by Shen CongWen
“You sang so well that someone heard your songs in her dreams. The songs carried her far, far away, on many journeys! You’re the best, the very best singer around!”
No. 1 stared back at the old boatman’s unabashed expression and whispered:
“Enough. You can keep your precious granddaughter for some songbird.”
The old ferryman had no idea what he meant by that. No. 1 went down a path between the stilt houses to the river, with the ferryman following. At the river, numerous bamboo oil casks were on the bank, waiting to be laded onto the new boat. A boatman was twisting strands of cogongrass into sheaves to make bulwarks that would keep waves from washing over the deck. Another man was sitting on a rock by the riverbank, greasing the oars with his hands. The old ferryman asked the boatman making the grass bundles when the boat would launch and who would pilot it. The boatman pointed to No. 1. The old ferryman rubbed his hands and said:
“No. 1, let me speak seriously, the chariot’s move is not the right one for you. But you’ll succeed with the horseman’s move!”
No. 1 pointed his finger at a window above and said: “Uncle, look up there. If you want a songbird for your grand-son-in-law, there he is!”
The old ferryman looked up and saw No. 2, who was mending a fishnet by the window.
When the ferryman reached the ferry at Green Creek Hill, Cuicui asked him:
“Grandfather, you’ve been quarrelling with someone. You look awful!”
Grandpa smiled, but said nothing about his trip to town.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
No. 1 took the new oil boat downriver, leaving Nuosong behind at home. The old ferryman thought that since No. 2 had sung the time before, he would sing again in the days to come. After nightfall he made a point of getting Cuicui to listen for songs in the night air. The two of them sat indoors after supper. Because their home fronted on the water, long-legged mosquitoes began buzzing at dusk. Cuicui lit bundles of wormwood incense and shook them in every corner of the house to drive away the insects. After shaking them until she thought the whole house was thoroughly smoked, she put some on the floor in front of her bed before sitting on a little wooden stool to listen to Grandpa tell his stories. The subject finally turned to singing, about which Grandpa was quite eloquent. Finally, he asked Cuicui, jokingly:
“Cuicui, the songs in your dream lifted you up the cliffs to pick saxifrage; if someone really sang to you from the cliffs across the stream, what would you do?”
Cuicui answered him in a similarly humorous vein: “I’d listen to him, for as long as he could sing!”
“What if he sang for three years and six months?”
“If his voice was good, I’d listen for three years and six months.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t he want me to listen to him for a long time?”
“They say that when you cook food, you want someone to eat it, and when you sing, you want someone to listen. But if a person sings to you, it’s because he wants you to understand the meaning of the lyrics!”
“Grandfather, what meaning?”
“His true heart, of course, which wants your affection! If you don’t grasp what’s in his heart, would it be any better than listening to a songbird?”
“And what if I did happen to understand what’s in his heart?”
Grandpa slapped his thigh and laughed: “Cuicui, you’re a smart girl and your grandfather is plain stupid. If I speak a little too bluntly, don’t get mad at me. I’ll throw caution to the wind and tell you a funny story. No. 1, Tianbao of River Street, made the chariot’s move; he had a go-between propose matrimony. When I told you about it, you didn’t seem too willing, am I right? But if he had a younger brother who adopted the horseman’s move and sang to you to win your heart, what would you say to that?”
Startled, Cuicui lowered her head. She didn’t know how much of this story might be real, or who made it up.
Grandpa said: “See if you can come up with an answer—which one do you prefer?”
Forcing herself to smile, Cuicui replied softly, and somewhat pleadingly:
“Grandfather, no more of your humor.” She stood up.
“Suppose it were not just a story but the truth?”
“Grandfather!” Cuicui walked away as she answered.
Grandpa said: “It was in jest! Are you angry at me?”
Cuicui could hardly be angry at him. When she got to the door, she turned the conversation toward something else: “Look how big the moon is, Grandfather!” She went outside and stood still in the bright and open air. After a time, Grandpa came outside to join her. Cuicui sat down on the great boulder—warmed by the hot sun during the day, it was radiating its spare heat now. Grandpa said,
“Cuicui, don’t sit on the hot boulder or you’ll get blisters.”
