故乡 (My Old Home)

Braving the bitter cold, I returned to my old home, over two thousand li away, which I had left more than twenty years before.

It was deep winter. As we drew near my homeland, the weather turned overcast. A cold wind whistled into the cabin of the boat. Peering out through a crack in the awning, I saw, under the somber yellow sky, a few desolate villages scattered here and there in the distance, devoid of any vitality. My heart could not help but feel a wave of sadness.

Ah! Is this not the homeland I have remembered for twenty years?

The homeland I remembered was nothing like this. My old home was much better. But when I tried to recall its beauty and describe its charms, no clear image or words came to mind. Perhaps it was just like this after all. So I told myself, the homeland had always been this way. Even if it had not progressed, it might not be as bleak as I felt. This was merely a change in my own mood, for I had returned this time with no cheerful heart.

I had come specifically to bid it farewell. Our old family house, where we had lived together for generations, had already been sold to another clan. The handover was scheduled for this year, so I had to hurry back before New Year's Day, to say a final goodbye to the familiar old house and leave the well-known homeland, moving to a strange place where I was seeking a livelihood.

Early the next morning, I reached the entrance of my house. On the roof tiles, the broken stems of withered grass trembled in the wind, explaining why this old house was inevitably changing hands. Several branches of the family had probably already moved away, so it was very quiet. I went to the door of our rooms, and my mother had already come out to greet me. Then, eight-year-old Hong'er darted out.

My mother was delighted, yet her expression held a trace of sorrow. She urged me to sit down, rest, and have some tea, avoiding any mention of the move. Hong'er had never seen me before. He stood opposite, watching from a distance.

But we eventually spoke of the move. I said the lodging outside had already been rented, and I had bought a few pieces of furniture. Besides, we needed to sell all the wooden items at home to buy more. Mother agreed, adding that the luggage was mostly packed. The wooden pieces too cumbersome to move had been partly sold, though the payment was slow in coming.

Mother said, "Take a day or two to rest, visit our relatives once, and then we can leave."

I said, "Yes."

Mother said, "And there's Runtu. Whenever he comes to our house, he always asks about you and longs to see you. I've already told him the approximate date of your arrival. He might come soon."

At that moment, a wondrous picture suddenly flashed into my mind. A golden full moon hung in a deep blue sky. Below was the sandy shore of the sea, planted with endless stretches of emerald green watermelons. In their midst was a boy of eleven or twelve, wearing a silver necklet and gripping a steel fork in his hand. He thrust with all his might at a zha, but the creature twisted away and escaped between his legs.

This boy was Runtu. When I knew him, he was just over ten years old, nearly thirty years ago now. My father was still alive then, and our family circumstances were good. I was a young master. That year, our family was in charge of a major ancestral sacrifice. This sacrifice came around only once every thirty-odd years, so it was a solemn affair. In the first month, we displayed ancestral portraits with many offerings and exquisite sacrificial vessels. Many people came to pay respects, and the vessels had to be guarded against theft. In our home, we only had a busy-month laborer-in our region, laborers were categorized into three types: those hired year-round by a specific family, those hired by the day, and those like him who farmed their own land but worked for certain households only during busy seasons like festivals and rent collection. Since we were shorthanded, he suggested to my father that his son Runtu could help manage the sacrificial vessels.

My father agreed. I was also delighted, for I had long heard the name Runtu, and knew he was about my age, born in an intercalary month. As his elemental makeup lacked earth, his father called him Runtu. He was skilled at setting bird traps to catch small birds.

So I looked forward to New Year every day. When New Year came, Runtu would arrive. Finally, as the year drew to a close, one day my mother told me Runtu had come. I rushed to see him. He was in the kitchen. His round face was ruddy, and he wore a small felt cap. Around his neck was a gleaming silver necklet, a sign that his father loved him dearly and, fearing he might die, had made a vow to the gods and buddhas, fastening this circle to him. He was shy with others but not with me. When alone, he would talk to me. In less than half a day, we became fast friends.

I can't recall what we talked about then. I only remember Runtu was very happy, saying that after coming to town, he had seen many things he had never seen before.

The next day, I asked him to catch birds. He said, "Not now. We need heavy snow first. On our sandy shore, after it snows, I sweep a clear patch, prop up a large bamboo sieve with a short stick, scatter some husks, and when birds come to eat, I yank the rope tied to the stick from afar, and the birds are trapped under the sieve. All sorts come: rice-field pheasant, horned pheasant, turtledove, blue-backed bird..."

Then I eagerly looked forward to snow.

Runtu also told me, "It's too cold now. Come summer, you should visit us. During the day, we can go to the shore to collect shells-red ones, green ones, ghost-frightener shells, Guanyin's hand shells. At night, my father and I watch over the watermelons. You come too."

I asked, "To watch for thieves?"

He said, "No. If passersby are thirsty and pick a melon to eat, we don't count that as stealing here. What we guard against are badgers, hedgehogs, and zha. Under the moonlight, listen, there's a rustling sound-the zha is biting a melon. Then you grip your fork and creep forward quietly..."

Back then, I had no idea what this so-called zha was-I still don't know-but I vaguely imagined it as a fierce little dog-like creature.

I asked, "Doesn't it bite people?"

