The Corpse-Lamp

The Mortuary Chapel stands at the foot of the back mountain, in its shadow, three rooms of stone, moss in the seams of the walls, and when it rains a smell of rotted grass and the wet reek of old wood. The chapel holds the bodies no one has come to claim, laid out side by side on the boards, each covered with a white cloth, a lamp of oil burning at the feet. When my master was alive, he was the last of the lamp-keepers here, my teacher. He died early, of the swollen lungs, and on winter nights his coughing shook the very walls. On his deathbed he seized my hand, his nails biting into my flesh, and said the lamps must never go out — one lamp guards one body, and when a lamp dies, the body takes a step, and if it takes enough steps, it finds the way home. I was only twelve then, and only nodded, my face blurred with tears, not understanding. It was only after all these years of keeping that I began to taste what he meant — the "home" he spoke of was not the door of the living world, but the place it meant to go, a place the living cannot follow.

The first time my master taught me to keep the lamp was that autumn when his coughing was worst. He set a low stool beside me and wrapped my hand in his wasted one, showing me how to pinch the wick. The wick was twisted from lamp-rush, soaked in oil, and to light it you had to lift with a knack — too hard and it smoked black, too soft and the flame leaned. He said a lamp-keeper first reads the fire, then the body; the fire steady, the body at peace. That night he taught till past midnight, and coughed a mouth of blood onto his cloth, bright red; he looked at it and said it was nothing, and folded the cloth away into his sleeve. I can still smell that cloth's sweet-salt tang, mixed with the burnt scent of the lamp oil — it became the undersmell of this chapel, one that never lifts.

I have kept this chapel seven years now. For seven years I have not dared close my eyes for a full night. But a man is not made of iron, and especially in the deep hours, when the oil has burned down and the wick has shrunk to nothing, the flame turns the color of ash, and the oil goes pock-pock against the side of the lamp, like someone clearing their throat from the bottom of their lungs, or like someone turning softly beneath the cloth. At such times the lids grow heavy, a thousand pounds each, and no matter how I fight it, they fall. I reach out to pinch the wick, to brighten the flame, but my hand is tired too, and as I pinch, the strength leaks from my grip. My master said a lamp must be kept by a man, and what he keeps is a breath of life. What I keep is seven lamps, seven unclaimed bodies, seven people's last breath.

The first winter after my master died, I was alone in the chapel. That winter was long beyond reason; snow sealed the mountain road and the town's people did not come up for more than half a month. I kept the six lamps, and at night I heard the wind thread in through the window-crack, carrying the cold incense of pine-resin from the back mountain, and a little of an indistinct rankness. Once, I had only dozed a moment when the nearest lamp's flame sank to half its height; I woke with a start to lift it, my hand shaking so I nearly knocked the lamp over. From then on I learned to listen — each lamp had its own voice, and the pock-pock of oil about to fail kept a different rhythm in each, so I could tell with my eyes shut which was failing. Only the seventh lamp never made a sound, from first to last, silent as a dry well, and that, oddly, set my heart bristling.

To get through the nights I tried many tricks. When my master was alive he'd taught pressing a cold towel to the brow, so each night I kept a basin of cool water and, when sleep bore down, soaked a cloth and pressed it to my face; the water ran down my neck and jolted me with a shudder. But the cool water stopped working, and I took to pinching my own thigh till it bruised blue-black. Yet the harder I fought to stay awake, the more my body seemed emptied, and the lids grew heavier still. Once, mid-pinch, my hand went loose and I fell dead asleep; I woke to the lamps still lit, but dreaming the one beneath the seventh lamp had stood before me — no, I have no bed, I sleep against the wall — had stood in front of me, looking down, the corner of the mouth hung with my sister's smile. I broke into a cold sweat and never again dared close my eyes before the seventh lamp.

The first three years were easy enough. The lamp oil was brought up from the town below, clear and slow-burning, a fill lasting half a night. Each night I went down the line topping the oil, and the flames stood up straight together, throwing a warm yellow onto the white cloth, and the bodies lay quiet, as if only asleep. I sat against the wall-root and listened to the wind move through the pines, a soft shh-shh, like someone walking slow in the yard, or like my sister in her wooden clogs, pat-pat, running from the hall to the kitchen. My sister died at seven, just after the spring equinox, taken by a fever in the night; my mother wrapped her in scallion-and-ginger steam all through one dawn, and when the light came she was gone. She went with her face clean and pale, as if only sleeping, a little smile still at the corner of her mouth, as if she'd had a very good dream. In life she loved to hum a tune, wordless, just a turning of "ee-ya, ee-ya," and humming she would tilt over onto my knee and fall asleep, her head nodding, her hair brushing the back of my hand. My mother said she'd been reborn into a good family, where she'd suffer no more. I was nine then and would not believe it; at night I always heard something move in the yard, like bare feet on the blue brick, ee-ya ee-ya, very soft. My mother said it was the wind, and bolted the window, telling me to sleep.