But after feeling the rock, he sat down on the crag, too.
The moonlight was very gentle and a thin white mist floated on top of the stream. It would have been the perfect time for someone to sing from across the creek, and to be answered from the other side. Cuicui thought about the funny story her grandpa had told her. She was not deaf, and Grandpa had made his meaning quite clear. What did it mean if one of the brothers made the horseman’s move and spent a night like this singing to her? She remained silent for a long time, as if waiting to hear such songs.
She sat there under the moonlight; she really wanted to be sung to. In the end, no sound came from the opposite bank other than the light drone of field insects. Cuicui went into the house and groped in the darkness for the luguan reed pipe. She brought it back out into the moonlight and began blowing on it. Feeling that her playing was not very good, she passed it to Grandpa. The old ferryman put it to his lips and played a long tune that softened Cuicui’s heart.
She sat beside her grandpa and asked:
“Grandfather, who invented this little musical instrument?”
“It must have been the happiest person on earth, because happiness is what it gives; yet perhaps the world’s unhappiest person, too, because it also makes people unhappy!”
“Grandfather, are you unhappy? Are you angry at me?”
“Not at all. Having you by my side makes me very happy.”
“What if I ran away?”
“You wouldn’t leave your grandfather.”
“But just suppose I did. What would you do?”
“In the remote event that you did, I’d go looking for you in this ferryboat.”
That brought a chortle from Cuicui.
Phoenix Rapids, Puncture Vine Rapids, aren’t the worst to rage,
Just go downstream and there is still the Twirling Chicken Cage;
But Twirling Chicken Cage yet lacks the most ferocious foam,
The waves at Green Foam Rapids are big as any home.
“Grandfather, could your ferryboat make it through all those rapids on the River Yuan? Didn’t you say that the river in those places is like a madman, simply unwilling to listen to reason?”
Grandpa said, “Cuicui, by the time I got there I’d be a madman myself. What would I have to fear from broad rivers and giant waves?”
Cuicui thought it over a little, seemingly in earnest, then said: “Grandfather, I wouldn’t leave. But would you? Might someone carry you off?”
Grandpa didn’t answer. He felt that he had nothing to fear from the law and the officials. Death was the one thing that might take him.
The old ferryman got to thinking about what would happen when death carried him away. Staring blankly at a star in the southern sky, he thought: “Shooting stars come only in the seventh and eighth months of the year. Might my death come then, too?” He also thought about his conversation with No. 1 on River Street that day, about the mill that was to be the dowry of the girl from Middle Stockade, and about No. 2—about a lot of things. He felt a little uneasy at heart.
Suddenly, Cuicui asked: “Grandfather, won’t you sing a song for me, please?”
Grandpa s
ang ten songs. Cuicui listened by his side, her eyes closed. When he finished, she said to herself: “I’ve picked saxifrage again.”
The songs Grandpa sang for her were the very songs they heard the night of her dream.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
No. 2 now had his chance to serenade, but he never came to Green Creek Hill to sing again. The fifteenth passed, the sixteenth, then the seventeenth. Unable to bear the wait any longer, the old ferryman went to town and looked for the young fellow on River Street. When he got to the gate in the city wall and was about to enter River Street, he met Horseman Yang, who had been No. 1’s matchmaker. He was heading out of town, leading a mule, when he saw the old ferryman and took him aside:
“Uncle, here you are come to town, just when I had something to discuss with you!”
“What?”
“That boat Tianbao took downstream was wrecked in the Puncture Vine Rapids. He fell into a whirlpool and drowned. Shunshun’s family got the news this morning. I hear that No. 2 set off for the place at once.”
This bad news stung the old ferryman like a heavy slap in the face. He couldn’t believe it. Feigning calm, he said,
“No. 1, drowned? Since when does a duck drown in water?”
