by Shen CongWen
Seeming not really willing to give in, the old ferryman shrugged and stepped away. As he crossed over the high door threshold, he nearly tripped headlong over the stick he used to make straw sandals. When he’d steadied himself, Cuicui put on a pained smile and said: “Grandfather, you see, you still don’t know how to take advice!” The old man picked up the stick and threw it into a corner of the room, adding: “Your grandfather may be old, but just wait a few days, and I’ll hunt you a leopard!”
In the afternoon it rained, but the old ferryman said good-bye to Cuicui and went to town anyway. Since Cuicui couldn’t go with him, she insisted that the yellow dog accompany him. Once in town, he was detained by a friend who wanted to talk about the price of salt and rice. Then he went to the army barracks to see the new mules and horses purchased by the head of the likin tax bureau before he finally got to Shunshun’s house on River Street. There he found Shunshun playing cards with three other men. Unable to speak to him in private, he just stood behind Shunshun and looked at his hand. After a while Shunshun invited him for a drink, but the ferryman begged off, on the excuse that he had been sick. The card players weren’t ready to go home and the old ferryman wasn’t about to leave, either. Shunshun seemed unable to figure out why he had come; he just concentrated on his hand. It was another man who took note of the old ferryman’s discomfort and asked if he had something to discuss. That made the old ferryman rub his two hands together nervously, as was his habit, and say, not really, he just wanted to exchange a word or two with the fleetmaster.
The fleetmaster finally understood why the ferryman had been standing behind him, looking at his cards for so long. He turned around and smiled at the old ferryman.
“Why didn’t you say so? You didn’t say anything, so I thought you must be trying to learn a few tricks of the game.”
“It’s nothing, just a little something I wanted to talk about. I didn’t want to spoil the fun—didn’t dare interrupt you.”
The fleetmaster threw his cards down on the table. Smiling, he went into the back room, with the old ferryman following behind.
“What’s on your mind?” the fleetmaster asked, with an expression hinting that he knew what the boatman was about to say, and also bearing a touch of pity.
“I heard a man from Middle Stockade say you were preparing to link your family in marriage with the militia captain there. Is it true?”
The fleetmaster could see the old ferryman’s eyes fixed on him, begging for the answer he wanted. “You’ve heard right,” said the fleetmaster. But the implication was, “What’s it to you?”
“That’s a fact?” the old ferryman asked.
“True enough,” the other said, unconcernedly. But the implication, again, was another question: “Fact is, what business is it of yours?”
Pretending to be completely unruffled, the old ferryman asked, “What does No. 2 say?”
The fleetmaster replied: “No. 2 has taken a boat down to Taoyuan and been gone for several days now!”
As it happened, No. 2 had gone downriver to Taoyuan only after quarreling with his father. The fleetmaster might be extremely open-minded, but that didn’t mean he was willing to have the girl who had killed his first son, even if indirectly, become the wife of his second; that was very clear. Local custom held that these things were all up to the younger generation—the elders were not to interfere. No. 2 was truly fond of Cuicui, and Cuicui loved No. 2 also. The fleetmaster was not opposed to this sort of love match. But for some reason, the old ferryman’s concentration on the matter had made both father and son misunderstand his motives. Whenever the fleetmaster thought of his recent family tragedy, he associated it with this old and meddlesome boatman. There was no outward sign of it, but inwardly there was a big hitch.
Without letting the old ferryman continue, the fleetmaster told him, somewhat bluntly:
“Uncle, no more of this. Our mouths are for drinking, not singing the young folks’ songs for them! I know exactly what you mean to say, and you mean well. But I’m asking you to understand my position. We should talk about matters that are up to us, not try to pull strings for our youngsters.”
After this final blow, the old ferryman still had something to say, but the fleetmaster wouldn’t let him speak another word; he pulled him back to the card table.
The old ferryman was speechless. He looked at the fleetmaster, who was smiling and telling lots of jokes, but the way he threw down his cards showed his distress. Without another word, the old ferryman donned his conical hat and left.
