Chapter Forty-One: Heading South

After a brief but crucial discussion, the three of us unanimously agreed to keep what we had seen in the painting a secret from Yuan Xiaobai for the time being. Anyone who saw something like that would inevitably let their imagination run wild.

Once past the fox statue, there were steps ahead, just wide enough for one person, the ceiling low enough that we had to duck, winding up and down unpredictably. None of us knew what to expect—thankfully, Zha Wenbin had the habit of carrying a fire striker.

When I heard the rush of water in my ears, I knew we had found a way out—though I hadn’t expected it to be here.

A curtain of waterfalls blocked our way forward. We couldn’t tell how high it was or even exactly where we were. The water outside roared relentlessly; when I reached out, I couldn’t hold my hand in it for even a second. At this point, we had no real choice left.

“Jump?” The Fatty looked back at us, his eyes burning with the passionate resolve of someone ready to sacrifice himself for the cause.

“If you jump, I’ll jump too,” I replied.

Right behind him, I was the second to burst through the waterfall. In that split second when I hit the water, I felt as if every organ in my body had shattered, the impact against my chest like being struck by a concrete slab, my ribs and muscles seeming to tear apart. When I finally struggled up from the bottom and broke the surface, for the first time in my life, I was simply grateful to be alive.

One after another, the three of us crawled ashore like drowned rats. The setting sun still offered a bit of warmth. We stared at the waterfall, half-smiling, half resigned.

Everything had come full circle. This was exactly where we’d entered the mountains to hunt the tiger that day—our campsite. Looking at the towering falls and the chaos of rocks, I couldn’t help but think how remarkably tough our luck had been—each one of us.

The descent from the mountain went smoothly enough. This place was forbidden to everyone in Wildman Village, but the three of us had wandered through it repeatedly as if it were our own backyard. As arranged, at the village entrance, Yuan Xiaobai was hiding in the riverside millhouse, and the four of us were finally reunited.

Farmers finished their work and drifted home along the fields; I saw Miao Lan holding hands with a young man from the village, her face flushed with embarrassment.

“Goodbye, folks!” Fatty waved from the millhouse window to the distant villagers.

Zha Wenbin, chewing on the rations Yuan Xiaobai had prepared for us, gazed out over the ruins of the village. He turned to us and asked, “Are we really leaving?”

“Let’s go! This place isn’t ours,” I replied with certainty.

“Then where are we going?” he asked. The question brought silence over us all.

Indeed, in those days, once we left the village, we might not even have shelter for the night. If anyone reported our escape, the authorities would pursue us, and who knew what kind of label they’d pin on us.

Fatty said, “Anywhere is better than here. Don’t you want to go home?”

Who wouldn’t? But we were fugitives—without introduction letters, we couldn’t stay at inns or buy tickets, and at any moment we might be caught. This was the northeast, thousands of miles from my home in Zhejiang. I had no idea what fate awaited us.

Leaving was the only choice left—the “choice without choice.” Three men and one woman, each with a cloth sack, a change of clothes, and ten cold steamed buns apiece. All together, we had fifteen yuan; each man took three and a half, the rest we left with Yuan Xiaobai. All we wanted was to survive.

It took us only one night to reach the platform where Old Man Miao had picked us up before. We were on the run; even the slightest sound made our nerves jump. We knew that behind us, a line of militia with rifles and shotguns and several hunting dogs that knew our scent were already searching the only mountain road in and out of the village.

The railway was our only hope.

Supposedly, a train passed along this line once a week, but no one knew which day. Its main purpose was to haul timber from the northeastern forests, occasionally taking passengers in need. This platform had been built when Wildman Village was still logging.

Beside the platform was an irrigation channel, half a man deep at this time of year. The wind howled over the ice that still lined the banks—March or April in the north is still bitterly cold. The four of us huddled together, bracing ourselves against the chill and our own fear. Perhaps the heavens took pity, for after half an hour a train chugged toward us.

It’s not only the legendary guerrilla warriors who can hop onto trains—we could, too. The green locomotive crawled along the winding track. I thought I glimpsed pursuers in the distance.

Watching the fields outside, already tinged with green, I closed my eyes and whispered silently, “Farewell—this is really goodbye.”

Once the train crossed Shanhaiguan, we had left the northeast behind. The Eight Banners of the Qing dynasty had once charged through here to seize the Forbidden City. We chose to get off here as well; beyond this point, checkpoints would only become more numerous, and our chances of being exposed would rise.

