—No, he muttered to himself, sitting up hastily among the roots: No, no, no. It’s nothing.
Then he sprang up, walked a few paces, opened his fly, and proceeded to take a leak. Damn it, he thought—might as well. They say ghosts are afraid of dirty things, right? Hey, Han, look at this! Do you think this is funny, now? Take a nice long look!
That jungle fire was a strange affair. Only months later would Lu Beiping realize just how fishy it was.
He’d been cowherd for a little over a week, and his cattle calls were still no more effective than a bullwhip fashioned from bamboo shoots. Often, after he’d gotten lost on the forking paths around Mudclaw Creek and the cattle had stomped the bamboo thickets flat trying to find their way back home, Lu Beiping would have to rely on the sixth sense of one highly intelligent white-nosed bull—the herd’s lead bull, whom he’d later name Alyosha—to guide the battalion, lowing up ahead, out of the green labyrinth.
It was near evening, the sky piling thick with snakeclouds, and Lu Beiping and his troops were once again lost somewhere inside the third bend of Mudclaw Creek. They were hunting for the haggard old bull who always wandered far from the herd, searching greedily for fresh grass—Lu Beiping would later name him Judas—when they emerged into a strange valley. It was a shallow ravine roofed with a low ceiling of branches, which shut out most of the sunlight, leaving the valley in deep shade. Every tree trunk, branch, and bush in sight was crusted with fist-sized fungal tumors, and all over the ground bloomed clusters of mottled gray mushrooms that looked for all the world like human brains. Glistening pustules pimpled every visible surface; it was enough to set anybody’s teeth on edge. Through cracks in the canopy above Lu Beiping glimpsed glowering ropes of red-black snakeclouds, and an alcoholic odor with a fishy undertone cloyed the air, so pungently tangible that Lu Beiping could almost feel it condensing and diffusing across his skin, like the languid licks of a huge, invisible tongue. From all sides the tiny heads of the fungi craned, snickering conspiratorially to one another, weeping pus-laden tears. Lu Beiping had never seen anything like this. Skinnyface! he hollered into the trees. Where are you? When he got no response, he started to panic, threw back his head and howled:
—Heeeeelp! Is anybody there? Anyone?
His voice died away instantly, as if muffled by a wet blanket. No echoes sounded in the dim, vacant valley.
Weeks later, when he told the story back at camp, one of the hands would leer at him knowingly and say: Friend, that was it—you found the baleglen. It was rumored that the jungles of Tam-chow County contained a wandering valley, which was the source of the malarial vapors that sickened the villages surrounding Mudkettle Mountain. Yet the mushrooms that grew in this valley—blue gnarly-
knots, gray monkeyheads—could be sold in the markets for a staggering price. Few people could claim to have set foot in the baleglen, because, it was said, the valley moved constantly throughout the foothills, materializing in a different place every fortnight, on the first and fifteenth of each lunar month. One couldn’t set out to find it, only hope to stumble into it by accident. Many had burned incense, prayed, and cast hexes in hopes of divining the next appearance of the baleglen—so called because of the bale it inflicted on the land, or the many bales’ worth of rice that had been scattered in such spell-casting attempts. And it was true, in the following months Lu Beiping would never manage to find the strange valley again, though he and his bovine comrades came to know every nook and cranny of these hills. In fact this seemed to be true of many of the wondrous sights Lu Beiping discovered in the jungle: enchanted, hidden places that seemed to wink out of existence the moment he left them. (Years later, when he went back to school, Lu Beiping would try to construct a scientific explanation for the baleglen—maybe, he reasoned, there wasn’t really any such place; maybe those rare fungi grew only under very specific topographical and climatic conditions, so that when all factors aligned they’d suddenly effloresce, then wither and vanish in the blink of an eye. Such an explanation might account for the illusion of a wandering valley, flickering like a specter throughout the foothills of Mudkettle Mountain. And if that were true, those mushrooms would be all the more precious . . .)
