He was just thinking that he must have met Edward Grant before, and was even considered that person’s disciple. But that was a very, very long time ago. He had come and gone in the human world for twelve cycles, living and dying without attachments, and could no longer remember the faces of many people.

Back when he painted this picture, the one following William Clark wasn’t Charles Sullivan, but his disciple at the time. The young disciple had prepared everything as required, while he stood by the desk for a whole day, not knowing how to begin.

The young disciple asked if there was something wrong with the brush or ink.

He said no, it was just that he couldn’t remember what the person he was supposed to paint looked like.

The young disciple was troubled. He had never seen Edward Grant, couldn’t even find a reference model, and couldn’t bear to see William Clark lingering at the desk, so he brought portraits of various gods and buddhas.

And so, this patchwork creation came to be.

……

Suddenly, a bell rang in the room, snapping William Clark back to reality.

The ringing came from George Miller’s phone. He stepped aside to take a call and learned that the driver who would take them to the burial box had already set out and was on the way here.

William Clark glanced at the wall clock and realized it was already six o’clock. It was time for them to get ready and head up the mountain.

The previous topic was interrupted and never resumed. It was just idle chatter anyway; Henry Baker was no longer curious, and William Clark couldn’t be bothered to make up another lie.

George Miller hung up the phone, hurriedly showed Henry Baker the bedroom, then apologized, “It was thoughtless of me. I should have explained the situation when we set the time. Today is indeed a special circumstance, and I can’t continue to host you. There will be other opportunities in the future.”

William Clark thought to himself: Right, I’m still keeping an eye on your Xiping Garden, you can’t run away.

George Miller added, “I understand about renting a place—you have to look at several, compare them, and pick the one you’re most satisfied with. Today is just a viewing, it’s normal not to decide right away. Why don’t you go back and think it over?”

William Clark hoped he wouldn’t even consider it. He didn’t want a table full of unknownly toxic Manchu-Han banquets wandering around his house.

But just as this wish surfaced, Henry Baker said, “No need to think it over, I’ll rent it. When can I move in?”

William Clark was instantly displeased.

George Miller wasn’t as obvious, just hesitated and said, “Actually, this neighborhood is pretty remote, transportation and such aren’t very convenient, and it’s not lively.”

He glanced at William Clark, scratched his head, and said, “Um… to be honest, there are plenty of good places, there’s no need to rush into this one.”

Henry Baker said, “I think there is.”

William Clark: “Why?”

Henry Baker rubbed his long index finger with his thumb, the blue veins on the back of his hand clearly visible.

Why, indeed?

Because it was the first time he’d seen someone obediently offer incense to him.

And also because…

“I’m hunting someone.” He looked at William Clark, suddenly smiling with his eyes.

***

Just because of that possibly true, possibly false statement, the timid and imaginative George Miller felt a chill down his back the whole time.

Starting from six o’clock, people coming to send off Charles Sullivan on his final journey arrived one after another.

Michael Bolton, who had said she would try her best to come, didn’t show up. Instead, Henry Baker, who had said he had something to do, never left, standing among the sparse crowd with that black coat in hand.

He volunteered to come along, and as the host, it wasn’t appropriate to turn him away, so they let him join.

The burial site was a bit far, the mountain rather remote, and it was raining, making the road hard to walk.

The car carried about a dozen people, slowly gliding through the rain. George Miller sat in the front holding his grandfather’s burial box, with William Clark beside him. Relatives and friends sat in order behind, so most people were in the front half of the seats.

As the car started, William Clark glanced back casually.

He had thought that someone like Henry Baker, unfamiliar with the place and people, would choose to sit alone in the back row for some peace and quiet. But when he turned his head, he saw Henry Baker in the third row, listening to the middle-aged people around him chatting away.

Those people spoke with heavy dialects; William Clark couldn’t understand a word, and he suspected Henry Baker couldn’t either, but the latter looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

William Clark ignored him, pulled down his hat, and leaned against the window to rest with his eyes closed.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he suddenly heard George Miller call him softly: “Mr. Clark, Mr. Clark.”

William Clark opened his eyes. “What is it?”

He saw George Miller huddled in his seat, neck stiff, his voice trembling on the verge of tears: “Look behind you, where are the people in the car?”

Wooden Child

Chapter 6: The Doll

William Clark looked back and saw the car was empty, deathly silent.

It was as if only the two of them had ever come to the funeral, and everyone else was an illusion.

A musty, dusty smell filled the air, the leather seats looked as if they’d been there for years, cracked and mottled. William Clark braced himself on the armrest to stand up, but his hand came away covered in rust.

“I couldn’t hold on just now, dozed off for a bit, and when I opened my eyes, it was like this.” George Miller’s voice was even more tearful. “Mr. Clark, I’m scared…”

William Clark glanced at his tear-streaked face, said nothing, and made his way toward the front door, holding onto the seatbacks.

“Don’t go! Mr. Clark, don’t go, wait for me, wait for me!” George Miller, afraid of being left alone, hurried after him.

But William Clark had no intention of waiting, and went down the steps and out of the car.