The day of my sister's burial it drizzled. The coffin was of willow, thin; my mother said we were poor and made do. I followed the bearers out of the village to a waste plot on the back mountain, and watched them open the pit and lower the willow coffin in. Spadeful by spadeful the earth came down, and suddenly I thought of the tune she hummed; my mouth opened to hum ee-ya with it, but my mother tugged my arm and said don't fuss, people will laugh. So I swallowed the tune back down, and to this day it will rise on its own in the dead of night, caught in my throat, neither to be swallowed nor spat out.

In those first three years the living came to the chapel too. Once the helper from the tofu shop brought his father to claim a body — said it was his lost old mother. The old woman was bloated white, her face swollen, and the father leaned close a long while, then shook his head, said no. By the rule I waited till they left, then brightened that lamp again, yet felt hollow inside. My master said a claimed body, when it leaves, the lamp must be blown out by the keeper's own hand — they call it "seeing the lamp off," and only then will the soul take the right road. But none of the bodies I kept had anyone to see them off; the lamps just burned on, a year, two years, burned into a formality.

From the night the seventh lamp was lit, my eyes kept drifting toward it. Once, topping the oil, the candle-flame flickered across the cloth and I was moved by some impulse to lift that corner, to see what sort of person lay beneath. My fingertip had only just touched the cloth's edge when a cold shot up from within, as if something pressed against the cloth and passed that cold onto my fingertip. I drew my hand back as if scalded; the corner fell back, close and whole. That night I watched it till dawn, and never touched that cloth again. Only later did I work it out — the other bodies, when you top their oil, are warm, the lamp's warmth seeped into them; beneath the seventh lamp it was always cold, as if that warmth had never once seeped in.

In the fourth year a seventh lamp was added. There had been six unclaimed bodies; that year the river above flooded and washed one down, bloated white, its age impossible to tell, no mark or token on it, and it was carried in as it lay, covered with the white cloth, a lamp lit at its feet. By my master's rule the unclaimed must be kept too, kept until someone claims them, and if none come, kept until they rot, and even rotted they must be given somewhere to go. I numbered it, the seventh lamp. That lamp was strangely quiet at night — the flame did not waver, did not crackle, only burned steady, as if the one beneath it slept so deep he need not even turn. When I topped its oil at night my hand always lingered a moment over it, for no reason I could name, only that beneath the cloth it seemed colder than the rest, and close up there was a faint sweet-salt smell, like the medicinal scent of my sister's sickroom mixed with the milk-smell of her skin when she was small. Strange, that where a draught passed the other shrouds would lift a little, but the seventh cloth never stirred, as if the one beneath had drawn even his breathing clean away, only waiting for an hour.

I would often lose myself staring at the seventh lamp's flame. The other lamps burned orange, restless, like living things; its flame leaned white, steady in a way that was not like fire at all, more like a point of light sealed inside ice. My master said bodies each have their nature — some calm, some restless; the calm ones spare the oil, the restless waste it and fuss. But the seventh did neither — it just burned its wan white, as if swallowing on behalf of the one beneath all the noise that ought to be there. Once I tried to brighten its wick; the flame leapt, and faintly lit a strand of hair beneath the cloth — ear-length, soft, a child's. My hand jerked and the wick fell back, and the strand of hair vanished too. Since then I have never dared to look closely.

Once the man who brought oil up from the town below sent word that two more had washed down the river above, asking if the chapel could hold them. I sent back that it could not; the next day I heard those two had been buried by a village downstream, not sent up to me. Only then did I breathe — not for fear of crowding, but for fear that another beside the seventh lamp would squeeze out her place. I startled myself: I was keeping a place for her, for an "unclaimed body," keeping the road home open.

In the fifth year, the twelfth month, something happened. That night the snow was heavy and the wind drummed the paper windows, and I could not hold on; I slipped against the wall into a doze. I woke to cold, cold that found the seams of the bone. I opened my eyes and counted — only six were lit. The seventh had gone out. My scalp exploded; I flung myself over and lifted the cloth, and the body on the board was askew — where it had lain straight, now its feet stuck out a span, as if it had shifted half a step toward the door. The cloth was wrinkled, as if something had struggled once from within, then been frightened back by the light when I lit the lamp. My hand shook as I lit it again; the tinder's light jumped, and that bit of foot drew back in, lying proper and still, as if nothing had happened. I broke into a cold sweat and knelt before my master's tablet, knocking my forehead against the floor, saying I would not sleep again, never again, master forgive me. But the face on the tablet smiled faintly, as if to say, you will not keep it.

