Chapter 333: The Original Birth Register

The envelope came to rest on the threshold, one corner damp with melted snow.

Zhou Heng pushed open the hall doors first.

The stone steps outside were empty, but a trail of footprints marked the snow on either side.

One trail came from beneath the covered walkway. The other led toward the rear courtyard.

Whoever had delivered the letter hadn’t gone far. From the corner of the wall came the faint rustle of clothing brushing against dead branches.

“Don’t follow them,” Lu Yuan said. “First, see where the back courtyard leads.”

Zhou Heng acknowledged him and went along the pillars. Lin Zhaoxuan held a lantern over the threshold. Only after confirming there were no threads attached did he use two clean bamboo slats to move the envelope onto the table.

Han Shouyi was still staring at the seal.

“How could this letter have come…”

“Have you seen it before?”

His lips pressed together. It took a long while before he answered. “I’ve seen a seal like this.”

Wang Cheng’an didn’t take the letter at once. Instead, he spread out the inspection record from earlier.

All seven of them were present. He had just finished recording the testimony of six, but had left out Lin Zhaoxuan, who had stayed outside to inspect the pillars.

He added Lin Zhaoxuan’s name, what he had inspected, and the time. Then he circled Han Shouyi’s entry separately.

Xu Erxiao noticed and asked in a low voice, “You’re still adding things now?”

“If it’s missing, it’s missing.”

Wang Cheng’an set down his pen carefully.

“We’re checking other people’s altered records. Our own papers have to hold up to scrutiny, too.”

Lu Yuan nodded and moved the new letter farther from the birth register.

White Reed wasn’t looking at the seal. She bent to examine the lower edge of the envelope, then reached out and stopped beside the damp mark.

“The snow just got on it, but it hasn’t soaked into the paper.”

Song Qinghe brought the lamp closer.

The envelope was yellowed, its corners worn and frayed. But the damp spot had a thin sheen to it, as if it had been waxed.

“Someone’s kept it very carefully,” she said.

“Just because it was delivered now doesn’t mean it was written recently.”

Lu Yuan turned the envelope over.

Two seams sealed the back: one with old glue, one with fresh paste. Shen Bonian’s seal sat over the old seam, while the new paste had been carefully applied around it in a thin ring.

The letter had been opened.

Wang Cheng’an recorded that detail, then looked up at Han Shouyi.

“You said you’d seen a seal like this. Where?”

Han Shouyi glanced at the door.

“The returned-mail cabinet in the rear courtyard.”

“When?”

“The year I first came here.”

“What year was that?”

“The first year of the Republic.”

“And this letter was there then?”

Han Shouyi shook his head.

“I only remember the seal. There were other letters in the cabinet. I can’t say for sure that this was one of them.”

This time, Wang Cheng’an didn’t press him. He wrote down the answer as given.

Zhou Heng returned from the rear walkway carrying a white-paper lantern. There were no words on its shade, but a thin cord was tied beneath it, the end damp.

“The man went into the east room in the back courtyard. The door’s barred from inside. He’s a thin old man. He said he took the letter from the returned-mail cabinet and told us to check the dispatch register.”

“What’s his name?”

“Says his surname’s Tao. He tends the lamps.”

Han Shouyi jerked his head up.

“Tao Shun is still here?”

Zhou Heng studied him. “You didn’t know he was in the back courtyard?”

Han Shouyi’s expression darkened.

“I come to check the accounts on the first and fifteenth of each month. I don’t live at the temple. The people in the back courtyard… they’re all assigned by someone above me.”

“Who’s above you?” Xu Erxiao asked.

Han Shouyi glanced at the headless deity statue, then shifted his gaze to the wooden screen behind it.

Only then did Lu Yuan notice the inconspicuous plaque hanging at the bottom of the screen.

“Black Mountain Pass Benevolent Medicine Bureau—Storage.”

Dust covered the plaque, but all four corners were clean. Someone clearly took it down often.

