The Auspice of January 18th
Helen Liu
January 18th1 the lone mountain town is strangely quiet today.
A chilling wind blows through its empty streets, kicking up
dust and dead leaves. The buildings are hushed and lifeless, their doors shut tight, drapes covering their windows. Trees rattle and shake, their branches bare and frozen in this cold winter, but even the clack of wood on wood seems muted.
It is waiting for something. The town holds its breath, a
terrified child hiding in a closet, as if the demons forever twisting in the shadows beyond will disappear if it just remains still. Even as the air grows painfully thin, even as fear chokes its throat, it remains silent and unmoving.
And then, far in the distance, a suona2 wails.
It pulls her from her sleep, shrill and sharp. She blinks
open heavy eyes, twitches numb fingers. Ah - it’s been a while since she’s slept this well, dreamless and uninterrupted. She yawns pleasantly, flexes her legs, and rolls her shoulders. Then, bracing herself with her hands, she tries to sit up.
Her body feels like it weighs ten tons. With a huff, she lets
herself flop back to the bed. The effort leaves her exhausted; her eyelids are already beginning to flutter shut. Drowsily, she shifts into a more comfortable position, leaning back against the cushion and clasping her hands together. The suona sounds again. 48
