Chapter Text
Part I The Red Cord
‘Who the hell are you?’ Eight-year-old Sherlock sits up from his single bed, a flashlight in his hand, pointing at a mysterious old man with long white beard, who is sitting by his window.
‘Your windowsill is very comfortable.’ The old man says. His voice is gentle but distant. Unnaturally distant. Sherlock thinks.
Jumping out of his bed, the young boy hops toward the old man. He’s so bald! He says to himself. His eyes can’t stop looking at his loose ocean blue robe. Why are his sleeves to broad? Why is the color of his cloth looks so fluid?
‘What are you doing?’ He asks
‘It’s a full moon tonight.’ The man with long white beard purrs. ’I can see my dolls and their names on the book very clearly.’ He smiles through his beard, fiddling a bunch of red cords and several clay figures.
Besides, it lays a book.
A blank book.
‘It’s not a book.’ Sherlock points out. ‘It’s blank. It’s not for reading. It’s for you to write or draw something in it.’
‘For you maybe.’ Old man chuckles. He lifts up his hands, binding a side of the red cord to a clay doll.
A girl doll. Sherlock recognizes.
‘Um.’ The lips behind the white beard make a hesitated noise. Long fingers from blue sleeves go through the pages of the blank book. ‘Let's see……where’s your match, my good girl? Ah, there he is!’ He gazes back at his clay figures, fingers tap at each little doll heads. And then he picks one up.
A boy doll. Sherlock notes.
The old man makes a sigh, straitens up his back. He carefully finds the other side of the red cord, tying it securely to the clay boy.
‘There you go. My beautiful couple! How nice! So wonderful!’ He puts down the two red-thread bonded dolls to the windowsill, watching them admiringly. ‘What do you think?’ He turns and asks Sherlock.
The boy stares back.
‘What is that?’
‘A couple.’
‘How so?’ They are just dolls. Sherlock thinks.
‘I just matched them.’ The old man smiles. ‘I find their names in the book of marriage. I made figures represent each of them. And then I tie the red cord. That makes them a couple. They’ll find each other, get married, live old and cherish each other for a life time.’ He gives Sherlock a big grin. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
The boy narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like the old man. Not that he’s scared of him. (‘I should. He breaks into my room!’) But the way he talks, so certain, so……as-a-matter-of-factly.
‘Mycroft says caring is not an advantage.’ He says, glaring at the swaying white beard. ‘And clay dolls aren’t real people. A book with all the matching list can’t be blank.’
‘The book is only blank for the mortal.’ Old man mutters as his attention goes back to the empty pages. ‘Hum……’ He points at the papers as if he’s reading. But it can’t be.
It just can’t.
‘You don’t decide who marry who.’ Sherlock blurts out. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘Of course I can’t.’ The old man responds with a delighted tone, hands keep moving to and fro among the dolls. ‘The book lays the names out. I just read it, make the dolls, and bind them.’
‘But dolls aren’t real people!’ Sherlock can’t help raising his voice. His teeth grits, fist clenches.
‘Certainly not. They’re representatives. I’ve told you that. Ahh!’ Letting out a cheerful exclaim, the old man’s big grin reflexes from the window glass. He stretches his hands dramatically, taking up one doll. A boy doll. Sherlock notes. And then the long fingers reach for the cord.
‘Stop it!’ Sherlock snaps, pushing the old man’s back. The old man mumbles, turning back to face him.
‘You just can’t see others be happily together, can you?’ His eyes pierce into Sherlock’s. The boy feels his breath suddenly taken away.
‘It’s not real!’ His face flushes.
‘What’s not?’
‘The cord, the dolls, the book…….the whole thing!’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because……people don’t get married from red cords!’ His chest is heaving. ‘No one, no one ever has red cord tying to them.’
‘Oh really.’ A smile comes behind the shining long beard, distant titters echo in the bedroom. ‘Do you want proves?’ He says as his strong fingers snatch Sherlock’s left hand, pulling it to the window.
Beneath the silver moonlight, there is a thread of red cord, one side tying safely to his litter finger, the other side left hanging, extending into oblivion.
‘Hum!’ Sherlock gasps sharply, drawing his hand back.
‘Would this convince you?’ The distant yet close voice reaches his ears. Sherlock raises his head, stepping forward.
Reaching his left hand under the moonlight, he wonders at the reappearance of the shining red cord.