A Single Swallow Read online

  Ah Yan jumped up and ran toward the tea garden as if she’d gone crazy. She just ignored the stones and thorns on the path, though they pricked her feet like needles, drawing blood. She didn’t care about herself. Or anything else. All she cared about was finding them. I followed and quickly caught her. At the bend in the road, we suddenly stopped, because our feet no longer knew the way. It had been a path, but now was just a huge pit, big enough to contain two or three houses. It was ten feet deep and full of debris. I stood in a daze for what felt like a long time before I gradually realized that the debris was the remains of trees, bamboo hats, bricks, livestock, and people. Shattered like this, they didn’t look like themselves. I only felt the strangeness of it all.

  In the fork of a broken tree branch, Ah Yan saw a leg, a lonely human leg separated from its body. It looked like it was in a hurry to free itself from its body and get on its way. The shoe was only half on, and part of a heel, pale from an entire winter’s hiding, poked through. Ah Yan didn’t recognize the foot, but she knew the shoe. The tip of the shoe had a hole, and the black cloth patch covering it was one Ah Yan had sewn with her own hand.

  Her eyes went dark, and she fell flat onto her back.

  Regarding the events of that day, a county record written several decades later reports:

  At about 7:20 a.m. on March 31, 1943, six Japanese bombers attacked Sishiyi Bu, dropping eleven bombs. One fell into the water, one on the mountains, and the other nine hit residential areas and the tea plantation. Nine houses were destroyed, killing eight people and injuring twenty-nine others. There were countless casualties among the livestock.

  Among the eight people killed that day were both my father and Ah Yan’s father.

  The remains found among the ruins were all fragments—a head, half a torso, a leg, a few fingers, a piece of a lung. We couldn’t tell who each part belonged to, and it was impossible to piece a whole body back together. Yang Taigong looked on through wise tears, telling us to give up. The remains couldn’t be identified, so they were buried together. He said that in the future, no matter which household visited the grave, they would burn incense for all the dead. That night, my brother’s master, the carpenter Yang, made a big coffin to put all the remains in. If the bodies had been whole, there would have been eight coffins, but they were all placed in just one. It was heartbreaking.

  On the day of the funeral procession, the villagers pooled their money to pay a man from the Yang family to mourn for us. This fellow, the son of the villager Yang Bashu, was adopted from a She woman, who lived in the mountains. Yang Bashu asked the village scribe, Yang Deshun, to give his son a name, and he named him Yang Baojiu, meaning “preserved through the ages.” Yang Bashu didn’t imagine that the respectable name he’d paid a silver coin for would actually be undermined, but Yang Baojiu had scabies on his head that left several bald spots the size of a coin, and so everyone in the village called him Scabby. Scabby was with Yang Bashu for seven years or so, but before Scabby was even old enough to marry, for no reason at all Yang Bashu suddenly died one night, leaving Scabby all alone.

  Yang Bashu had loved his son dearly. He had personally managed every aspect of his household and land, not allowing his son to lift a finger. As a result, when the young fellow was orphaned, he couldn’t do anything. In fact, he wasn’t even able to carry baskets, he was so weak. He couldn’t plant tea because the trees were too high, and he couldn’t work on the farm because he’d have to wake up too early. At first, he survived by selling off plots of the family land and a tile-roofed house that had belonged to Yang Bashu. But without work, he quickly spent all the money and before long was living in someone’s firewood room. The wind blew through the room from all sides. Summer and winter, he lay on a broken mat on cotton batting with holes in it, living in poverty and misery. He was by then thirty-two years old and still hadn’t married.

  Though Scabby’s life wasn’t easy, he didn’t starve to death. He had a unique skill. His own mother was She, and all the She women could sing. He inherited a good voice from her, and he had learned a few folk songs. While others relied on their sweat to put food in their mouths, he relied on his voice. Whenever someone in the village died, the family paid him to wail at the funeral.