“But that’s just what happened to this duck…I salute your wisdom in not letting that young fellow have your granddaughter so easily, by the chariot’s move.”
The horse-soldier’s words were not enough to still the old ferryman’s doubts about the news, but he could clearly see from his expression that this was completely real. He said, grimly,
“What wisdom? This is the doing of Heaven! Everything is according to Heaven’s will…” As he spoke, the old ferryman choked up.
To confirm the reliability of the horse-soldier’s news, the old ferryman took leave of him and hurried over to River Street. People were burning paper spirit money in front of Shunshun’s house. A crowd had gathered. Pressing in among them, the ferryman heard them talking about the tragedy of which Horseman Yang had spoken. Yet, as soon as they discovered that the old ferryman was listening in, they all changed the subject, unnaturally, to the price of oil in downstream markets. Nervous and worried, the old ferryman looked around for a boatman with whom he could talk on friendlier terms.
A short while later, Fleetmaster Shunshun arrived home, wholly dejected. This honest middle-aged man, ordinarily bold and gregarious, seemed beaten down by his misfortune. Struggling to go forward, he said, as soon as he saw the old ferryman:
“Elder Uncle, that plan of ours has fallen through. Tianbao has met his end. Have you heard?”
His eyes red, the old ferryman wrung his hands: “What, so it’s true? It can’t be! Did it happen yesterday or the day before?”
Another man broke in, who appeared to be just back with the news: “The morning of the sixteenth, the boat got stuck on a reef and water came pouring over the bow. No. 1 was flipped into the water while trying to pole the boat free.”
The old ferryman asked: “Did you see him fall into the water?”
“I fell in with him!”
“What did he say?”
“He had no time to speak! During the whole trip, he didn’t say a word!”
The old ferryman shook his head and timidly looked at Shunshun. As if aware of his unease, Fleetmaster Shunshun said, “Uncle, it’s all Heaven’s doing. That’s all there is to it. Someone from Daxingchang has given me a gift of fine wine. Take some home with you.” One of the lads brought a bamboo tube full of wine and covered it with a fresh tung-tree leaf. He gave it to the old ferryman.
Taking the wine, the old ferryman went out onto River Street, then bowed his head and walked toward the wharves to find the place where Tianbao had boarded his boat three days before. Horseman Yang was already there, keeping cool in the shade of a willow tree while letting his horse roll around on the sandy shore. The old ferryman walked over and asked him to taste the wine from Daxingchang. After a few swallows, when they were in better spirits, the ferryman told Horseman Yang how on the night of the fourteenth the two brothers had come to Green Creek Hill to sing.
When Horseman Yang heard this, he said,
“Uncle, don’t you think Cuicui ought to go to No. 2, since she’s willing…”
He hadn’t even finished his sentence when Nuosong, No. 2 himself, came down to the river. The young man looked as if he were about to go on a long trip. Catching sight of the old ferryman, he averted his gaze and went the other way. Horseman Yang called out to him, “No. 2, No. 2, over here, I’d like to talk to you!”
No. 2 halted. Irritated, he asked the horseman, “What is it?” The horseman looked at the old ferryman, then said to No. 2, “Come here, I’ve got something to say!”
“What?”
“I’d heard you’d already gone—come over here so we can talk, I won’t bite you! When are you leaving?”
Nuosong, dark-faced, broad-shouldered, and full of life and energy, forced a smile and came over under the willow. Wanting to clear the air, the old ferryman pointed toward the new mill far upriver and said, “No. 2, I hear that mill will be yours in the future! When it is, what say you let me run it for you?”
As if irritated by what the old ferryman was driving at, No. 2 remained silent. Horseman Yang, seeing that they were headed toward an impasse, put in: “No. 2, how goes it, are you ready to set sail?” The young man nodded. He left without another word.
Realizing that he had brought about his own humiliation, the old ferryman returned to Green Creek Hill feeling very upset. When he reached the ferry, he pretended to have taken it all in stride as he told Cuicui:
“Cuicui, news has come from the city today. Tianbao, No. 1, took his oil boat downstream to Chenzhou and ran into some bad luck. He met his end in the Puncture Vine Rapids.”