“Take us to the returned-mail cabinet.”

Han Shouyi didn’t move.

White Reed gently closed the original birth register, slipping a clean paper marker between the two entries recording arrivals at the residence.

“Let’s put the book away first.”

Her voice was quiet, but her hands were steady.

Lu Yuan glanced at her. He and Wang Cheng’an wrapped the register in its old cloth and put it back. The wax seal on the chest had already been broken, so they replaced the paper talismans and recorded the time it had been opened, everyone present, and the pages consulted. They left the chest in the care of Xu Erxiao and Lin Zhaoxuan.

The green lamp stayed behind.

The other five followed Han Shouyi through the side door and into the rear courtyard.

The courtyard sat lower than the main hall. A water vat in the center had frozen solid. The paper over the east room’s window was yellowed, and six spare path lanterns stood outside its door. A long row of storerooms lined the west side. Every window was boarded up, and only a faint red glow from a coal fire showed through the cracks beneath the doors.

White Reed stopped.

“The red light we saw at the pass. It came from here.”

Han Shouyi pulled out his keys. His fingers trembled so badly that he missed the keyhole several times.

When the door opened, the mingled smell of old paper and damp wood rolled out to meet them.

There was no fire in the room.

The red glow came from a row of small windows in the wall. Outside them, charcoal channels buried in the earthen wall slowly gave off heat—enough to keep the paper dry, but with no open flame anywhere near the cabinets.

Song Qinghe walked a couple of steps along the wall.

“Someone’s been taking care of this place all along.”

Wang Cheng’an stared at the rows of cabinet doors for a long moment without speaking.

Each door bore a year and month, though the oldest labels had faded until they were almost unreadable. Narrow wooden slips between the compartments listed place names: North Ferry, Bai River, Liu Family Gully, East Slope…

News that people had searched for all their lives was packed into a room with no sign outside.

A dispatch register sat on a small table by the door.

Lu Yuan opened it and first checked the binding and page numbers. Only after confirming there were no obvious missing pages did he start tracing the dates.

Shen Bonian’s name appeared halfway through.

“One old letter sent. Recipient: Shen Lanzhi. Destination: Bai River, North Ferry.”

Three records of its return followed.

The first read: “Stopped at ferry crossing. No such resident.”

The second: “Recipient formerly lived there. No forwarding address left.”

The third: “Woman apothecary surnamed Gu made inquiries on her behalf. Not delivered.”

White Reed’s finger stopped just short of the third line.

“Woman apothecary surnamed Gu.”

“The full name isn’t written,” Wang Cheng’an reminded her.

“I know.”

She drew her hand back, but her eyes remained fixed on the entry.

In the next column, in even finer handwriting, was another note:

“Inquirer gave her name as Gu Lanzhi. Surname does not match; letter held.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint crackle of the coals in the wall.

Lu Yuan slowly raised his head.

“She came to collect it herself.”

Han Shouyi took half a step back.

“You can’t conclude that from one line…”

“You’re right,” Wang Cheng’an said, turning the register toward him. “So let’s look at who handled it.”

Two characters were written in that column.

Tao Shun.

Zhou Heng turned and headed for the east room.

This time, before he could knock, the bar slid back.

The thin old man came out in a worn felt cloak, carrying an empty oil flask. He didn’t look at anyone. He simply walked toward the storeroom, steadying himself on the rim of the water vat as he passed.

“I was the one who held it back.”

His voice sounded as if it were full of sand.

“The Bureau had a rule that year: no one could collect a letter on behalf of someone with a different surname. She had no old household papers and no guarantor.”

White Reed watched him.

“What did she say?”

Tao Shun set the oil flask beneath the table.

“She said that if the letter couldn’t be delivered, I should tell the sender the children were all right. She told him to stop sending letters to the Bureau asking after them.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Did you pass on the message?”

Tao Shun shook his head.

“I couldn’t find the sender either.”

