Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 148

Xangzhang looked up, wringing the sodden towel. ‘Wuhung, I came here to serve, not to be served; to
forgive, and not to hate.’
Wuhung was silenced. He could speak no more but reached his feet out. They were filthy, speckled and
bruised. Xangzhang held them still and touched on the cuts.
‘Do they hurt?’ he asked, and Wuhung nodded. He then gingerly pecked on those cuts with the towel,
wiping away the filthy pocks on the side and soothing the bruised areas. Wuhung’s mien was a concoction
of many feelings, from embarrassment, shame, gladness to sadness. To their bewilderment, he picked up the
pot again and placed it in front of Wujing. He reached out his hands signaling him to do the same.
Wujing recalled his feet being much worse than those of Wuhung: some parts were purple and some blue.
Toes were deformed and nails crooked. One side was dotted and one side blotched. Even he himself felt
deterred to look at them.
But Xangzhang just held his feet gently as if they were fragile glass. ‘I came here to forgive, not to hate,’ he
repeated, and then went on to clean his feet. He soaked the towel. His hands were warm but coarse. He was
careful not to touch his wounds. Then he did to him the same as what he did to Wuhung. Wujing could
not distinguish if that was an illusion or it really happened. When what it seemed to be a religious ritual was
completed, he felt the sourness and pain slipping away.
Wujing looked at his master, subconsciously scratching at the rim of his seat pad. It wrinkled and his brows
also wrinkled. This discomforted him. His master’s gentleness disconcerted him; his lowliness confounded
him; his humility unsettled him. He had a sudden strong urge to push him away, but he fought back his
urge.
The master then moved on to Bajie and did all the same. Wujing could not pay any more attention. His
mind was tied to a spinning wheel. One thing orbiting him was the words the Serpent said to him.
“Kiss him.”
His master knelt down and washed his fellowman’s feet.
“Kiss him.”
His master soaked the towel in the pot again.
“Kiss him.”
His master stood up with the towel and pot in his arms. Wujing went up to him and hugged him.
‘Thank you, master,’ said he, pecking on the master’s cheek.
It happened so fast. Black smoke flooded the house. Wujing heard his brothers yelling, “Master?” over and
over. He heard Bajie reach out for his tripod and Wuhung for his magic staff. He also heard himself
screaming at the top of his throat for no reason. But he could not hear his master.
The smoke wheeled around him and dissipated in a flash. When he opened his eyes, he could only see an
empty bungalow with only himself.