Can those who perform the rites truly commune with the gods? Zhu En does not know. Throughout her life as a Fa…
Can those who perform the rites truly commune with the gods?
Zhu En does not know. Throughout her life as a Fangxiang Ritualist, spanning the rise and fall of countless dynasties, she has never once heard the voice of a god. The only voices to reach her have been human.
The voices of the dead, burdened with unfulfilled wishes; the voices of the living, offering prayers for fortune... Through the Nuo Rite, these human voices converge in her ears. They are the very reason she ascends the altar and performs the Nuo Dance.
Some ask: Does she not fear the weight of so many voices?
Fear? What is there to fear?
If they speak of ghosts, what is there to dread? They are but the final slivers of obsession left by the departed, voices and faces that serve as the last evidence of their time on earth. Once the obsession fades, they too depart.
And if they speak of gods, what fear is there to be? The Nuo Dance is a rite for the divine, yet the gods remain unseen and silent. It is humans who built the altar beneath her feet, and humans who carved the myriad masks. Even she, as the Fangxiang Ritualist, is but a mortal donning a mask.
Whether a ritual can truly alter the course of fate, Zhu En cannot say. She only knows that when the sick are healed, it is through the doctor's care; when grand halls arise, it is through the artisans' toil; and when laughter endures, it is because people still cherish hope for what is to come. For the sake of that hope, they labor and persevere through every day. They never cease despite the hardship or exhaustion.
In every matter she has witnessed, Zhu En has seen only human effort. Thus, to her, rather than fearing the power of ghosts and gods, it is far more terrifying to imagine commoners who have lost all hope amidst disaster and war. If toil yields no echo, and if tomorrow offers no light, then no matter how grand the annual Nuo rites or how the drums may shake the heavens, it is but a hollow illusion, a play in which no one believes.
Now, the clouds part to reveal the moon as fresh snow descends. In a fleeting moment of clarity, she seems to hear a sound, one she has awaited for a lifetime.