From that night on I picked up a new trouble — forever suspecting the seventh lamp would go out. Though the flame stood fine, I'd reach to feel the lamp's body every little while, to see if it was warm. Once, feeling too often, I found the lamp-body colder at night than the others, as if a cold air climbed up from beneath through the base. I drew my hand back, palm damp with sweat, and looked up — and on the white cloth there seemed a faint impression, like someone curled on their side, a face pressed to the cloth in sleep. I rubbed my eyes; the impression was gone.

But what man does not grow sleepy. In the sixth year, come spring, it went out again. This time I saw it — the instant the lamp died, the cloth swelled once, as if someone beneath had drawn a breath, and then the feet reached forward, slow, a step, landing without a sound. I lit the lamp in a panic, and as the flame leapt up it drew back again, more cleanly than before. The more I feared, the more I clenched the wick at night, until my palm was scored with blood, sticky lines. And yet the more I feared, the looser my grip became — the strangest thing — the harder I clutched, the less the strength would stay, as if I held a handful of water. My master was right: a lamp is kept by a man, and what he keeps is a breath, and my breath was nearly spent. Sometimes half-asleep I dreamed I had become a lamp, the oil leaking away drop by drop, my body growing lighter, floating up to the rafters, and looking down I saw a row of white cloths on the boards, all of them slowly sitting up, turning their faces to me together.

So the days wore on, and I grew keener to every sound in the chapel. By day, a rat running the seam of the boards, a swallow flapping the beam — all clear; by night I could hear even my own heartbeat. Yet one thing was strange: the other bodies, when they turned or stepped, made a noise; the one beneath the seventh moved without a sound at all, as if the feet did not touch the board, as if it drifted over. I held my breath to listen, and heard only my own hammering heart, and — if it could be called a sound — a very faint ee-ya. That ee-ya did not enter through the ear; it rose from the seams of the bone, in my sister's tune.

That year at the tomb-sweeping festival I went down the mountain to burn paper for my sister. My mother is old now, her back bent, and she sat in the doorway in the sun; seeing me she said your sister came to me in a dream, said she was cold, said she wanted to come home, said brother, come take me back, the wind outside is loud and she is thinly dressed. I laughed at her foolishness — how could the dead of the living world send dreams — perhaps she only missed her girl, having spoken of her so long. But the words were a thorn driven into my heart, that would not pull free, that hurt when touched. On the way back the back mountain rose in fog, white and blind, the pines lost three steps out. In the fog someone hummed ee-ya, and I knew the tune — my sister's, wordless, just that turning, turning until the hair on my neck rose, like a small hand scratching one slow stroke at a time down my spine. I stopped, and there was nothing in the fog, only a lamp about to die, burning far off, a sickly yellow, as if someone held it, standing in the mist, waiting for me to come. I dared not go forward, and took the long way round, an extra hour's walk, before I reached the chapel.

Back in the chapel, beneath the seventh lamp, the body that had come down the river — on its white cloth a small dark patch had spread, like a tear, or like spittle. I lifted a corner to look, and the bloated white face, somehow, had taken on a little color, the lips tilted slightly up, as if smiling, smiling just like my sister. I was struck at once by the face my sister wore when she went — also so pale, so calm, that one small smile at the corner of her mouth, as if she'd just finished that good dream. I pulled the cloth back down; my hand shook so the tinder failed three times before it caught, and when the light came, beneath the cloth that bit of foot had reached forward another half-inch. That night I kept the six that were lit, and the seventh I dared not light, and dared not leave unlit, and so wore through to the cock's crow. At first light the patch had dried, but on the board, the print where the foot had reached was deeper than the night before.

The sixth summer brought much rain, and the chapel was damp enough to wring water from the air. The white cloths went moldy, mottled, like old age spotting a face. Each night I topped the oil, yet the flames grew smaller, as if something were stealing the oil to drink. Once, having filled them, I half-heard beneath the seventh lamp someone hum ee-ya, soft, like my sister at my ear when she was small. I dropped the tinder in fright; bending to pick it up, I looked again, and the seventh cloth had swollen a small bump at the chest, rising and falling, as if breathing. I stared at it half the night, not daring to blink, and only as the sky neared light did the bump slowly flatten. I collapsed to the floor, soaked through, unable to say if from heat or cold.

When my sister lived she loved those wooden clogs, little iron bits nailed to the soles, that rang ting-tang when she ran. When she died the clogs were left behind the stove; my mother said keep them, for her to wear when she comes back. I did not understand then — how does the dead come back. But in the third year of keeping, half-asleep, I plainly heard those clogs behind the stove — ting-tang, ting-tang, one step at a time, coming toward me. I woke in fright; the room held only the light of six lamps, the seventh burning quiet, the clogs resting as they were, gone to dust. Yet that ting-tang rang in my ears half the night.