It was still early, so the dejected old man went back into town to find Horseman Yang. He was drinking. The old ferryman pleaded that he was still sick, but couldn’t help drinking a few cups of liquor anyway. Feeling hot from the walking by the time he got to Green Creek Hill, he washed himself in the stream. He was tired, so he asked Cuicui to keep on tending the boat while he went home and slept.
As dusk fell, the weather became quite oppressive. The stream was covered with red dragonflies. Mist was already gathering and hot winds were noisily rustling the bamboos in the mountain groves on either side of the stream. It looked as if it would rain that night. Cuicui was with the boat, watching the dragonflies as they flitted across the creek. Her heart was ill at ease, too. Seeing Grandpa so dejected, she grew worried and hurried home. She thought he would already be in bed, but he was sitting on the doorstep, weaving straw sandals!
“Grandfather, how many shoes do you need? Aren’t there fourteen pairs up by your bed as it is? Why don’t you lie down and rest?”
Instead of answering, the old ferryman stood up and looked at the sky. He said, softly: “Cuicui, there’ll be a heavy thunderstorm tonight! Let’s tie up our boat under the cliffs. The rain tonight is going to be heavy.”
Cuicui said, “Grandfather, I’m afraid!” But what Cuicui feared didn’t seem to be the coming thunderstorm.
Acting as if he hadn’t understood her, the old ferryman said, “What’s there to be afraid of? What will be will be. Don’t be scared.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The night did bring a great storm, accompanied by frightening thunderclaps. Lightning swept over the rooftop, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. Cuicui quivered in the dark. Grandpa woke up, too. Sensing her fear, and worried that she might catch cold, he got up to cover her with a sheet. Grandpa said:
“Cuicui, don’t be afraid!
Cuicui replied, “I’m not.” Meanwhile she thought to herself: “Grandfather, I’m not afraid because you’re here!”
There came another roll of thunder, and then, overpowering the sound of the rain, the deadening sound of something giving way. Both of them were sure that the hanging cliffs by the stream bank must have caved in! They feared that their boat was crushed under collapsing rocks from the cliffs.
Grandfather and granddaughter kept silent in their beds, listening to the sound of the rain and thunder.
Even with the downpour, Cuicui was soon asleep again. When she woke up, it was already daylight. The rain had stopped without her noticing. She heard only the sound of torrents from the gullies entering the stream from the mountains on both sides. Cuicui got up out of bed. Seeing Grandpa still sound asleep, she opened the door and went out. The ground in front of the house had become a ditch and water splashed past in a muddy stream from behind the pagoda, having come straight down from the bluffs. Newly formed channels of water were everywhere. The vegetable garden was flooded, its sprouts all covered with sand and gravel. Going over to the stream, she could see that the water had risen so high that it was already brimming over the dock. Soon it would reach the tea vat. The path down to the dock was like a little river, splashing yellow mud. The cable over the stream used to pull the boat across was already under water, and the ferryboat, previously tied up beneath the cliffs, was nowhere to be found.
Observing that the bluffs in front of the house had not collapsed, after all, Cuicui at first failed to notice that the ferryboat had disappeared. But as she looke
d up and down for it, she involuntarily turned around, and the white pagoda behind the house was gone. Startled by the enormity of the loss, she hurried out to the back of the house. The pagoda had collapsed into a big mass of bricks and stones. Cuicui was too scared to know what to do next, so she shrilly called out for her grandpa. When Grandpa did not get up or answer her, she ran into the house and shook him back and forth. Still he made no sound. The old man had died as the thunderstorm faded away.
Cuicui began to wail.
Before long, someone going on business from Chadong to East Sichuan arrived at the stream and called out for the ferry. Cuicui was at the stove, crying as she heated water with which to wash the corpse of her grandpa.
The man thought the ferryman’s family must be asleep and he was in a hurry to cross. When his calls went unanswered, he threw a stone across the stream onto the roof of the house. Sniveling and crying, Cuicui ran out and faced the high cliffs by the stream.
“Hey, it’s late! Bring the boat over!”