Not having understood his meaning, Cuicui at first seemed not to take Grandpa’s report too seriously. So he added:
“It’s true, Cuicui. Horseman Yang, who came here the time before as a matchmaker, even said that by not giving you away too soon, I showed a lot of foresight!”
A quick glance at Grandpa told Cuicui that his eyes were red. She knew he’d been drinking and also that something was troubling him. She thought, “Who got you so angry?” When the ferryboat reached the home side, Grandpa laughed unnaturally and went toward the house. Cuicui remained in the boat. Hearing nothing from Grandpa for a very long time, she headed home herself to have a look. She saw Grandpa sitting on the doorstep, plaiting straw sandals.
She could tell that Grandpa was not himself. She knelt in front of him.
“Grandfather, what’s bothering you?”
“Tianbao is dead, don’t you see. No. 2 is angry at us. He thinks we caused all this.”
Someone at the stream hailed the ferry, so Grandpa hurried on out. Cuicui sat on a pile of rice straw in the corner of the house, greatly upset. When Grandpa didn’t return, she began to cry.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Grandpa seemed angry at someone. He didn’t smile as much as before, and he didn’t pay much attention to Cuicui. She began to realize that Grandpa was not doting on her as usual, yet she seemed not to understand the real reason for it. But this didn’t last very long. Things got better as the days passed. The pair still spent their days on the ferryboat just as always, except that there seemed to be some invisible absence in their lives that simply could not be filled. When Grandpa went to River Street, Fleetmaster Shunshun still entertained him as before, yet it was quite apparent that the fleetmaster could never forget why his deceased son had come to be deceased. No. 2 had ventured two hundred miles down the White River to Chenzhou, searching for the corpse of his elder brother all along the way. It was in vain. After posting notices at all the customs stations, he returned to Chadong. Not long after, on his way to transport goods to East Sichuan, he came upon the old ferryman at the crossing. Observing that the young man seemed to have forgotten what had gone before, the old ferryman said to him,
“No. 2, trave
ling in the heat of the sixth month is terribly punishing, yet here you are on your way to East Sichuan again. I guess you can stand any hardship!”
“We have to eat. I’d have to be on my way even if the heavens above were on fire!”
“Eat? Don’t tell me that’s a problem in No. 2’s family!”
“Oh, we have what we need, but Father says that young men ought not to stay home and eat without earning their keep!”
“How is your father these days?”
“He eats and works, as before. Why do you ask?”
“Ever since your elder brother’s misfortune, the tragedy seems to me to have dealt your father a heavy blow!”
No. 2 was silent. He gazed at the white pagoda behind the old ferryman’s house, as if recalling, wholly disconsolate, that night from the time before and the events that went with it.
The old ferryman stole a fearful glance at the young man and broke out in a smile.
“No. 2, my Cuicui tells me that one night during the last month she had a dream…” Watching No. 2 as he spoke, he saw neither shock nor irritation, so he went on: “It was strange. She said that in her dream someone’s songs floated her up to the bluffs across the creek, where she picked a handful of saxifrage!”
No. 2 tilted his head and made a wry smile, thinking to himself, “This old codger is up to something.” His suspicion was revealed in his smile and noted by the old ferryman, who continued, evidently flustered, “No. 2, don’t you believe me?”
The young man replied: “Why wouldn’t I believe you? I was a fool to sing all night long from the top of those cliffs!”
Shocked and humiliated by this unexpected bluntness, the ferryman stammered: “Really?…Surely not…”
“Oh no? What about the death of Tianbao? Isn’t that real?”
“But, but…”
The old ferryman’s pretenses had originally been aimed only at clarifying the situation a little, but from the start he sensed that he had done the wrong thing and been misunderstood. He wanted now to give a complete explanation of the events of that night, but the boat had reached the other bank. No. 2 wanted to be on his way as soon as he jumped to shore. The old ferryman shouted to him from the boat, all the more flustered: