Meng Kuan

"Name?" "Xie Kejiu." "Where are you from?" "Should be... Yingzhou." "Should be?" The clerk handling enlistment looked up and gave the man in front of him a once-over. Height was fine. He looked young enough. Build... no obvious disability. Good enough. The clerk nodded, licked the tip of his brush, and wrote something down. "Li Jingxing. Once you're in camp, you follow the rules. Got it?" Best not to make trouble where there didn't need to be any. In times like these, who would steal someone else's name just to become a common soldier? "Xie Kejiu" would. He had crawled out from a heap of corpses. The city had fallen. His general had surrendered. His comrades were gone. And yet Heaven, as if making sport of him, had let him live. He had lived, yes. But in this vast world, he no longer had anywhere to come from, or anywhere to go back to. So after he spent his last coin on wine, he sold himself to the army again, this time under his squad leader's name. As if that man were still here. ... "Name?" "Zhou Fugui." "What are you entering the city for?" "Delivering a letter. I've got a distant kinsman named Zhao Tie stationed with the Luancheng garrison. If you'll just take a look..." As he spoke, he smoothly pulled out a wineskin and offered it to the guard. "All right, all right. Go on in. Where'd you get wine this fragrant?" The guard uncapped it, took a sniff, and waved him through. Best not to make trouble where there didn't need to be any. These days, who didn't have some poor relative somewhere? "Zhou Fugui" didn't. His parents had died early, before they had even given him a proper name. So when he enlisted, all he had was the cheap little milk name they had called him by. People said a worthless name was easier to keep alive. So he often thought maybe his name was too worthless. Why else would Heaven refuse to take him? Why leave alive a man with no family, no ties, no one waiting for him, while all those brothers of his who had homes and people to miss them had died on the battlefield? All he could do was shoulder his pack and carry their last letters and unpaid wages to the families they had left behind. Everywhere he went, he used a different name. As if they were all still here. ... "And you, what's your name?" This time, he was the one asking. "My name is Zhao Buyi." "Is your uncle Zhao Shi?" "Huh? You know my uncle? He's been in the army for years. He's really something." He did not know Zhao Tie. But he knew Zhao Shi. Zhao Shi was one of the brothers who had written their final letters beside him, one of the brothers who had died at Jin'an Fortress and never come back out. Every household in Luancheng wove cloth, so finding the Zhao family had not been easy. But the moment he saw the boy's face, he knew he had found the right place. He took out the letter he had carried against his chest for so long and placed it in Zhao Buyi's hands, telling him to pass it to Zhao Shi. Zhao Buyi looked at the bloodstained envelope, then at the man in the bamboo hat before him, and seemed to understand. "My uncle... he's not coming back, is he?" He did not know how to answer. So he only patted Zhao Buyi on the head and turned to leave. Behind him, the boy's young voice called out: "Mister, what about you? What's your name? Will I ever see you again?" He lifted a hand without looking back and gave him a name at random. "Ding Xianzhen." He remembered that one. About the same age as Zhao Buyi. Only... he would never make it home either. ... After who knew how long... At the city gate, the guards were questioning people leaving the city as usual. "Name?" "Meng Kuan." "Meng Kuan... where to?" "North." "What for?" "Looking for someone. Delivering a letter." "Meng Kuan" lowered the brim of his newly changed hat and followed the crowd heading north. He knew there were still many people waiting for those names to return, or at least for word of what had become of them. As for himself, no one was waiting. And a man no one waits for has no use for a name.

"Why’s that Meng Kuan here at Zhongdu Bridge?" "Who knows. Heard he owes somebody money." "Money? I heard he owes somebody a favor." Money or favors, none of them had any idea. Meng Kuan listened to the gossip, dug a finger in his ear, and uncapped his wineskin. He had lifted this skin off Fu Qianli. This kind only came from around Mount Taibai, and what it held was the strongest liquor there was. He tipped his head back and took a long pull. ... "Northern liquor, huh? You can smell the strength on it." "You know your drink. Going by your accent, you're from the south, aren't you?" It was a snowy night in a ruined shrine. The two of them had been sitting there in silence, each wiping down his blade, until the smell of the liquor warmed things up between them. Meng Kuan was there to deliver a letter. Over the years, he had slipped into the army again and again under different names, all to track down the families of the comrades he had fought beside and place their letters and pay into their hands. This last letter was for someone near the Wolf River, in Khitan lands. He had come prepared not to make it back. What he had not expected was to run into another wandering swordsman in the middle of this snowy nowhere, one who used a blade just like he did. They had stolen blades first, then horses, fighting and fleeing all the way. By the time they finally shook off their pursuers and stopped to rest in the ruined shrine, neither of them even knew the other's name. But in the jianghu, if you've fought side by side and shared a drink, that is enough to call each other brothers. The man across from him laughed and said his surname was Wang, given name Qing. Then he tossed over the wineskin he had already drunk from. Meng Kuan had been tempted by the smell for a while now. He drank three huge gulps in a row, like an ox at water. Wang Qing looked stricken. Not over the man. Over the wine. Since he had just drunk the other man's liquor, Meng Kuan could only wipe his mouth and say, "Meng Kuan. From... Hutuo. I've had liquor from plenty of places these past few years, but this one... strong on the nose, hot going down, clean on the finish. Can't place where it's from." Wang Qing burst out laughing. "This was brewed from snow off the highest peak of Mount Taibai. You don't just get to drink this anywhere. When I left home, though, I snuck this many jars down the mountain." He held up a number with his fingers. Meng Kuan gave a snort. "Three jars? That wouldn't even last one night." Wang Qing shook his head and held up the same number again. "Thirty?" Wang Qing grinned. "Three hundred." Meng Kuan burst out laughing and clapped his hands. "Brother, you're something else." So the two of them sat in that ruined shrine, splitting half a skin of fine liquor and talking the whole night through, from one end of the world to the other. At daybreak, the wine was gone and the fire had died out. They stepped outside and mounted their horses, one heading south, the other north. "Wang Qing. This is where we part. Take care." "Meng Kuan. Same to you. Take care." After the farewell, Meng Kuan was just about to spur his horse on when he heard a shout from behind him. "Brother Meng, next time we meet, give me your real name. Hyah!" Meng Kuan turned around. All he saw was the man's back as he rode off and vanished into the snow and wind. He smacked his lips, as though savoring the liquor, or maybe because he did not quite know what to say. "Damn. Guess I owe you a real name now." ... Hutuo. Toilgrain Barn. A few sparks scattered in the wind. Meng Kuan tipped his head back and took another long drink.