“The boat has left us!”
“Where’s your grandfather? He’s in charge of the boat. It’s his responsibility!”
“Yes, it’s his responsibility, and he did it for fifty years—and now he’s dead!”
Cuicui blubbered as she spoke to the man on the other side of the stream. When he heard that the old ferryman had died, he realized he must return to town and report the news. He said:
“Is he really dead? Don’t cry, I’ll go back to town and tell people. They’ll get you a boat and whatever else you need!”
When he got back to Chadong, he reported the news to every friend in sight, and soon everyone knew about it, inside the town and out. Fleetmaster Shunshun of River Street sent someone to find an empty boat. Carrying a plain, unpainted coffin, it was dispatched right away, to be poled upriver to Green Creek Hill. Horseman Yang and an old soldier hurried over to the site on their own, where they felled several dozen giant bamboos and bound them together with vines to form a raft as a temporary ferryboat. When the makeshift raft was ready, they poled it to the shore outside Cuicui’s house. The old soldier manned the raft for ferry passengers, while Yang hurried to Cuicui’s house to see the deceased. His eyes brimming over with tears, he stroked his dead friend, now stiff as a board, as he lay in bed. Then he busied himself making the necessary preparations. Others came to help out, and the coffin arrived on the boat sent over from the big river. An old Daoist priest from town ferried across on the raft, bringing his ritual musical instruments, an old sackcloth Daoist robe, and an old rooster, the better to intone scripture, make his waterside pronouncements, and fulfill his other ritual duties. People came and went from the house. Cuicui simply sat on a low stool by the hearth, sobbing.
Come noon, Fleetmaster Shunshun arrived, too, following a servant who carried a bag of rice, a vat of wine, and a large slab of pork hindquarters. He said to Cuicui:
“Cuicui, I heard about your grandfather’s death. Death happens to us all when we get old. Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you!”
He looked around and went home. In the afternoon, the body was put into the coffin. People who had come to help began returning home. By evening, the only ones left were the old Daoist priest, Horseman Yang, and two young workers that Shunshun had sent over from his house. Before dusk fell, the old priest cut out some flower shapes from red and green paper and fashioned candlesticks from yellow mud. When it was dark, a yellow candle was lit on the small table in front of the casket. There was incense, and other little candles were lit all around the coffin as the old Daoist priest put on his blue hempen gown and began the funeral rite of circling the coffin. The old priest went in front, carrying a paper streamer to lead the way, followed by the filially pious daughter and the horseman in the rear, slowly going in a circle around the lonely casket. The two hired men stood in an empty space by the stove, clanging a gong and cymbals to make noise. The old Daoist walked with his eyes closed, singing and chanting to comfort the spirit of the deceased. When he got to the part about the deceased spirit going to the Western Paradise, where fragrant flowers bloomed all year long, the old horseman raised high a wooden tray of the paper flowers and scattered them over the coffin, to symbolize the bliss of paradise.
At midnight, the ceremony came to an end. They set off firecrackers and the candles nearly burned out. With tears still streaming down her face, Cuicui hastened to the kitchen to stoke the fire and prepare a midnight meal for those who had assisted. After the meal, the old priest lay down in the bed of the deceased and slept. The others attended the coffin through the night, as was the custom. The old horseman sang funeral songs to help the others pass the time, tapping out the rhythm on a wooden grain measuring cup as his drum. He sang songs about children who were legendary exemplars of filial piety: about Wang Xiang, who lay naked on top of ice to catch a fish for his mean stepmother, and little Huang Xiang, who fanned the pillow of his sick father against the heat and warmed him with his own body to ward off the cold.
Completely exhausted from crying and working the livelong day, Cuicui rested her head on the front of the coffin and drifted off to sleep, but the two hired hands and the horseman, having eaten and drunk a few cups of wine, were in high spirits. They traded off singing their funeral songs. Cuicui suddenly reawakened, as if from a dream. She came to the terrible realization that Grandpa was dead, whereupon she took up her anguished weeping again.
“Don’t cry, Cuicui, that won’t bring him back!”
