have I witnessed,” says the teen, clearly distressed by the still fresh and horrifying memory, “a rat with fear in its eyes. They were running away from... something,” reflects the pale and scrawny youngster. “I do not believe it was their intention to attack us,” says the boy, his voice elevating in pain and anguish. “They were frantic, crazed with fright. ‘Twas though there was nothing they wouldn't eat through, as though nothing stood in their way… ‘twas not natural,” says the young boy, deathly.
As the boy finishes his tale, his face turns white as if he'd just walked over his own grave. But he wasn't dead, not yet. There was still time to relay the whole story to the kind stranger, enough time to relay a warning.
“What name do you go by youngster?” asks Yu-Huang, attempting to be less of a stranger to the suffering man.
“Tian Wu, but everybody calls me Wenyi (Rat),” he whispers. “It all began in the sewers,” continues Wenyi, eerily.
Yu-Huang looks around, and to avoid Wenyi spreading panic and paranoia, Yu-Huang shares Kamui Li's spell of the tongue on the man. Tian Wu remembers, and he can almost feel the strong chill of the Zhēngqì mountain against his face. It’s a chill carrying the scent of wild herbs growing in bunches along the steep cliff sides. The thought alone almost cools his scorching cheeks and soothes his oily burning head. The bulky gate of a lone stilted Garrison overhanging a steep stony cliff opens up to the arid pathway of a narrow mountain trail. A scrawny young lad wearing brown slacks, leather and iron boots and a worn leather tunic, leads a large team of workers up a grey rocky trail lined with flapping tattered banners. Following their chargehand around sharp curves and rope bridges, they steer the well kept donkeys towing carts of gear. The group of sewage workers could well have found the way to their current destination without the aid of sight, for all one need but do is simply follow the horrid stink invading their noses. The strong stench from all the waste of the city rises in columns of heavy steam from pockets and gaps all around the mountain side. The workers break from the mountain path and head inland. Traversing wide smoking geysers bursting gaseous bouts of jetting flame, they feel the rumbling beneath their feet. Those who have been working the mountains sewers since an early age, instinctively know which geysers are about to erupt, and for how long. Eventually they reach their destination beyond the five outposts and observe a winch and pulley beside a massive gaping fissure. With an escort of Jade soldiers, the sewage workers, consisting mainly of old men, teenagers and a few women, unpack their equipment beside the ramped and rocky mountainside strewn with dry shivering weeds. Wenyi leaps over the wide smoking crevice and grabs hold of a vertical winch and swings it to the side. Wenyi looks at the rope leading far into the steaming depths of the crevice.
“Wang Weo, it is your turn,” says Wenyi.
“Why is it my turn?” mutters Wang Weo.
“Because I have checked the last five checkpoints, and by my count, you have checked... none,” states Wenyi, noting his lack of contribution.
“I hate this job,” complains Wang Weo, operating the squeaky pulley to reel in the rope.
“You are welcome my friend,” replies Wenyi sarcastically.
“Of course I am grateful for you vouching for me Wenyi, but you cannot deny the putrid nature of our work detail,” exclaims Wang.
“My friend, out of all the jobs in all the lands, I find this one best suited to you,” says Wenyi, jokingly.
“That isn't true,” grumbles Wang Weo.
Wenyi observes the red markings spaced feet apart on the strong greasy rope as it rises from stinking crevice. Wang Weo retches as the frayed and rough surface of the rope turns a glossy mixture of dark yellow and deep brown.
“Looks like they've been eating the dumplings again,” says Wenyi, making his queasy friend retch even harder.<
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“By the gods,” exclaims Wang Weo turning his back to the rope as a piece of faecal matter topples down it in a slithering rolling slide.
“I know what you’re thinking Wang, why do we always get the shit duties,” jokes Wenyi.
“Why do we always get the shit duties?!” shouts Wang, crossly.
“Because shit flows downstream. Look around, Wang, even the Jade soldiers despise this place, they do not wish to be here any more than we do,” says Wenyi, almost taking pity on them. “Besides, what else would we do if not this? We cannot grow anything of worth in these baron lands, and we are both too old to join the army. We are not Healers, Cooks, Priests or men of trade; we can't even afford a stall near a decent market place. No my friend, the sooner you accept that stench down there, the faster you’ll accept that you’ll be doing this for the rest of your life; besides, the pay is good. Now bring up the rope Wang, I wish to be home before early sundown,” says Wenyi.
“You have been working much overtime these past two seasons,” says Wang, grimacing at the rope as he holds it sparingly with the tips of his fingers.
“I have been saving,” says Wenyi, concerned by the marking on the rope. “This canal has risen by ten markers since the last rotation three weeks ago Wenyi!” exclaims Wang.
“Yes I can see, and the next checkpoint is at Lotus pass,” says Wenyi, doggedly.
“The cavern ravines at Lotus pass are higher,” moans Wang.
“It’s going to be a long day my friend,” says Wenyi, trying his best to conceal his own dismay. “Unless everybody wishes to bathe in raw sewage at the next checkpoint, I suggest we begin here and work our way downstream. Let’s paddle the sewage downstream and unblock any chasms along the way. Tomorrow, we come back and work on Lotus pass,” says Wenyi, to a huddle of uncertain nods.
“Perhaps it best we report the latest measures to Major Lai,” suggests Wang Weo, “just to be safe,” adds Wang, apprehensive about going into the cavern.
