Chapter Thirty-Seven: Calamity from the Heavens

I couldn't find him. I swear, I searched every inch of that mountaintop; it wasn't large, and there were only a handful of places anyone could hide. I believed that Zha Wenbin wouldn't play hide-and-seek with me. I called out, my voice echoing so loudly that even the fat man below could hear it clearly, but from him, nothing—not a single sign. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth.

Here, a solitary stone mountain rises from the ground, shaped like an inverted trapezoid—wide at the top, narrow at the base. Nearly a hundred meters tall, with no paths around it, sheer rock faces on both sides. I searched the summit, while the fat man and Xiao Bai scoured below.

I continued until nightfall, and on into the next day, shouting myself hoarse in that palm-sized space, searching until my throat was torn and my strength gone, until finally, the fat man climbed up and dragged me back down by force.

Nothing could have filled me with greater despair than this outcome. He was gone, and I couldn't fathom why he would leave without a word. We had come together from the distant south to the icy northern woods. We were from the same village, once classmates, both descendants of those labeled as enemies of the state. In those difficult years, we had been comrades and brothers, sharing hardship and fate.

That year was destined to be extraordinary. Perhaps from spring itself, signs had pointed to coming upheaval.

Zha Wenbin's disappearance stirred unrest in the village. The intellectual youths were overseen by the local party secretary. Losing one—especially the son of a so-called feudal superstitious element, an old reactionary—was a serious matter. Some said he had run away; others claimed he had committed suicide out of fear. Either way, a living man must be found, or a body produced, or else the authorities would never be satisfied.

I remember clearly: that afternoon, we returned to the village, dazed and hollow. When Old Miao learned what had happened, he immediately reported it. The secretary sent men to deliver a message, hoping the authorities would investigate the situation in northwest Zhejiang. Of course, I hoped, as he did, that Zha Wenbin had simply gone back home. The second task was to mobilize the village militia, hunters, and young men, fully armed, into the western hills, with dogs, guns, and loudspeakers. The fat man, Xiao Bai, and I were now under close watch, locked in the commune warehouse, guarded, each with paper and pen before us. We were to write statements, explaining the events in detail. Because of our backgrounds, the matter had escalated from a missing-person case to a political incident.

I recall distinctly it was March 8th—Women's Day. That afternoon, the deputy team leader in charge of political education spoke with me alone. He was a cadre transferred from the county, about thirty, wearing gold-rimmed round glasses. He was already on his eighth cigarette, but I hadn't written a single word. He demanded that I write Zha Wenbin had fled in fear of punishment, and that I specify his escape route and plan; I knew that if I wrote such a thing, Zha Wenbin's life would be ruined forever.

Four hours later, the deputy leader had lost all patience. In that time, he had lectured me from the heights of national strategy to the survival of the nation, as if Zha Wenbin were the reincarnation of Dai Li, confidant to President Chiang. My reply remained only three words: I don't know.

When he stubbed out his last cigarette, smashing it hard onto the floor, I saw his carefully parted hair practically bristling with rage.

I saw him stride out the door, shouting at the militia guard, "Tie up this suspected traitor—send him to the county tomorrow!"

Then I heard him shout, "Heavens above! Run!"

I turned to look outside. The sky, once gloomy, had suddenly turned scarlet. The roof tiles in the distance, the wheat stalks piled for drying, the fences outside, a dog and several chickens—all were glowing red. My ears were assaulted by a thunderous rumbling, as if planes were passing overhead. The next moment, the loudest explosion I'd ever heard shook the air, far louder than any blasting in my home mountains. The shockwave tore the roof off, and I heard tiles crashing to the ground. The table before me, the bench I sat on, the whole earth seemed to tremble in that instant.

Is this an earthquake? I wondered.

"Xiao Yi! Run! Something's happened!" I looked up—it was the fat man and Xiao Bai, rushing in panic. They had been locked in the storage next door, where wheat was kept.

As soon as I stepped outside, flames shot skyward everywhere. The elders cried, women and children screamed, animals broke through fences and scattered wildly—mules and pigs crashing into each other as they fled.

I had no idea what was happening. About a hundred meters away, the cadre who had interrogated me lay face-down on the ground. There was a bowl-sized hole in his back, blood staining the earth around him, his clothes still smoldering, his body twitching faintly.

Chaos. In mere seconds, I didn't know if others had suffered the same fate. I heard several old folks crying and shouting, "Run! The Japanese are back, bombing us from the sky!"

"Is it war?" The fat man yelled at an old man clutching a sheep, but the man ignored him, sprinting toward the rear hills, where there was an air-raid shelter built years ago against the threat of Soviet nuclear war.

I was stunned—had that cadre's words come true? He had just said to me, "If Zha Wenbin is a traitorous spy, do you realize what disaster he could bring upon our country?"

"Look!" Yuan Xiaobai shouted.

Following her pointing finger, I saw a gigantic, radiant fireball in the sky, trailing a long tail as it flew toward the ridge. Then another, and a third...

Fireballs streaked across the sky like fireworks. Some large, some small, some close enough to hear their sharp, whistling "shoo-shoo" sound, piercing and shrill. Explosions, impacts, thunderous noise—the sky was ablaze, turned red by fire. I was only sixteen or seventeen, just a boy. What could I do? I could only stand there, dumbstruck, watching this sudden catastrophe.

Yuan Xiaobai pulled at my shoulder, hopping and shouting, "Meteorites! They're meteorites! Oh my god, is this the end of the world?"

Just then, another fireball crashed down nearby. I saw, with my own eyes, a house blown apart like pitiful rubble, the explosion's shockwave scorching my face.

The fat man grabbed me, his strength immense, dragging me until I collapsed to the ground. Only then did I scramble to my feet; run—toward the rear hills. The three of us joined the fleeing crowd.

Inside the air-raid shelter, wounded and burned, those crushed by collapsing houses, cried in agony. Only elders and children remained—the young men had all gone to search the mountain. If the whole village had been present, today's losses would have been unimaginable. In a sense, Zha Wenbin's disappearance had saved many lives.

Yuan Xiaobai was bandaging wounds. The fat man and I leaned together. I wondered desperately: was he all right?

By evening, the search party returned, and we all gradually made our way back to the village. After a brief tally, at least two-thirds of the houses were destroyed, eight dead, around twenty injured—all elderly or women, thankfully no children.

In the very center of the village was a crater over five meters across, still spewing smoke, the acrid scent of burning everywhere. In those days, grain was the most precious thing in rural life. Perhaps heaven still had some pity—the warehouse where we were held was spared, and the grain was intact. For mountain folk who had just endured years of upheaval, survival was the most important thing.

The displaced were housed in the warehouse; the three of us intellectual youths went to the Miao family, whose house was still habitable.

Regrettably, Grandpa Qiu was gone. When his house was cleared, his black cat had died with him. When a militia member tried to straighten his bent body, I heard a kitten's hungry cry, tiny as a palm. As it struggled free from Grandpa Qiu's arms, it lunged straight for its mother, desperately pushing its little head against her cold body, finally finding her teats and suckling...

Confronted by such a scene, I wept. Yuan Xiaobai wept. I thought I heard the fat man sobbing too. Many others cried. Some cursed the sky, others hurried toward the next collapsed house...

Yuan Xiaobai gently picked up the kitten, pressing it to her cheek, and the kitten licked her tears.

She whispered to it, "Don't be afraid, little one. From now on, let me take care of you, alright?"

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