The old horseman went on to tell a joke about a bride crying on her wedding day, spiced up with a few vulgar expressions that had the two workers howling with laughter. The yellow dog barked outside the house. Cuicui went out and looked up. The air buzzed with the sound of insects. The moonlight was grand and bright stars were inlaid in the dark blue sky, creating an atmosphere of calm and serenity. Cuicui thought to herself:
“Can it be true? Is Grandfather really dead?”
The old horseman had followed her outside, for he knew that girls did not always show their emotions. A fire might linger under the embers without a trace; with her grandpa gone, and having lost all hope for herself, she might jump off the bluffs or hang herself, following Grandpa in death. How could they know? Therefore, he kept a constant watch over Cuicui.
Seeing Cuicui standing there in a daze and not turning to him for a long while, the old horseman coughed and said,
“Cuicui, the dew is falling. Aren’t you cold?”
“I don’t feel cold.”
“It is fine out here!”
“Oh!” she exclaimed softly, seeing a big shooting star.
Then, in the south, another shooting star coursed down to earth. An owl hooted on the opposite shore.
“Cuicui,” the old horseman said to her softly, having already come up beside her: “Go indoors and sleep a while. Don’t let your thoughts run wild!”
Cuicui quietly returned to her grandpa’s coffin. She sat on the floor and began sobbing again. The two workers standing guard in the house were already fast asleep.
The horseman said, faintly: “Don’t cry! Don’t! You’ll break your grandfather’s heart. It’s no good to cry your eyes red and your voice hoarse. Listen, I know exactly what your grandfather intended. Leave it all to me. I’ll arrange everything so it works out right, so I can face your grandfather. I’m up to it—I can do whatever is needed. I want this ferryboat to go to someone that your grandfather liked and that you like. If someone gets in the way, I may be old, but I can still wield my scythe and deal with him. Don’t worry, Cuicui, I’ll take care of everything!”
Somewhere far away, a cock crowed. The old Daoist priest mumbled to himself, half asleep, in bed: “Is it daylight? Time to rise and shine!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bright and early the next day, friends came from town, bringing ropes and carrying poles.
Fleetmaster Shunshun, the horseman, Cuicui, the old Daoist, and the yellow dog followed behind as six bearers carried the old ferry
man’s small, unvarnished coffin to the hill behind the collapsed pagoda for burial. When they got to a pit that had been dug to receive the body, the old Daoist priest jumped down into it and, according to custom, sprinkled flecks of cinnabar and white rice in the four corners and the center before burning a little spirit money. Then he crawled up out of the grave to let the bearers lower the coffin. Unable to summon up any more tears, Cuicui cried hoarsely and threw herself across it, refusing to get up. The coffin could be moved only after the horseman forcefully drew her aside. After that the coffin was lowered, with the ropes being tugged this way and that to square it in the pit. Fresh earth was piled on top as Cuicui remained sitting on the ground, sobbing. The Daoist priest had to hurry back to town via the ferry to perform rites for sending another dead soul up to heaven. The busy fleetmaster, after entrusting the affairs on this side of the stream to the old horseman, likewise hurried back to town. All those who had been helping out went down to the stream to wash their hands. Each household had its own affairs to tend to, and they knew it was not the time for more polite words that would upset the next of kin, so they took the ferry home, too. That left behind only three people at Green Creek Hill: Cuicui, the old horseman, and Baldy Chen, also known as Fourth of the Fourth from his birth date, whom the fleetmaster had sent to temporarily tend the ferry. Having felt the sting of a stone cast by the bald man, the yellow dog, nursing his resentment, softly yelped to express his unhappiness.
Cuicui had a talk with the old horseman that afternoon. She pleaded with him to return to town and get someone else in camp to take care of his horses, so he could return to Green Creek Hill to stay with her. When the old horseman got back, Baldy Chen was dispatched back to town.
Cuicui and the yellow dog went back to operating the ferry, letting the old horseman amuse himself on the high bluffs or sing her songs in that old, gravelly voice of his.