“Brother Feiyuan, what are you doing? These trees are dead,” Liujin tried to calm him down. A sound came from the river, as if a large fish had jumped up out of the water.
Liujin was three meters away from the men as she spoke to them. She wanted to get a little closer, but whenever she took a step, they backed up. When she straightened again after bending down to free a grain of sand from her shoe, they had disappeared into the woods. A gust of wind blew over her, and Liujin felt afraid. She turned around to leave, but bumped into a dead tree. After taking a few steps around the dead tree, she bumped into another one. She saw stars and shouted “Ouch!” She looked up and saw that the dead tree trunks, standing close together, were like a wall bending around her and enclosing her. Apart from the sky above, she could see only the dark wall of trees. Frustrated, she sat down on the ground, feeling that the end of the world was approaching. It was really absurd: How had she come here? Fish were still jumping in the little river, but the sound of the water was far away. She buried her head in her hands. She didn’t want to see the tree trunks. She thought it might be her neighbor Song Feiyuan playing tricks. This had to be an illusion, yet how had he and Mr. Sherman caused her to produce such an illusion? She strained to consider this question, but she was too anxious and couldn’t reach a conclusion. Suddenly aware of a strong light, she moved her hands and saw lightning—one bolt after another lit up her surroundings until they shone snow-bright. The dead trees that had closed up around her had now retreated far into the distance. The branches danced solemnly and wildly in the lightning. She stood up and ran home without stopping.
Recalling these events, Liujin felt it was quite natural that the old man had come to her small courtyard. Perhaps it was time for—for what? She wasn’t sure; she only felt vaguely that it had something to do with her parents who were far away. She remembered that the year before he left, her father had also twisted hemp. In the winter, he had sat on the bare courtyard wall: he had watched the activity on the street while twisting hemp. Not many people were on the road then, and there were even fewer vehicles. Father twisted the hemp unhurriedly, and—a hint of a smile floating on his face—gazed at the people passing by. “Dad, do you see someone you know?” Liujin asked. “Ah, no one is a stranger. This is a small town.” Liujin thought to herself, Since every person was familiar, then Father must be taking note of something. What was it? Liujin walked into the courtyard and went over to the wall where her father had often sat. Just then, she heard the sorrowful singing of a bird. The bird was in a nearby nest; perhaps it had lost its children, or perhaps it was hurt, or perhaps nothing had happened. Or was it a pessimist by nature? From its voice, she could tell that the bird was no longer young. Maybe, back then, Father had sat here in order to listen to it. This seemed to be the only spot where one could hear it. What kind of bird was it? She guessed that the nest was built in the poplar tree in back, but when she walked a few steps away, she couldn’t hear the bird. When she returned to her original spot, she could hear it again. If Father had made a companion of it in the winter, it must be a local bird. Could it be an injured goose? If a wild goose had been injured, how could it build a nest in a poplar tree? It did sound a little like a goose. Geese flying south sometimes sounded like this. Whenever Liujin heard geese at night, she couldn’t hold back her tears. It was clearly a cry of freedom, but it sounded to her like the dread that precedes execution. “The sound is directional. You can’t hear it unless you’re in just the right place,” the old man addressed her suddenly and quite distinctly. The hemp in his hands gave off soft silver-white light. “Where did you come from?” Liujin walked over to him. He lowered his head and mumbled, “I can’t remember . . . Look, I am . . .” He broke off. Liujin thought, What kind of person has no memory? Is there a category of people like this? He is . . . who is he? She wanted to move closer to him, but she felt something pull at her right foot and nearly fell down. She was greatly surprised. After regaining her balance, she thought she would try once more—but this time with her left foot. She staggered and ended up sitting on the ground. The old man sat there twisting hemp, as if he hadn’t noticed. Liujin heard herself shout at him angrily, “Who are you?!”
Though it was late at night, a column of horse-drawn carts ran past. This hadn’t happened for years. Liujin had heard that the city was growing, but she’d had no interest in looking at those places. She heard it was expanding toward the east, but the snow mountain was to the east. How could the city expand there? Had a corner of the snow mountain been chopped off? Or were houses being built halfway up the mountain? Liujin had seen snow leopards squatting on a large rock halfway up the mountain: they were graceful and mighty—like the god of the snow mountain. Later, she had dreamed several times of the snow leopards roaring, and at the time, rumbling thunder had echoed from the earth. But even now, she wasn’t sure what snow leopards sounded like. Because it was the weekend, she resolved to watch the old man all night, and find out when he left and where he went. After the sound of the horse-carts disappeared, he stood up. From behind, he looked like a brown bear. He crossed the street and headed for Meng Yu’s home. Meng Yu’s window was lit up. After the old man went in, the young woman, who was singing again, began to wail sadly and shrilly. Liujin heard loud noises coming from the house: Was something going to happen? But after a while it grew quiet and the lamp was also extinguished. After standing there a little longer, she went back to her house and fell asleep. She didn’t know when daylight came. The night seemed long, very long.
What had happened that night in Meng Yu’s home? Liujin couldn’t see any clues. She walked over to his courtyard and saw the filthy sheep. Meng Yu, who was old, was repairing his boots. He was wearing glasses and absorbed in hammering; sweat seeped from his forehead.
“Sir, was the person who went to your home last night looking for a place to stay?” Liujin sat down on a stone stool beside him.
Meng Yu looked up at her and shook his head. He put down his boot-repairing tools and sighed deeply. The young woman’s silhouette paused briefly in the doorway, and then she went back inside. She did odd jobs for Meng Yu’s family.
“As soon as he arrived, it was as if Amy was possessed,” he said.
Amy was the young woman’s nickname. What was the old man’s connection to her? Meng Yu said, “Maybe they’re from the same town.” Liujin had rarely gotten a good look at Amy’s face because she always worked with her head lowered. Even at the market, she was immersed in the flock of sheep, as if she, too, were a sheep waiting to be slaughtered. She liked to wear a red skirt. Liujin thought of her as a rare beauty. So, where had the old man gone that night? She had distinctly seen him go through the gate of Meng Yu’s home, and then Amy had sadly and shrilly cried out in fear.
Liujin glanced sideways at the sheep. She couldn’t bear the doleful expression in their eyes. She couldn’t figure out, either, how they had gotten so dirty: it was as though they had rolled around in the mud. This made her hate Meng Yu; she thought he was heartless. He had likely lied to her; probably the old man who twisted hemp was hiding in his home and came out only at night. Maybe he was Amy’s father. But everyone said Amy was an orphan. The sheep were still looking at her without making a sound. Liujin thought it would be much better if they bleated.
“Liujin, look, has any unknown person ever come here?”
As Meng Yu spoke, he was looking down, oiling his boots. Liujin thought and thought, and then said, “No.”
“Hey, then he must be somebody from somewhere. Let’s go inside and sit down, okay?”
When she went through the courtyard and into the house with Meng Yu, the sheep turned around and headed toward them. She held up her hand to ward off their pitiful eyes. His small house was in the old style. Because it was mostly empty, it looked spacious. He didn’t ask her to be seated. He was standing, too. Facing the courtyard, Liujin saw a red skirt appear in the flock of sheep: the sheep were surrounding her and starting to utter sorrowful cries. It was wondrous.
“How’s everything with you and Mr. Sherman?” the old man asked, turning his attention to her.
“It hasn’t made any headway. I don’t understand him.” Liujin