But that’s a sidenote. At the time, Lu Beiping was too flustered to ponder the ecological origins of these strange fungal growths, and as he grew increasingly uneasy, the sky grew darker. His hoarse shouts drew no reply from the mist-covered hills; instead, they seemed to tug the scarlet coils of the snakeclouds closer to his head. The mist was getting thicker. The red sky yawned over him like the bloody maw of a giant serpent, ready to swallow him and his cattle alive. Soon the haze grew so thick around him that it was hard to see, hard even to breathe. The cattle began lowing in distress. Then, just as Lu Beiping felt himself nearing the peak of loneliness and desperation, he saw, with a bolt of terror, a bright tongue of flame leap upward out of the canopy directly ahead of him. No—this wasn’t mist. It was smoke!
God, no. Not a jungle fire. Lu Beiping tensed; his hearing sharpened; first he made out the pip-popping crackle of burning rattans, then, in the distance, he heard a vague, low roar. In summer, when thunderstorms were frequent, everybody lived in fear of lightning-lit wildfires. But it had been drizzling on and off for days; the air was heavy with moisture, and he hadn’t once heard thunder. Maybe it was a manmade fire? The Tam-chow hill folk and Loi tribesmen often set fires when they hunted wild hogs. No sooner had this thought occurred to Lu Beiping than a tumultuous clamor rose around him, like a herd of swine pummeling through the underbrush—or . . . no! He shouted in vain at the stampeding cattle. Stooping, he bounded ahead through the trees, then smacked into what felt like a solid wall of heat and reeled back, choking and gasping for breath.
Wait, Lu Beiping thought—is that a person?
To his amazement, a dim figure rushed out of the smoke, bent over and clutching a bulging mass to its stomach. Upon seeing Lu Beiping the man let out a yell, then dropped to the ground crying, Fire! Fire!
Before Lu Beiping could get a good look at him the man had scrambled to his feet and vanished again into the haze. There immediately followed a loud splash, and when Lu Beiping turned to look he was surprised to see water glinting through the trees. What on earth . . . ?
Somehow, he couldn’t imagine how, he and the cattle had managed to loop all the way back around to the creek’s second bend, where the water widened into a shallow pool.
Seconds later the man rose from the water, now naked from the waist up, and charged back toward the flames, swinging his sopping undershirt and shouting, Fire! Fire! Fire! Lu Beiping still couldn’t see the man’s face, but without wasting any time, he yanked the machete out of his belt loop, sawed at a shrub till with a crack the whole thing came free in his hand, dunked the branches in the creek, then ran, water droplets dancing off of the leaves of his makeshift firefighting tool, back to where the flames raged.
Far down in the valley the bell began to ring, wracking the air with metallic spasms.
This wasn’t Lu Beiping’s first encounter with a jungle fire. In the hills such fires came often and unexpectedly, roaring to life without the slightest warning and driving people in terror before their sky-blotting fury. Only by quickly deploying waterfronts and firefronts could such fires be brought under control. A firefront was backburn set to thwart the fire’s advance; a waterfront was a chain of workers heaving buckets, the conventional line of defense.
Luckily this fire hadn’t spread far yet. The head was small and mostly smoke, probably because the forest floor was still damp from several days of rain. Wielding the wet branches, Lu Beiping beat at the flames, while through the choking wall of heat he heard the rhythmic whap-whap-whap of the other man flogging at the burning foliage with his wet undershirt, overlaid with his shouts of Fire! Fire! He still couldn’t make out more than the man’s dim silhouette. Minutes later a confusion of scuffling footfalls filled the haze around them as the grove hands,
alerted by the sound of the bell, swarmed in from nearby sectors to put out the blaze. After a moment’s thumping, thrashing commotion, the fire began to recede. With its retreat cut off, the head guttered out, leaving scattered embers flickering fitfully beneath a jumble of charred branches.
A few workers walked to and fro with rubbermilk pails full of creekwater, splashing out the last hissing pockets of flame. As the smoke thinned, Lu Beiping glanced around the glade, looking for the man who’d fought the fire alongside him. But all he saw were the ghostly forms of the tappers floating through the haze. Suddenly, from the far end of the grove where smoke still swirled, the foreman’s voice rang out like a gong:
—Damn hill folk and their damn hog fires! Who found it this time? Which one of you spotted the fire?
Lu Beiping listened, expecting his mysterious fellow firefighter to reveal himself. In those days, being the first person to report a wildfire was a ripe opportunity for advancement, and few would pass up the chance to snag an official accolade.
No one answered.
—Speak up! boomed the foreman, his tall silhouette looming out of the haze. Nobody here wants a citation?
