"Six Records of Agarwood" Part Two · Volume Eight: The Collectee on Dihua Street

The rain in Taipei is softer than in the capital; falling on the arcade tiles of Dihua Street, it makes almost no sound.

Liu Zhiqiang held up his phone screen to show Wang Guanshu. The courier platform's delivery record stopped at 3:17 a.m.—**collected on behalf**. Two words, no name, no phone number, just an arcade door number: Section 1, Dihua Street, some number.

"3:17," Wang Guanshu read it over. "Couriers don't deliver at 3:17."

"So it wasn't a courier who took it." Liu Zhiqiang put the phone away. "Someone was waiting there."

He booked the earliest flight the next day. The rain hadn't stopped when he landed at Songshan Airport; holding that black umbrella with the broken rib (Wen Ye had shoved it into his hands before leaving), he counted door numbers along the arcades of Dihua Street. Dihua Street is an old street—dried goods, Chinese medicinal herbs, and tea shops crammed beneath Baroque facades, the air mixed with the smell of angelica, star anise, and old wood.

The one he was looking for had no signboard. The wooden door was ajar; inside was an old incense shop, with a row of tin boxes on the counter—identical in style to those of Rokko-do in Kyoto.

Behind the counter sat an old man, weighing a small pinch of incense powder on a brass scale. Seeing Liu Zhiqiang, he didn't look up: "Been waiting a long time."

"Baise is staying with you?"

"With me." The old man poured the incense powder into a paper packet. "But sit first. Watch the rain."

Liu Zhiqiang didn't sit. The old man didn't press him, just went on: "During the Daoguang era, there was an incense house in Bangka called 'Xieji,' specializing in incense from Tangshan. The shopkeeper's surname was Chen; he crossed the sea from Quanzhou and brought over one of the six pieces of incense—the white one. He didn't sell it, didn't offer it up, just locked it at the bottom of the cabinet. Some said he was a fool; one piece of incense could buy half a street."

"Did he ever say why?"

"He did." The old man finally looked up. "He said: once incense is sold, all that's left is a price; once incense is offered, all that's left is a wish. Left at the bottom of the cabinet, it's still incense."

Liu Zhiqiang's fingers tightened on the broken rib of the umbrella.

"Then why did you collect it?" he asked. "At 3:17 in the morning, waiting at the door for a piece of incense that isn't yours."

The old man smiled: "Because it has traveled once already. Nine hundred years ago it scattered out of Bianliang, by sea route, by land route, until it reached this street. Now it's on the road again—the second time. The words 'scatter clean' don't mean it's over once scattered—it must scatter until no one remembers it can gather. But every time it travels, one more person remembers."

He brought out a tin box from under the counter and pushed it over. The lid was open; inside lay a piece of white wood the color of congealed fat, its oil lines fine as brushstrokes.

"Your father's ledger written in blood," the old man said. "There are words below the last page, aren't there?"

Liu Zhiqiang's breath stopped for half a beat.

"Three words, 'scatter clean.' And below that, another line, scraped away." The old man tapped the counter with his knuckle. "The one who scraped it wasn't your father. It was your grandfather. He was afraid your father would see it, so he scraped it off. But paper has memory—scraped ink leaves a mark."

Liu Zhiqiang remembered that rainy night, remembered the line at the end of Volume Six: "just three words—scatter clean." He had always thought that was the end point.

"What did the scraped-away line say?" he asked.

The old man shook his head: "I don't know. The paper is in your hands; I don't read words for people. I only keep incense for people."

The rain suddenly grew a little heavier, dripping in a string down the tile edges of the arcade. Liu Zhijiang closed the tin box and held it to his chest. As he rose, he fished the courier slip from his pocket and pressed it onto the counter.

"It still has to go," he said.

"Where to?"

"To a place no one remembers."

The old man did not try to keep him. Liu Zhijiang walked out of the arcade; raindrops struck the canopy of his umbrella, and the broken black rib trembled faintly in the wind. He looked down at what he held—the tin box was cold, yet against his chest, that side had slowly warmed a little.

Meanwhile, in the capital.

Wang Guanshu woke with a start before dawn. The brocade box in her arms was faintly warm in the darkness—purple luxury incense, no fire, yet warm of itself. She lifted a sliver of the lid, and that powdery, cloying floral scent surged out, heavier than usual, as if something inside the incense were turning over.