Wang Cheng’an checked the dates.

That entry was six months later than the last time Shen Bonian appeared in the transport records.

They had searched for each other through the same cabinets. In the end, neither had received an answer.

Lu Yuan set the envelope in front of Tao Shun.

“Did you open it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

Han Shouyi’s face changed sharply.

Tao Shun ignored him and went on. “When we were clearing the cabinets, someone said the old letters had gone unclaimed and could be destroyed along with the rest. I opened it to see if there was anyone still alive who might receive it.”

“Who wanted them destroyed?” Lu Yuan asked.

Tao Shun glanced at Han Shouyi.

“They were being transferred, not burned,” Han Shouyi said at once.

“Transferred where?”

“The main storehouse on the back mountain.”

“Is there a receipt?”

Han Shouyi took a folded stack of papers from inside his clothes.

Wang Cheng’an took them and unfolded only the first page. His expression turned cold.

“It says ‘transfer’ in the heading, but the last column reads: ‘Original not returned; summary filed under offerings.’”

Han Shouyi didn’t answer.

Tao Shun lowered his head and rubbed his hands.

“I don’t know all those categories. But some of these letters have children’s drawings tucked inside. Some have nothing but a couple of lines about everyday things. If they take a few names for the record and the rest disappears, what am I supposed to show anyone who comes asking?”

White Reed closed her eyes for a moment.

“So you waited for someone to come looking.”

“I didn’t know if anyone ever would.”

Tao Shun took a narrow wooden board from behind the cabinet. Six small copper rings were nailed to it.

“When the lights outside went out, I knew someone that night wasn’t going to follow the signs. People who follow the signs come in through the front door and hand over whatever they’re supposed to. You found the old carriage road.”

Lu Yuan glanced at the board.

“Did you put the lights out?”

“The first three were me. I don’t know about the last three.”

Song Qinghe asked, “Were you the one who rang the bell in the stone chamber, too?”

Tao Shun shook his head.

“That line’s been broken for a long time. It’s dozens of miles from Bai River to here, with mountains in between.”

White Reed unconsciously gripped the copper bell.

No one asked anything more.

They recorded the envelope’s two seams in detail, and Tao Shun explained when he had opened it and how he had resealed it. Only then did Lu Yuan open the letter along the new paste.

There were two sheets inside.

The first was brief.

“Lanzhi:

“I have had no reply to my last letter, but I’m sending another along the old road. You told me to send the children separately and not open the letters traveling with them. I’ve done as you asked. There was an error in the North Ferry records. I’ve asked the caretaker to add the old account to the family register and correct it, but I have yet to receive a reply.

“From now on, any money, medicine, grain, or travel expenses sent through me are gifts. The children must not be made to repay them. And no one is to add them to the Shen household just because I left my name.”

The next line was pressed beneath a fold.

Lu Yuan carefully smoothed it out.

“If you go by the Gu name, then I’ll respect your wishes. If you return to Bai River, don’t go into the old birthing room. Granny Sang no longer has authority there.”

The only signature was the word “Brother.”

Wang Cheng’an held the letter beneath the lamp and compared the handwriting, stroke by stroke, with the transport slip bearing Shen Bonian’s name.

“Some of the handwriting is similar. For now, we can only record it as an old letter signed ‘Brother,’ pending verification against the seal and dispatch register. We can’t say the whole thing is definitely in his hand based on this letter alone.”

Lu Yuan nodded.

But White Reed kept staring at the words “are gifts,” and for a long time, she didn’t look away.

“He knew they’d try to count those things as debts,” she said.

“At the very least, the writer was trying to prevent that,” Song Qinghe replied.

The second sheet was a crude diagram of the cabinet compartments.

Seven rows of cabinets. A circle marked the lowest compartment in the third row, with a note beside it:

“Separate box. Do not combine with register.”

Three items were listed on the back.

Midwife’s original register.

Residence admission stub.

Transfer receipt.