—A citation? Lu Beiping heard somebody snicker. I’d be afraid I’d get denounced as a Class-Enemy Arsonist!
That was Chu, never able to keep his mouth shut. The foreman chuckled.
—Well, son, maybe you’re the arsonist I’m looking for!
—Hell, no. I mean, no, sir. I mean, I’d never . . .
The workers crowded round Chu, jostling him and offering congratulations.
—It’s Chu! Chu spotted the fire!
—Never thought you had it in you, pup.
—Hey! one of the hands said suddenly, What about Lu Beiping? He runs his cattle this side of the creek. It must’ve been him that spotted it first!
All eyes fell upon the cowherd. Indeed, the soot was blackest on Lu Beiping’s skin.
—No! It wasn’t me, Lu Beiping said hotly, advancing toward the foreman. I was hunting for a lost bull when I saw a guy come running out of the smoke, hugging something. It wasn’t till I saw him that I realized there was a fire.
—Hugging something? the foreman said, his expression growing serious. Did you see who it was, son?
—No, sir. But I saw him run off and jump in the creek, then rush back and beat the flames with his shirt. It was he who started getting the fire under control.
—That was me! Chu yelled from off to one side. I’m the class-enemy-vanquishing, firefighting hero!
—Cut the bullshit! the foreman snapped. His expression was harsh now; all jocularity was gone from his voice. His eyes swept the gang, paused somewhere in their midst, and his brow furrowed. Then he said in a firm voice: Lu, the prize is yours. If you hadn’t cut that bush to beat the flames, we’d never have gotten the fire under control. I’m going to recommend you for a certificate of merit.
—Huzzah! It was Lu! the gang started shouting again. Well done, boy!
—It wasn’t me, Lu Beiping insisted, turning red with embarrassment. I’m serious! I don’t want a certificate of merit! This stuff is none of my god-damn . . .
He swatted away the arms that began raining congratulatory slaps on his back, then lost his temper, and thrusting a finger at the crowd he bellowed:
—Son of a bitch! It’s not like this is some sort of crime! Who was that guy? Who ran and jumped in the creek? Who the hell puts out a forest fire and then doesn’t have the balls to admit it?
The crowd fell silent, taken aback by this sudden show of anger. Hands and re-eds traded glances. Wow, Lu Beiping thought, people actually listen to you when you’re the foreman’s son-in-law. Chu was still sniggering and whispering wisecracks when Lu Beiping’s palm swung out of nowhere and smacked him squarely in the temple.
—Fuck you, Chu. Why don’t you take that prize?
Chu staggered back, dazed. Then his face went white and he snatched a hoe out of the hand of a nearby worker.
—Shit, Lu, have you gone crazy? Motherfucking . . .
The gang fell upon the two and pulled them apart. Now that their post-firefighting high had been thoroughly dampened, the foreman had no choice but to step in, chuckling conciliatorily, and try to dispel the bad air.
—Cool your heels, boys. Chu, give over that hoe. Lu, your modesty is commendable, but what a temper you’ve got! Alright, folks, back to work.
The workers and re-eds shepherded Chu, still cursing under his breath, off into the trees and dispersed toward their respective sectors. Lu Beiping, dour-faced, broke free of the crowd and hurried away to hunt for his cattle. As he passed a pair of workers walking side by side he overheard them talking in hushed voices:
—Sure is strange, scrapping like that over a citation . . .
—Foreman’s got a terror of fires . . . must be something on his mind . . .
It was getting dark. Off in the trees the cattle were lowing impatiently, eager for their master to take them home for the night. Lu Beiping began hollering to them, then out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a familiar, sopping-wet figure walking among the scattering grove hands. He veered toward the figure, then broke into a run, but the young man, hearing his footsteps, slipped into the crowd and was gone.
This time, though, in the smoky twilight, Lu Beiping made out the anxious face beneath that green army cap. Well, who would’ve thought—it was Wing, whose older sister’s spirit Lu Beiping had just married, who was now Lu Beiping’s brother-in-law by ghost marriage: the foreman’s much-adored son, who, as everyone knew, could do no wrong.
