The Ink Immortal

Scholar Peng, a man of Chu, was poor. He lodged in an abandoned temple south of Wuchang city to study. In the temple was a pavilion with nothing but a desk, a bed, and an inkstone. The stone was Duan stone, deep purple and glossy, left behind by no one knew whom. Peng practiced calligraphy day and night, and whenever his ink ran low, he would add water and go on.

One night, overcome with exhaustion, Peng fell asleep at his desk. When he woke, the inkstone was full, the ink fresh and clear as if just ground. Puzzled, he looked around. The doors and windows were shut. No sign of anyone. He thought he had been dreaming and let it go.

But from then on, it happened every night. The moment Peng lay down to sleep, the ink would fill itself. He tried marking the wall with charcoal, tying threads to the door hinge, nothing worked. One evening he pretended to sleep, eyes barely open. Near midnight, the candle flame flickered and the ink in the stone shivered. A thing the size of a fist poked its head out of the pool.

It was a tiny figure, clothed and faced in black, shaped like a child. It had all its limbs. It sat on the rim of the inkstone, leaned over, scooped water in its palm, and began grinding ink with the utmost care. When it was done, it dipped a finger in the ink and traced a few characters in the air, as if forming lines of text. Then it leaped back into the pool without a ripple.

Peng sat bolt upright. He asked: what are you.

The child did not answer. Only when Peng asked a second time did it slowly turn. Its face was black with ink, but its features were clear, and it smiled. It said: I was once a candidate from Jiangnan. I failed the exams year after year. I sold my calligraphy to survive and eventually fell ill and died in this very temple. In life I cared for nothing but good ink. After death my spirit did not scatter. I attached myself to this Duan stone. Whenever I see someone practicing calligraphy, I gladly grind the ink. In a hundred years, you are not the first to live in this pavilion.

Peng said: in a hundred years, has no one ever seen you.

The child said: people have seen me. Some thought the inkstone was bewitched and threw it down a well. One man sealed the ink pool with cinnabar paste. I was trapped inside for over a year before I got free. You never asked where the ink came from, never feared the strange. You are absent-minded, and so I dared to show myself.

Peng was silent for a long time. He said: do you still wish to sit for the exams.

The child laughed. What use are honors now. I do what I do only because I cannot bear to leave the scent of ink.

With that it jumped onto the desk and examined the characters Peng had written by candlelight. It pointed at one and said: this character is pressed too hard. You wrote it when your mind was uneasy. It pointed at another: this one has a sharp edge but no bone. You forced it out in exhaustion. Peng felt ashamed and impressed.

The child said: write a line. Let me watch.

Peng spread paper and ground ink. The child sat beside his shoulder, tapping the desk to mark a rhythm. At each character it would say good or rewrite. Peng held his breath and focused, following each correction. By dawn he looked at the paper on his desk. The strokes were entirely different from his usual hand.

From then on they sat together every night. The child advised on technique, discussed the grades of ink, or simply watched in silence as Peng wrote. Peng asked its name. The child said: it has been a hundred years, I have forgotten. Peng said: then I shall call you Ink Immortal. The child said: that will do.

More than a year passed. One evening the child appeared with a sorrowful look. It said: your writing lately has lost its affectation. You no longer need my guidance.

Peng said: where will you go.

The child said: the ink in the stone grows less each day. My spirit will soon be spent. I was able to stay a hundred years only because there was always someone in this pavilion writing. Now your hand has matured and you will leave this temple soon. Our time is over. As it spoke, its form began to thin, like smoke, like mist. Peng rushed forward, but the child had already dissolved into the ink pool and was gone.

That night, as Peng ground ink, a single thread of darkness rose from the pool, coiled three times around the room, and faded into nothing.

The following spring Peng sat for the provincial exam and passed. He lived out his years as a county education officer and never spoke of this. On his deathbed he asked his family to bury a Duan inkstone with him. He said: my friend is in there.

Some say: those who devote themselves entirely to one art may leave their souls behind in the objects they loved. Luthiers dwell in singed zithers, swordsmen in broken blades, ink-lovers in Duan stones. If you encounter one, treat it well. Or leave it in peace. What they guard is not you. It is what they loved.