She dialed Liu Zhijiang's number—switched off. She dialed Wen Ye's—switched off; he was still flying to Nara.

She stared at the rain outside the window and suddenly understood: the six pieces of incense had never been six pieces. They were one incense struck into six petals, and across nine hundred years, each remembered its own name.

And at this moment, a seventh thing was searching for them.

*(Part II · Volume 8, End)*

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English

**The Incense Six Records — Part II, Chapter 8: The Proxy Receiver of Dihua Street**

The package carrying the *white* incense was signed for in Taipei's Dihua Street at **3:17 a.m.** — by "a proxy," with no name, no phone, only a shophouse address under the arcade. Liu Zhijiang takes the first flight and counts door numbers in the rain until he reaches an unnamed old incense shop, where an old man waits as if he had been expecting him.

The old man tells of *Xie Ji Hao*, an incense house in Bangka during the Daoguang era, whose owner carried one of the six incenses across the sea from Quanzhou and locked it in the bottom of his counter. Asked why he never sold it, the owner answered: *"Sold, it becomes only a price; offered, it becomes only a wish. Left in the counter, it is still incense."*

The old man reveals what Liu Zhijiang never suspected: beneath the three words *"scatter it clean"* in his father's blood ledger, there is a scratched-out line — and the one who scratched it was not his father, but his grandfather. *"Paper remembers,"* the old man says. *"Scraped-away ink leaves a mark."*

He returns the tin box of white incense. Liu Zhijiang leaves, pressing the courier slip onto the counter: *"It has to keep moving — towards a place no one remembers."* In Beijing, Wang Guanshu wakes at dawn to find the purple incense warm in its box with no flame — six fragments of one incense, each remembering its own name, and a seventh thing now searching for them.

*To be continued: Chapter 9 — The Scraped Line.*

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العربية

**سجلات العود الستة — الجزء الثاني، الفصل الثامن: المستلم النائب في شارع دي هوا**

استُلم الطرد الذي يحمل العود *الأبيض* في شارع دي هوا بتايبيه في **الثالثة والسابعة عشرة فجراً** — بصفة «نيابة»، بلا اسم ولا هاتف، سوى عنوان دكّان قديم تحت الرواق. يأخذ ليو جيجيانغ أول طائرة ويعدّ أرقام الأبواب تحت المطر، حتى يصل إلى دكّان عود بلا لافتة، حيث ينتخه شيخ كأنه كان يتوقعه.

يروي الشيخ عن دار «شي جي هاو» للعطور في بانكا في عهد داوجوانغ، التي حمل صاحبها أحد العود الستة عبر البحر من تشوانتشو وأقفلها في قاع الخزانة. ولماذا لم يبعها قط؟ أجاب: *«إن بيعت صارت ثمناً فقط، وإن قُدّمت صارت أمنية فقط، وإن بقيت في الخزانة فهي لا تزال عوداً.»*

ويكشف الشيخ ما لم يخطر لليو جيجيانغ: تحت الكلمات الثلاث «شتّتها تماماً» في سجل أبيه الملطّخ بالدم، سطرٌ مكشوط — والكاشط ليس أباه بل جده. يقول الشيخ: *«للورق ذاكرة؛ الحبر المحكوم يترك أثراً.»*

ثم يعيد إليه علبة القصدير فيها العود الأبيض. يخرج ليو جيجيانغ تاركاً إيصال الشحن على الخزان: *«عليها أن تواصل السير — إلى حيث لا يتذكرها أحد.»* وفي بكين تستيقظ وانغ غوانشو فجراً فتجد العود الأرجواني دافئاً في علبته بلا نار — ستّ شظايا من عودٍ واحد، كل منها تحفظ اسمها، وشيءٌ سابع يبحث عنها الآن.

*يتبع: الفصل التاسع — السطر المحكوم.*

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> **Next Chapter Preview · Volume 9, "The Erased Line"**: Liu Zhijiang returns to the capital and uses side-lighting to read the indentations on the last page of the blood ledger; Wang Guanshu attends the appointment carrying the self-warmed purple luxury sachet; Qu Huaisha reads the other half of "seventh" in the Chu bamboo slips—it turns out that beyond the six incense types, what Shennong buried was not incense, but a name.名字。