Soundless(17)

Li Wei.

For the first time in a while, that dazzling childhood memory doesn’t immediately come to mind as I stare at him. That inescapable attraction and the emotional fallout from joining the artists still burns within me, but it too is momentarily subdued. What pulls me to him now is his sense of loss and his rage at the situation our people are locked into. It resonates with the pain I feel over Zhang Jing, and although I don’t know if he’ll want to talk to me, I know have to try.

He stands near the front of the crowd, his back straight and tall and his face proud and almost haughty. As usual, though, it’s his eyes that betray his otherwise tough exterior. I see the emotion brimming in them, and my own heart aches in answer. I know him well enough to understand that he’s using every ounce of self-control to remain calm in front of the others. I wish I could run forward and clasp his hands, let him know it’s okay to grieve and show how he feels.

He wears a white shirt, undoubtedly borrowed from a community source. In the old days, it was written, every villager would come out in white for a funeral. When trade down the mountain became restricted, however, our clothing supply diminished. Now only the immediate family is granted white, from a closely guarded communal supply. Even though the color has sad connotations, I’m moved by how striking Li Wei looks when he’s cleaned up and in something other than those muddy work clothes. It’s not something I’ve seen very much. He looks almost regal once the dirt is washed away, like someone who could lead and command attention, rather than toil away in a dark mine.

The priest bows before the memorial altar, which has already been set with the sacred lamp, two candles, and five cups. His assistants bring forward incense, which he adds to the altar and lights with great ceremony. Soon the scent of sandalwood wafts to where I stand. The priest goes through the familiar signs and dances, and although I watch respectfully, my mind wanders. With the blindness has come an increase in funerals, and we are all too familiar with this ceremony.

I focus again on Li Wei, thinking about his words and his conviction. Did he mean what he said? Is he really going to attempt to leave and go down the mountain? Perhaps he was only speaking in anger . . . yet, as I study him closely, something tells me what he said wasn’t an impulse. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been planning his journey for a long time. He simply needed a strong enough reason to spur him on; his father’s death provided it.

My thoughts are suddenly, jarringly interrupted by a noise that nearly makes me jump out of my own skin. It’s a sign of both my internal struggles and my ability to adapt that in only a couple of days, I’ve learned to tune out many background noises. Noises that initially overwhelmed me. Now, in this short time, I find myself ignoring many common sounds and focusing on those that either directly affect me or are particularly noticeable.

This one sets my teeth on edge, and I search for its source. In the priest’s direction, one of his assistants has just struck a ceremonial gong. My eyes widen as I realize that monstrous noise was caused by a gesture I’d seen countless times at funerals and other rituals. I never realized that noise was the end result. I look around, desperate to see if anyone else reacted. But they’re all respectfully watching the priest—well, everyone except the older woman standing next to me who noticed when I flinched.

Do you know why they hit the gong? I ask.

The woman bows in acknowledgment to my station and then answers: It is to scare evil spirits who might delay the deceased’s journey. She pauses. That is what my grandmother told me, at least. I don’t know why hitting it scares them. Perhaps it is magical.

I thank her and turn back to the ceremony. Despite the grim circumstances, I almost want to smile. I’m not sure I believe in that kind of superstition, but I certainly understand how our ancestors thought the gong could frighten away evil spirits! All this time, I’d had no idea of its true purpose. No one did. For generations, the priests have just continued using the gong out of habit, long after anyone could hear it anymore. I wonder how many other things like this were lost to us when sound disappeared.

And why, I ask myself for the hundredth time, am I the only one who has had this sense restored?

When the funeral ends, Li Wei is surrounded by those wishing to offer condolences. A number of them are girls our age, and while they look legitimately sorry for his loss, part of me questions their motives. I can’t be the only one who goes weak-kneed around him, and I really don’t know how he’s spent his free time since I joined the artists. It’d be reasonable for him to turn his attentions to someone else. The thought troubles me more than it should, considering how Sheng and I were matched. When the last of Li Wei’s sympathizers leaves, I follow him as he walks alone from the village’s center. I pass a cluster of beggars as I do, their sad plight bringing Zhang Jing to mind. My resolve strengthens, and I tap Li Wei’s shoulder when he heads down a path that leads to a group of small houses. He turns, looking surprised to see me—and possibly a little exasperated, considering how we last left things.

What do you want? he asks. His harsh response is almost enough to make me flinch.

Mustering my courage, I bow and give the proper condolences offered in these situations. I am very sorry for the loss of your father. May his spirit live in immortality.

Thank you, Li Wei responds, but he is clearly suspicious that there is more to come.

I make sure no one else is around before dropping the formalities: Are you still planning on leaving?