The snakeclouds were fading in the darkening sky. Really? It was Wing? As he called to the cattle, Lu Beiping’s heart quickened. And as he herded the animals out of the thick stands of jungle grass and into the open aisles of the rubber grove, he made another surprising discovery. Not far from the pool, scattered beneath charred branches, were hundreds of grains of white rice.
Rice? Who had been scattering rice here?
Only then, thinking back on his earlier misadventures and remembering the shadowy, fungus-covered glade, did Lu Beiping recall a conversation he’d once overheard among the hands: talk of a hidden valley, and something about rice. Had those grains of rice somehow issued from the glade? he wondered. Or had someone scattered rice near the pool as some kind of religious observance, or in an attempt at witchcraft? What, come to think of it, had Wing been carrying when he rushed out of the smoke? What did the rice have to do with the fire, with Wing, with that thing he’d been holding? As he mulled over these questions, Lu Beiping smelled an odor like burnt porridge wafting in a cloud of mist that had drifted off the pool, and through the mist he heard the quiet sob of lapping water. He turned around, gazed out of over the rolling backs of the cattle in hopes of catching a last glimpse of that strange valley. But he saw nothing but somber ranks of rubber trees with crimson clouds scudding over. The sinister valley, with its cadaverous fungal blooms, had vanished; and after a minute, so had the cloud of odd-smelling fog. It was as if, with a flick of the wrist, someone had yanked away the whole scene—the hills, the sky, the bend of the creek—then yanked it back again, slightly altered.
As Lu Beiping walked toward the fading sunset, the cattle lowed contentedly.
Two weeks had gone by since Lu Beiping had received his new assignment, and the cattle commander was starting to get the hang of things.
He now dressed in a long-sleeved work suit, like the sewage workers who came and went by night through the streets of Canton. The ends of his sleeves and his pant legs he tied tight with twine. This kept out the bugs, and most importantly the flying leeches—those bloodthirsty, deformed-looking, wormlike creatures common in Hainan jungles at elevations higher than a thousand feet above sea level. The hands told terrifying stories about the “flitleeches,” said they’d penetrate any chink in a person’s clothes, burrow their way into navels, vaginas,
and assholes, suck a body to a leathery corpse. He wore knee-high rubber boots too, despite the heat. The undergrowth was always wet from dew or rain, and when he drove the herd out in the morning he’d be soaked before reaching the second hill, so the boots were an indispensable shield for his shins. Plus, there were the “hourlaters,” tropical rain showers that blew in like clockwork every afternoon, each day an hour later than the last, sheeting down furiously and then gone the next minute; in the hills, these often broke into full-fledged thunderstorms. When the sky shuddered gold and bolts of lightning blasted the trees above him to charcoal, Lu Beiping was doubly grateful for his rubber boots.
The heat wasn’t a big deal, surprisingly—he now understood the true breadth of human endurance. Toiling shirtless in the groves, Lu Beiping had found the heat unbearable, but now, sheathed in cloth, he somehow managed to nap under the blazing sun. The real problem was the smell. Not of cowshit—of his feet. Even he couldn’t stand the stink of his own feet. And no wonder, since he spent the whole day stumping through the sweltering jungle with his legs encased in rubber. It was like wearing a pair of pickling jugs. After work he’d yank off his boots, tip out a good pint’s worth of sweat, and watch as the soil sizzled and ants fled in panic. Even his stout bovine regiment broke ranks before the billowing waves of stink. The first few evenings he’d tried to bring his boots back into the re-ed dorm, which resulted in a memorable uproar. Dammit! Chu cursed. Give us a break! Next time, leave those things in the Underworld! Us, Lu Beiping thought: if this was “us” against him, he’d happily play the villain. From then on he peeled off his sweaty work clothes right next to the corral, immediately in front of the camp’s main gate, flaunting his malodorous footwear for all to see and smell while a band of camp brats swarmed around him, giggling. Sometimes he’d hang his boots from the end of his machete—like an outlaw fleeing to the marshes with spear and wine flagon, he joked to Chu—and prance barefoot down to the well, eliciting shrieks from the re-ed girls who gathered there after work to wash their hair. Gaffer Kam, hearing the commotion, would rush to the scene and then stand on the sidelines jeering at Lu Beiping in hopes of currying favor with the city girls. Hey, smelly boy! he yelled. Keep away from the ladies! Wait till I get my pick!
The Invisible Valley Page 3