Fatty said he planned to return home to Sichuan—no matter what, it was still home. Zha Wenbin and I would head back to Zhejiang, and Xiaobai decided to come south with us; she was from Shanghai. The four of us went to a photo studio, took a picture together, and left our addresses behind for the owner to mail to each of us—a token of our bond. With the money left, Fatty bought some ration tickets on the black market and found a small noodle shop. It was the first time in my life I’d ever tasted liquor—strong white spirits, the taste harsh. I couldn’t tell if the wetness in my eyes was from parting sorrow or the bitterness of the drink.

Before leaving, Zha Wenbin reminded Fatty over and over not to act rashly if anything happened. Fatty said his goodbyes and slipped onto a coal train bound for Shaanxi, burrowing into the pile of coal.

There were many trains heading south, especially toward Shanghai, but we had to choose a freight car—after all, we were undocumented. After dark, the three of us and a cat squeezed into a boxcar full of timber. No one spoke. None of us knew what awaited us.

Everywhere along the way were slogans from the Cultural Revolution, Red Guards waving their flags. This was the final frenzy of that era, the peak before the fall.

As for Yuan Xiaobai, who belonged to Shanghai, we could do nothing more. When we got off together, it was another farewell. Even after much contemplation, I never did give her that painting. Perhaps this parting would be forever—keeping it was a small remembrance. The bustling city had nothing to do with us; Zha Wenbin and I belonged to northwest Zhejiang.

Here, we pooled all our remaining money and gave it to Yuan Xiaobai. Life in the city was much harder than in the countryside.

From the mouth of the Huangpu River, we worked five days of free labor hauling cargo for someone, on the condition that he would take us upstream on his way back—because I knew my hometown lay at the source of this river: the West Tiao Stream.

Our hometown, gone for more than half a year, was now within sight, yet Zha Wenbin and I crept like thieves. Home was so close, but neither dared to return. The men with red armbands had probably already received word. At night, from afar, I saw our door sealed with an official notice. Zha Wenbin and I agreed to go to Lion Mountain, the highest peak in northwest Zhejiang, which had once been a collective forest farm after liberation, with unused houses and water—though abandoned for years.

Life on Lion Mountain was monotonous. From the summit, we could see the whole of Hong Village: which house’s chimney was smoking, which woman was scolding her child, which evening the village gathered for a movie. Every day, we waited, hoping to see some sign of life in our own “home.”

And so it went; we had no idea what was happening in the outside world, nor how long we would have to hide. At least food was plentiful in the woods—wild vegetables, game, and we even planted some corn ourselves. After all, we’d learned something in the countryside: with your own hands, you could provide for yourself.

I remember it was a day in July. The clouds by day were laced with black, and if you looked closely there was a trace of red. The clouds rolled in waves, covering the sky. At night, the heavens were a sea of stars. During the day, Zha Wenbin had sat outside the broken house, cooling off, and said the sky looked strange today. Whenever the sky was clear, he liked to stargaze—he was always a bit odd, so I just kept myself entertained.

That night was especially stifling. I tossed and turned in the house, unable to sleep, and took my palm-leaf fan to doze by the big rock near him.

In a groggy half-sleep, I don’t know how late it was when he suddenly woke me, saying, “Xiao Yi, something’s probably going to happen tonight.”

Half-asleep, I mumbled, “Oh, don’t worry, in this old forest, the Red Guards won’t come hunting for us.”

“No, get up and look.” He dragged me to the clearing and pointed at the sky. “See that star? That’s the North Star, the Emperor of the Supreme Palace. It’s started to dim.”

To me, all the stars looked the same. “There are so many, how would I know? Not everyone’s a little shaman like you were as a child.”

“No, look! That red one, with the meteor passing by.” As he spoke, a meteor streaked north of center, and by coincidence, I saw it too.

“Meteors—what’s the big deal? Happens all the time in summer.”

“I’ve counted—this is the eighth one, all on the same path. I have a bad feeling, like something big’s going to happen tonight.”

“Come on, Old Zha, what time is it? It’ll be dawn soon. If you want to count stars, suit yourself, I’m going back to sleep.” I returned to my rock and soon drifted off again.

But that night, there really were signs. Normally in summer, the woods were thick with mosquitoes, yet that night I slept bare-chested outside and wasn’t bitten once. Also, the forest was unusually lively; from dusk, all the birds circled overhead instead of roosting, and the mice, who usually hid at the sight of people, were everywhere. In the kitchen alone, I killed seven. The dogs in the village below barked all night without pause.

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