“For what reason Wang? No, I am not going all the way back to the fort only to be told to come all the way back and resolve the problem that we are here to do right now. No, we deal with the problem now and return to the outpost when we are done. Perhaps if we are fortunate, the Major will see fit to pay us extra cowrie shells for our efforts,” suggests Wenyi, unpacking a large paddle and breathing mask.
“There does appear to be an unusual amount of gas build up going through the channels,” observes an aged man.
“Unpack the gear,” replies Wenyi, tired of the debate.
The fifty workers set up rappel lines along the edge of the crevice and fit their dragon scaled breathing masks to their faces.
“Wang, pay heed to which rope you take a hold of this time,” says Wenyi in a muffled chuckle.
“When are you going to stop reminding me of that unfortunate morning,” asks Wang.
“When the amusing tale ceases to make my children laugh,” replies Wenyi cheerfully.
“You told them? So that is why they recoil whenever I try to embrace them,” says Wang.
“My friend, that is why I recoil every time you try to embrace me,” laughs Wenyi as he suddenly drops into the chasm,
The descent into darkness seems endless, but it isn't. The dangling sewer workers light wall mounted torches on their way down the hot stinking pit of rising steam, and as the cave becomes more illuminated, so does the wide river of brown sludge moving slowly between two lofty banks. The banks formed of rocky lips and trailing planks of wood forms a sturdy walking path around the vile canal. The paths rise and lower through the main channel and break off into the various tunnels leading further into the mountain. The walkways varied in width, at some points depending on the width of the cave it is quite possible for more than ten men to stand side by side, but other areas required they walk single file whilst hugging the cockroach covered wall. Everywhere are overhead ducts bursting short bouts of jetting fire, and careful timing is required to cross their paths lest they be roasted alive. As the Jade soldiers remain guard atop the surface, they ensure the lines are secured at all times and await their return. The sewage workers move on whilst lighting the wall mounted marker torches along the way, awaiting orders from their rat of a chargehand. Wang Weo stands on the side of the river of muck and looks down in dismay whilst wondering with horrid trepidation what it would be like to fall in.
Carrying long paddles, they walk along the edge of the trail whilst mashing, stirring and guiding the waste downriver into the maze of sudden drops. Along the way Wenyi orders his workers into tight groups and assigns them to various branching tunnels. Along with himself, Wenyi orders Wang Weo and five others to continue ahead along the main channel. Wenyi muffles something profound behind his enclosed breathing mask and shakes his head at Wang as he throws up for the third time this morning.
“Wang, how long have you been working here now, two seasons?” asks Wenyi,
“Two glorious fucking seasons,” grumbles Wang as he dunks his paddle back into the churning river of crap.
“How are you not accustomed to your duties by now?” queries Wenyi.
“Forgive me for not stripping down to my bare rear and diving in,” replies Wang. “How have you managed to perform this job for so many years whilst maintaining your sanity?” asks Wang Weo.
“Necessity. Simply focus on your task and think of something other than this place my friend. The day will pass much sooner,” advises Wenyi.
“What do you think of?” asks Wang in a muffled voice through his mask.
“Everything that does not exist in this damned and dirty cave. The sky, clean rivers, my beloved, Quing, the sound of my children’s laughter, and my goal,” reveals Wenyi.
“What goal do you speak of?” asks Wang.
“You don't actually believe I plan to work this position my entire life do you,” says Wenyi staring at him fiercely. “I am saving for a stall and a patch of land closer to the city. With the overtime I am putting in, perhaps five more years,” he adds.
“I thought you liked this duty,” says Wang, puzzled.
“Yes Wang, pushing other peoples shit through a mountain pass is the stuff dreams are made of, ever since I was a child I had always wished to spend my days in a shit-smelling cave with no sun, moon or stars to look upon,” says Wenyi, dryly, whilst leaning on the edge of his paddle.
“You should be careful what you wish for,” jokes Wang in a muffled laugh.
“Thank you for your guidance,” replies Wenyi with a quick wink. “Do you wish for me to speak with the Major? If you wish for overtime I am the one to ask,” says Wenyi.
“No, my mother and father left me enough cowrie shells to last me five years,” replies Wang.
“But at the rate you are spending your wealth, it won’t last you more than two,” replies Wenyi.
“What do you speak of? I spend only what I need to survive,” exclaims Wang.
“Really, new boots?” asks Wenyi, sarcastically.
“I needed new boots. I purchased them for a very reasonable price,” replies Wang,
“How much?” asks Wenyi.
“Fifty shells,” replies Wang reluctantly.
“Fifty cowrie shells! You have been robbed,” laughs Wenyi. “I swear you are as thick as two short planks,” says Wenyi pitifully. “You do not buy footwear my friend, you make it yourself, just as Quing showed you the last one hundred times,” says Wenyi, with a sigh.
“I have tried many times but the stitching will not hold,” replies Wang.
“Tis not rocket science Wang, next time all you need do but ask,” replies Wenyi.
“It stinks in here, smells like...” complains Wang.
“Shut up and keep paddling,” says Wenyi, having no greater wish to be there than his whingeing friend.
“Wenyi, Wenyi? Why is it they call you Wenyi? Is it because you spend so much time down here with the rats?” says Wang.
“Not exactly Wang, they call me Wenyi because I had the last chargeha
nd removed from his post, his position became available, so naturally I took it. Now I earn thirty cowry shells on top of my previous twenty, combined with overtime I take home seventy cowry shells a day sometimes. There is money to be made here my friend, if you are willing to work for it that is. Complain less and work more and when you need it I will put a good word in for you with the Captain of the Guard, for it is he who selects those worthy of overtime,” says Wenyi.