Wang Cheng’an’s breath caught.

“So the original birth register we found isn’t the only original record.”

Lu Yuan remembered how the handwriting in the latter half of the book differed so clearly from the rest.

“The records of births, residence admissions, and transfers were later bound into a single volume.”

“Right. It’s a genuine old register, and the chest was sealed for real, but the entries in it may have been copied from different sources. If we want to check the births, we need to find the original register kept at the time of delivery.”

White Reed said nothing. She turned and walked to the third row of cabinets.

Two bundles of old burlap sacks blocked the lowest compartment.

Zhou Heng moved the sacks aside, revealing a small cabinet door with no date on it. The lock was long broken, and dust had settled in the keyhole. Tao Shun crouched and tapped the edge of the door with the handle of his oil flask. The wooden panel came loose.

Three narrow boxes lay inside.

The first two were there. The space for the third was empty.

A fresh sheet of paper lay in the gap.

“Transfer receipt. Taken to Back Ridge. Recipient: Han Shouyi.”

Lu Yuan turned.

Han Shouyi stood in the doorway of the storeroom, all color drained from his face.

“Where is it?”

“I took it there.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“To whom?”

His throat moved a few times.

“Someone who came to verify a family connection.”

White Reed stepped forward.

“What was his name?”

Han Shouyi suddenly looked at Lu Yuan.

There was fear in his eyes, and a bewilderment he hadn’t shown before.

“He carried an old wooden tablet from the Lu family.”

The storeroom fell silent.

Wang Cheng’an pressed his pen to the paper but didn’t immediately record it as fact.

“Which Lu family? What was carved on the tablet? Who else saw him carrying it? How do you know it belonged to them?”

Han Shouyi drew a breath.

“On the back was a well, with three notches in the rim. On the front, there wasn’t a full name. Just the character for ‘far.’”

White Reed turned to Lu Yuan.

His hand was already at his chest.

He took out the old wooden tablet he wore against his skin and held it beneath the lamp.

The well carved on the back was worn dark. The rim did indeed have three notches. And on the front, the character for “far” was there, stroke for stroke.

Han Shouyi stared at it and stepped back.

“That’s the one.”

Lu Yuan didn’t move.

“How old was the person you saw last night?”

“About forty… maybe older. He wore a hat, and kept his right hand tucked into his sleeve.”

“What did he say?”

Han Shouyi stared at the wooden tablet. His voice grew quieter and quieter.

“He said that if anyone came carrying another one, we shouldn’t recognize the tablet.”

Lu Yuan raised his eyes.

“Then what should we recognize?”

Han Shouyi licked his cracked lips.

“Whether he remembered there was a second child in the well.”

Xu Erxiao’s shout suddenly rang out from the walkway outside.

“Brother Lu!”

A moment later came the muffled thud of a wooden chest being moved.

“There’s something tucked inside the original birth register!”

They hurried back to the main hall.

Lin Zhaoxuan was still beside the chest, his hand on the seal. He hadn’t opened it again.

The green lamp Song Qinghe had left behind illuminated the bottom of the chest. A small strip of yellowed paper peeked out through a gap in the old cloth.

Xu Erxiao pointed at it.

“When we carried it back, the corner of the cloth came loose and we spotted it. I didn’t pull it out.”

Lu Yuan crouched and had Wang Cheng’an record its position. Then White Reed used a bamboo slat to ease the paper out.

It was tiny, no bigger than half a palm.

Not a page from the book, but the back of an old prescription.

A well had been drawn on it.

Two little figures stood beside the well, one taller than the other. The taller one was holding the smaller one’s hand, and a bent-over adult stood beside them.

The drawing was crude, like something a child had scribbled without thinking.

Yet Lu Yuan saw at once the two characters written beneath the smaller figure’s feet.

“Cheng’an.”

The pen stopped in midair in Wang Cheng’an’s hand.

Outside the hall, all six path lanterns lit up again at once.