Soundless

When I reach the part about Nuan’s village, I include more detail, about the dead bodies and the records of a village in chaos—a village just like ours. It is a grim memory, one I don’t like repeating, but it too must be told. When I get to the point where Li Wei and I make it to the bottom and see the township for the first time, I pause. The artist in me, the one who sees the world and wants to capture it, wishes I could spare the time to truly describe the township. For all its evils, it is still a remarkable place, the closest thing to a real city any of us will ever get to. I want to paint pictures of those embellished buildings, list all the things for sale, convey the singing children . . . but there is no time. I simply describe it as a busy, vivid place—emphasizing that it has plenty of food—and then go on to Nuan’s tale.

This is the part I elaborate on in the greatest detail, pointing out the similarities between our peoples and how the mines destroyed them—and how the township gave up on them. I tell of their encampment and treatment by the others, how many have given up hope and are just as hungry as they were when they still lived on the plateau. Finally, I close my account with a brief recap of how the soldiers chased us, and how Li Wei and I split up. Although it is certainly a thrilling part of the tale, I again use brevity. My own hardships don’t matter at this point. It is Li Wei’s sacrifice and the township’s ruthlessness I want my village to know about.

When I step back, I am amazed at the amount of calligraphy I’ve painted. This much text normally would be the work of at least half a dozen apprentices. It would also have been painted with much more precision, each brushstroke placed with care and beauty. My work, though not entirely neat, is thorough and legible. I used big, broad strokes, ensuring it can be read from a distance.

Zhang Jing now supplies me with colored paints as I start the illustrations. My pictures are even more hurried than my text, but I’m a strong enough artist that my skills still shine through. For one picture, I depict the house in Nuan’s village, showing the room in disrepair and the bodies of the family that starved to death. It is a gruesome creation, but the shock in Zhang Jing’s face tells me it’s effective. For my second image, I paint where Nuan’s people live now: the dilapidated village of tents, its people thin and dirty. It is something else my people need to see.

I don’t know where I find the energy to do all this painting. The earlier harrowing climb has left me in a state far past exhaustion. It is Zhang Jing’s future—hers and others like her, I decide—that gives me the added rush of adrenaline and inspiration to complete this frantic, ominous masterpiece. And Li Wei, of course. Always, always he is in the back of my mind, urging me on. My sister keeps me supplied with paint, so I have no delays, save for pausing and dipping my brush or switching colors.

It is almost a shock when, at long last, I realize I’ve accomplished all I can possibly do in this time. Standing still after such frenetic work feels almost u

We must take this to the village’s center, I tell Zhang Jing.

Her eyes are wide as she takes in the extent of my work. She has been watching the entire time, making no comment until now. It really is true, isn’t it? she asks at last. All of this. What happened to those people. What will happen to us.

Yes, I say.

You say nothing about your hearing, she points out. Isn’t that important?

I hesitate before answering. Not to our village’s fate. There will be time later to figure out what’s happening to me. For now, we must help the others.

Zhang Jing nods in acceptance. Tell me what you need me to do.

For a moment, the love and faith in her eyes overwhelms me so much that I fear I’ll break down and start crying. I hide my discomfort with a hug so that she is unable to see me blinking back tears. When I step away, I hope I look more confident than I feel about what is to come. Okay, I tell her. Now we need to carry these out to the center of the village.

The task is a bit more complicated than it might appear. Although most of the patrolling servants are staying near the kitchen to guard the food, there is still the chance one might wander into the wing where the workroom is. That requires extra caution as we smuggle the canvases outside. Equally challenging is handling the canvases themselves. Even when the apprentices do touch-ups to the record in the morning, most of the work has had time to dry overnight. Now Zhang Jing and I must manage still-wet paint, taking care not to ruin the words and images I have just labored over.

It also requires many trips. I never thought of that daily morning trek as particularly long or difficult, but now, doing it multiple times in my current state, my mind starts to think it’s almost as taxing as the climb down the mountain. Many beggars sleep in the town’s center, their bodies huddled together in piles for warmth. We are careful to step around and not disturb them, but the sight of them makes my insides twist when I think how it’s a very real possibility that others—including Zhang Jing—may share their fate if we don’t take action.

Zhang Jing and I finish assembling my record just as the eastern sky turns purple. Soon the villagers will be waking. Soon they will see what I’ve created.

You must go back before anyone realizes you’ve been a part of this, I tell her. Go wake with the others, have breakfast as normal. Then we will see what happens.

My sister gives me a sweet, sad smile. I would rather stand with you. Besides, there is no food for breakfast.

The words hit me hard. I kneel down on the dais and open up my pack, pulling out some of the rations I brought back with me to show the others. Zhang Jing gasps at the sight of it, her hunger obvious in her eyes. I give her some fruit and the last bun.

Take these and go back, I insist. I know you support me, but I’ll feel better if you’re back at the school. I don’t know how people are going to react to this—to me. Especially if they think I’ve cost them their food.

Zhang Jing places her hand over mine as I begin repacking my bag, giving me a brief squeeze. If you need me, tell me.

I will. The best way you can help at this point is to stay safe.

What is that? she asks, pointing at a flash of red in my bag.

I clench some of the red silk dress in my hand, my heart swelling as I think of Li Wei. It’s a gamble that paid off. Pray ours does as well. Now go.

After another fierce, quick hug, Zhang Jing obeys and hurries off down the main village track, back to the school. I know I should probably eat as well, but for once I have no appetite. I’m too keyed up, my nerves frayed and on edge. I settle for water and then sit cross-legged, watching as the sky grows lighter and lighter, waiting for my village to waken.

The first person I see, aside from the sleeping beggars, is the lamplighter. He trudges down the main track with his torch, stifling a yawn. He’s usually the first person up in our village, lighting the various lamps that will illuminate our paths until the sun is up. When he reaches the village’s center, he comes to a complete standstill, frozen as he recognizes me and undoubtedly thinks of all that I’ve been accused of. Then, slowly, his eyes shift to the record beside me. Although it is still early, the stark black-on-white calligraphy is easy to discern. He reads, his jaw dropping as he goes further and further.

When he finishes, he says nothing to me, but his astonishment is obvious. The torch slips from his hand, burning harmlessly in the packed dirt. He turns around and goes ru