He said, "You have the fork. When you get close and see the zha, you stab. This animal is clever. It might charge at you, then dart between your legs. Its fur is slippery as oil..."

I had never known the world held so many new and wondrous things. The shore had such colorful shells. Watermelons faced such dangers. I had only known they were sold in fruit shops.

He said, "On our sandy ground, when the tide is about to rise, there are many jumping fish just leaping about, each with two frog-like legs..."

Ah! Runtu's mind held endless wonders, things my usual friends knew nothing about. They were ignorant of such matters. While Runtu lived by the sea, they and I saw only the square of sky above the high wall in the courtyard.

Unfortunately, the first month passed, and Runtu had to return home. I cried bitterly in desperation. He hid in the kitchen, weeping and refusing to leave, but eventually his father took him away. Later, he asked his father to bring me a packet of shells and a few beautiful bird feathers. I also sent him gifts once or twice, but we never met again.

Now that my mother mentioned him, these childhood memories suddenly revived in a flash, as if I had glimpsed my beautiful old home. I responded, "That's wonderful! He-how is he?"

Mother said, "He? His circumstances are not good either..." As she spoke, she glanced outside. "Those people are here again. They say they're buying wooden items, but they casually take things. I must go see."

Mother stood up and went out. There were women's voices outside. I beckoned Hong'er over and chatted with him. I asked if he could write and if he was willing to travel.

He said, "Shall we go by train?"

I said, "We'll go by train."

He asked, "And by boat?"

I said, "First by boat..."

"Ha! So this is how you look now! Such a long beard!" a shrill, strange voice suddenly cried out.

I started, looking up quickly to see a woman of about fifty standing before me. She had high cheekbones and thin lips. Her hands rested on her hips, and she wore no apron. Her legs apart, she resembled a pair of compasses in a drawing instrument, thin and unsteady.

I was stunned.

She said, "Don't you recognize me? I even held you as a child!"

I grew even more bewildered. Fortunately, my mother came in and said from the side, "He's been away for many years and has forgotten. You should remember." Then to me, she said, "This is Sister Yang the Second from diagonally across the street... she runs the beancurd shop."

Oh, I remembered. In my childhood, in the beancurd shop diagonally across, there indeed sat all day long a Sister Yang the Second. Everyone called her "Bean Curd Beauty." But she used to powder her face, her cheekbones weren't so high, and her lips weren't so thin. Moreover, she sat all day, and I had never seen this compass-like stance. In those days, people said because of her, the beancurd shop did very good business. But probably due to age, I had not been influenced in the least, so I had completely forgotten. Yet the compass was indignant, showing a contemptuous look, as if mocking a Frenchman who didn't know Napoleon or an American who didn't know Washington. She sneered, "Forgotten? Truly, noble eyes are lofty..."

Flustered, I stood up and said, "How could that be... I..."

She said, "Well then, let me tell you. Brother Xun, you've become grand. Moving is cumbersome, and you don't need these broken wooden things anymore. Let me take them. We small households can use them."

I said, "I'm not grand at all. I need to sell these first, then..."

She said, "Aiya! You've become a high official and still say you're not grand? You have three concubines now. When you go out, you ride in a sedan chair carried by eight bearers, and still say you're not grand? Hah, nothing escapes me."

I knew there was no point arguing, so I fell silent and stood there quietly.

She said, "Aiya, aiya, the richer one is, the more one refuses to relax even a bit. And the more one refuses to relax, the richer one becomes..." Muttering resentfully, the compass turned away and slowly walked out, casually stuffing a pair of my mother's gloves into her waistband as she left.

After that, relatives from nearby came to visit. I socialized while snatching moments to pack. Thus three or four days passed.

One cold afternoon, after lunch, I was sitting drinking tea when I sensed someone entering. I turned to look. At the sight, I was startled and hurriedly rose to greet him.

This newcomer was Runtu. Though I knew at once it was Runtu, he was not the Runtu of my memory. He had doubled in size. His once ruddy round face had turned sallow and deeply lined. His eyes, like his father's, were red and swollen all around. I knew this was common among those who farmed by the sea, exposed to the wind all day. He wore a tattered felt cap and only a thin padded jacket. He was shivering all over. In his hand were a paper package and a long pipe. His hands were not the red, sturdy ones I remembered, but coarse, clumsy, and cracked, like pine bark.

I was very excited but didn't know what to say. I just said, "Ah! Brother Runtu-you've come?"

Many words welled up inside me like a torrent: horned pheasant, jumping fish, shells, zha... but they seemed blocked, swirling in my mind, unable to escape my lips.

He stood still, his face showing joy and sorrow. His lips moved, but no sound came. Finally, his manner turned respectful, and he said clearly, "Master!"

I felt a shiver. I knew then that a thick, sorrowful barrier had sprung up between us. I too was speechless.

He turned his head and said, "Shuisheng, kowtow to the master." He pulled out a child hiding behind him. This was the Runtu of twenty years ago, only yellower and thinner, with no silver necklet. "This is my fifth child. He hasn't seen the world, so he's timid..."

Mother and Hong'er came downstairs. They had probably heard the voices.

Runtu said, "Madam. I received your letter long ago. I was overjoyed to know the master was returning..."