  Scabby had several different ways of mourning. If someone offered a few rolls of dried noodles and eggs, he would cry piteously. It wasn’t a half-hearted sort of mourning, but had a tune to the wail, his voice rising and falling, pausing and transitioning in rhythm—more mournful and louder than the weeping of any group of women. If someone added a few copper coins to the noodles and eggs, he would not only add music to the wailing, but words too. The words were simple, but always well suited to the situation. If someone gave a white envelope of copper coins, he’d know the amount just by running his finger over it, and then he’d sing a lengthy song appropriate for the occasion. This long song was not random, but was based on the deceased’s life. As the funeral procession passed a mountain, he sang of mountains, and when they saw water, he sang of water, and passing a tree, he sang of trees, all the way from the house to the burial site. The performance was always dramatic.

  So Scabby lived off the villagers’ misfortune. If things were good, people staying safe and healthy, Scabby’s eyes would gleam with hunger. And even the dogs knew that when Scabby wandered the village, he was trying to sniff out some unfortunate death in the streets.

  Bitter, oh bitter, your life is more bitter than bitter herbs . . .

  On the day of the funeral, after the earthen jar had been shattered as the coffin was lifted, Scabby made his first sound. It was too high, ripping a hole in the sky. The mountain seemed to be under a spell, standing motionless, but the trees quivered. When our mothers heard that sound, they cried so bitterly, they nearly fainted. The rest of the journey, Ah Yan and a neighbor held the widows up as they walked. Ah Yan wanted to cry, but when her tears reached her eyes, they refused to go farther, and her eyes became dry.

  Qingming Festival, when the fog is thick

  the earthen jar is shattered

  I escort you through the tea forest

  these tea trees are yours

  you cultivated them

  with your own hand

  Now I only see the tea trees

  you are not there

  Oh, Tea Mountain weeps . . .

  The funeral procession passed through the tea forest. The bombing had ruined half of Ah Yan’s family plantation, but the living half was unaware of the dead half—it was thriving, a luscious green, without remorse. It didn’t know the chaotic world we lived in. The days were like water, always flowing forward, not looking back, and waiting for no one. Not even these troubled days could stop it.

  The golden bridge is crossed

  and the silver bridge beckons

  We cross each bridge in its turn

  All the bridges lead us to

  the western paradise

  On the path to the nether world

  you slowly make your way

  There were no golden bridges in Sishiyi Bu, no silver bridges, not even wooden bridges. The bridge Scabby sang of was the sampan. The burial grounds were on the opposite bank, and the procession would escort the remains across the river. Eight strong young men lifted the coffin and placed it on the widest sampan. It swayed and trembled for a moment, then grew steady. The rest of the entourage took the other sampans, weeping as they crossed the river in turn. The river was higher that day, filled with our tears.

  Twelve hundred pieces

  of gold are given

  I will send you on your way to heaven

  so you can search for

  your beloved mother

  delighted to see you, your dear mother

  while I remain on this side, as a mourner

  On the other bank, we had to leave our fathers, and they would never return. It was then that Ah Yan’s tears found an opening, coming in a flood.

  After Ah Yan’s father was buried, her mother didn’t eat or drink.
She just lay in bed for three days. My mother, though she was also in deep mourning, went to comfort her. She could hold it together. Yes, of course she could. My mother had sons and grandchildren, and she had to be strong for them. Ah Yan’s mother could have borne it too, but she didn’t want to. She had no son for whom to bear the load.

  My mother said to Ah Yan’s mother, “Those dead are gone, but the living are still here. Ah Yan is young. She needs you. You’ve got to eat, at least a little.”

  My mother brought a spoonful of rice porridge to Ah Yan’s mother’s lips. Ah Yan’s mother closed her eyes and her mouth. She neither moved nor spoke, letting the rice spill all over her chin.

  My mother’s words were as effective as trying to scratch lice through a cotton-padded jacket, not relieving the itch or pain. Ah Yan was a fragile young girl. She was too light to keep her mother from despair.

  In this whole house, I was the only person whose words could have helped.

  Don’t worry. I’m your son too.

  But I never said it. My face was taut, my jaw clenched. What I could say would be of no use, and the words that would help were those I couldn’t speak.