Some days later, another rainy night, the bump swelled again, this time clearer, the white cloth rising and falling so the one beneath seemed to turn, shifting the face to another direction. I leaned close and caught a faint sweet-salt — the very smell I'd met when topping the oil, and unmistakably my sister's. I stepped back and struck the boards; the bodies behind lay quiet, only the seventh, its rise and fall slowly settling, as if fallen deep asleep. That night I dared not sit back at the wall-root; I stood at the door, my back against the planks, watching the seventh lamp until the sky turned white.

Deep into autumn the chapel grew colder each day. I found my shadow had thinned — under the sun on the blue brick it lay pale, as if veiled in water. My hands grew colder too; pinching the wick, my fingertips could barely feel its warmth. My master said a keeper lends his living breath to the bodies, and borrow too much and his own grows thin. I'd thought nothing of it then; now I believed. Topping the oil at night, I'd find my eyes drawn to the seventh lamp, and gazing long I'd feel the one beneath the cloth was gazing back — not with eyes, but with that knowledge of being watched, a cool seep rising from the soles of my feet.

The chapel fell to ruin year by year. The plaster flaked away in sheets, baring the blackened stone beneath; the paper windows were patched and torn again, and through the tears the wind poured, dragging the lamp-shadows long across the shrouds into a shifting mass. My own body failed year by year too — back bent, hair gone mostly white — yet the rule of keeping could not be broken. I often thought my master's "home" might have been speaking of me — that in the keeping, my living breath would leak away, and sooner or later I too would become a body on the boards, keeping company with them. And then, would the one beneath the seventh lamp, by my own hand, at last have the right to be taken home? The thought no sooner rose than my scalp crawled, yet I could not stop thinking it.

These last months the ee-ya has drawn nearer each day. At first only in the fog, at the edge of dreams; later inside the chapel, in the seams of the boards, in the shadow of the seventh lamp. When I top the oil it turns at my ear; when I close my eyes it works into my bone. Sometimes I cannot tell whether I am hearing my sister, or my sister is hearing me — hearing the lamp in my hand, near spent again.

The seventh year, the mid-autumn festival: before my master's tablet I set out moon-cakes, red-bean, his favorite, he used to say the sweet kind kept the hunger off. I sat alone eating, and as I ate my lids stuck together, and pinching myself did no good. I woke to the chapel gone black. Seven lamps, out. Not one — seven, all of them, as if by agreement. I heard the boards sound, once, twice, the wood creaking, like someone turning, or like someone bracing on the board and sitting slowly up. I felt in the dark for the tinder; it was damp, and I struck several before it caught, and in the leap of light I saw — seven bodies, all turned half toward the door. Their feet all pointed out, toward the door I had kept seven years. Against the wall, one — its cloth had slipped half away, and the face it showed was my sister's. She was seven, the fever gone from her as if it had never been, looking at me quiet and still, her eyes open, black and bright, the smile at her mouth the very same I had seen at nine.

My legs gave and I slid down the wall, the back of my skull striking the stone with a ring, stars bursting before my eyes. She had not gone. She had never gone. These seven years she had been at my feet, waiting for me to let the lamp die. The seventh lamp I kept had been her from the first. She was not the unclaimed body washed down the river — she had come long ago, taking the dark of night, taking my dozing, taking the wick in my hand that loosened more and more, step by step, until she had moved to my very front. She wanted me to take her home. I remembered my master's words: a lamp dies, a body steps. How many steps had she taken? From the board, to the door, to before me. Step by step, each one I had let happen, by the lamps I myself let die, by the way I myself let her come. If I sleep once more, will she step to behind me? Step to my back, a small hand on my shoulder, humming ee-ya, calling me brother?

The flame turns the color of ash, pock-pock, like someone clearing their throat from the depths, or like someone turning softly beneath the cloth. I clutch the wick, my palm all cold sweat, but the strength still leaks from my grip, bit by bit, like sand through the fingers, that no clutching can hold. The fog outside grows heavier; in it someone hums ee-ya, the tune very soft, very near, near enough that I cannot tell whether it is the one in the fog, or the one beneath the cloth, or — the one standing right behind me. I dare not turn. The lamp oil, once again, is nearly spent. I clutch, and clutch, and hear my own teeth chatter — yet the ee-ya is nearer than the chatter, right behind the ear.

Recorder's note: By old custom the unclaimed had a lamp lit at the feet, that they might be kept and not wander; the villagers believed that when the lamp is spent the soul runs wild, and so the lamp-keeper above all must not covet sleep, a thing they call "keeping a breath." As to who exactly lay beneath the seventh lamp, this account leaves in doubt; the recorder dares not judge. He records only what he saw by the lamp's swaying light — the cloth stirring, the ee-ya rising from the fog — and dared not draw near.