  Ah Yan knew she couldn’t count on me. My heart was set on something else, something she had no part of.

  Ah Yan grabbed the bowl from my mother’s hand and threw it to the ground. It smashed into pieces, the sharp fragments poking holes in the floor. We were shocked. Ah Yan had always been a gentle girl, and no one had ever seen her commit such an act.

  “Ma, I know you wish I were a boy, but I can grow tea, raise pigs, cut wood, and embroider, and I’ll earn enough to take care of you, all the way to the end.”

  She reached for a pair of scissors from her sewing box on the windowsill. Unsure what she meant to do, I rushed to her and grabbed her wrist.

  “Ah Yan, don’t be foolish. I won’t go right away. I’ll help you harvest the tea before I leave,” I whispered in her ear. These words rushed out without a thought, as if I’d had too much to drink. I didn’t even consider my classmates waiting for me in the county seat for the long journey to Yan’an.

  Ah Yan pushed me away with all her might. Unprepared, I nearly fell to the ground. I was surprised by her strength. She took the scissors, cut her braid, then tossed it on her mother’s bed. The braid spread out loosely, like a black snake lying stunned on the ground.

  Ah Yan fell to her knees. “Ma, look at me. I’m your boy. From today on, I’ll be your son,” she shouted.

  Still saying nothing, her mother slowly opened her eyes.

  I had already been preparing for my journey. I’d arranged to meet some classmates at a teahouse outside the county seat. We would travel together to Zhuji, and from there find a boat to Hangzhou. The railway line north of Hangzhou was held by the Japanese, so we could only plan that far. The rest would have to be decided as we went. The journey to Hangzhou had been arranged by our Chinese teacher. He gave us the addresses of hostels along the way. We were to meet in three days, but I had promised Ah Yan I’d help finish the tea harvest before going. All I could do was write to ask my companions to wait for me in Zhuji, where I would join them.

  I’d never seen a Japanese person before. All I knew about them came from newspapers, the radio, and the reports of various refugees on the street. I had planned to leave because of patriotism, the passion of youth, and my teacher’s urging. Patriotism is born in the mind, a few steps from the heart, but was not yet a heart-wrenching pain. When my father was killed, the Japanese people I’d heard about became real to me, and my sense of nationalistic enmity became a blood feud. This desire for revenge was born from the depths of my heart, and it pulled at my whole body. If I didn’t go, this burden would make me fall to my death. I had no choice.

  I would be traveling a great distance, so I couldn’t leave without preparations. The first thing I had to prepare, of course, was money. Naturally after what had just happened, I couldn’t ask my mother for money. Fortunately, I’d carefully saved the pocket money my father had given me. If I watched every penny, it might be enough for me to get to Hangzhou. The next issue was clothing. My clothes were all in the dorm at school, but I couldn’t go back to get them for fear of being seen. But there were my father’s clothes. He was only slightly taller than me, so I could wear the clothes he had left.

  The hardest part was finding a weapon. It was a long road. There would be mountains and rivers to traverse. Even if we didn’t encounter the Japanese on our journey, there were bandits on the seas and in the mountains. I needed to have something for self-defense. There was no shortage of kitchen knives and scissors at home, and my mother also had a few awls, but they were all too clumsy or flimsy. The previous morning, I’d passed Yao Er’s butcher shop and saw his knives and cleavers on the wall there. I noticed one knife right away. It was probably used for removing bones. Its tip was still stained with blood. Though it was sharp, it wasn’t big—just right for slipping into a waistband.

  I wanted the knife, and I was sure it wanted me too. It gave off a trembling, trilling sound on the wall as I stared. It was calling to me. This was the knife I was meant to have, but I didn’t know how to get it. I stood in a daze at the door of the shop for a long time, but didn’t know what to do. Yao Er looked up and, noticing the linen wrapped around my arm as a sign of mourning, he said, “Would you like a cut of marbled pork for your mother?” I knew his words were meant to be sympathetic, but I wasn’t used to pity. My face turned red. I shook my head and turned, practically flying away.

  That afternoon, my mind was restless. My thoughts were full of the knife. I couldn’t stand it. Pretending to need soy sauce, I took an empty bottle and loitered in the streets. I strolled past the door of the butcher shop. Yao Er wasn’t there. He was probably relieving himself in the backyard. My ears buzzed. Before I could think, my hand moved of its own accord, plucked the knife from the wall, and hid it inside my shirt. I turned and fled, my heart hammering so hard inside me I was sure that the whole street could hear it.

  When I got home, I hid the knife inside my pillow. I went to bed right after dinner. I slept with the knife in my pillow all night. I felt the pillow thumping. I wasn’t sure if it was my head or the knife, but I tossed and turned all night, unable to close my eyes. When I got up, I worried my mother would come make the bed or that Yao Er would show up at our house looking for his knife. I found a piece of tarpaulin and wrapped the knife in it, then buried it beneath a stone slab outside the house, where I could retrieve it before I left. After I buried the knife, my hands were still shaking. I’d never stolen anything before, and I’d never handled a weapon. That day, I did both. I knew what the knife was for and that it would again be stained with blood one day—not the blood of an animal, but a human. Maybe even by my own blood. From the moment I decided to go, I did not expect to come back alive.

  I took off my clothes and put on my father’s tunic. It smelled of him and the river, and saponin couldn’t get rid of that smell completely. It was strange, but I calmed down after I changed. Putting on my father’s clothes was like putting on his courage. I had my father’s and my own courage, so I no longer panicked. At that point, I realized that what I most needed for my journey wasn’t money, clothing, or a weapon. It was courage.

  The money in my pocket wouldn’t get me far. I needed enough to get me to northern Shaanxi, but wasn’t sure how to get it. I could be a coolie, carrying goods for people, and might even have to beg for food. I had to be prepared for hardship unlike anything I’d ever faced at home and humiliations I’d never known before. I had to learn not just to walk but also to kneel and even to crawl. I had to prepare to have my pride ripped away and be trampled in the dust. Facing death is a form of bravery, but so is facing life. I had to live to see the day when my knife would be of use.

  After changing my clothes, I went out to work in the tearoom. I cleaned the corridors with a long broom, moved away piles of debris, and took down the salted fish hanging beneath the eaves. This was where the fres
h tea leaves would be spread. The tea leaves were delicate, so if there were any other smells in the room, they would become contaminated.

  After clearing the space, I set a large wok on the stove for stir fixation, the process of drying the leaves at a high temperature to stop the enzymes and bacteria from changing the flavor and color of the leaves. I asked my mother to prepare a roll of noodles and five eggs and carried them in a basket to the stir fixation master in the village. Usually my father and the stir fixation master worked side by side, but not this year. When the Japanese planes came, he had also been in the tea garden, just ten steps away from my father, but he’d escaped with his life. Though he escaped the shrapnel, he was injured when a tree fell on him. I went to his house to check on his condition, though I also intended to ask him to come and instruct me on the process of fixation. He was bedridden, unable to walk. If he agreed to come over, he would have to be carried—which would be showing us immense deference.

  Ever since I was a child, I’d observed my father’s preparation of the tea leaves. Even when I was away at school, I returned for a few days to help during the harvest season. But I’d always been an assistant, never the main actor. The fire, the wok, and the tea leaves all conspired against a green hand. This season’s tea could be destroyed. After a year of good weather, in the end, we might only make a batch of rotten tea.

  When I’d seen Ah Yan cut her braid the previous day, my heart melted. I almost wavered. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing to stay here. The Yao family had always been good to my family. My father wasn’t native to this region, coming from southern Anhui. Years earlier, my father’s home had been devastated by hail and drought, and not a single grain was harvested. He took the family and fled by foot to Sishiyi Bu. I wasn’t even two years old then. My father felt hopeless and considered selling me to save the rest of the family. When the Yao family heard that my father had grown tea before, they took us in. From then on, my father helped the Yaos manage their tea plantation. If it weren’t for the Yaos, I might have ended up as a servant in some stranger’s house.