The Invisible Valley

by Wei, Su; Woerner, Austin;

  Lu Beiping’s scalp prickled. Could it be true? Was this really Han’s grave? As he wondered this, the Gaffer grabbed his arm and yanked him back away from the mound, then hissed:

  —Go on, boy. Get out of here.

  Feeling the Gaffer’s gaunt fingers dig into his forearm, Lu Beiping remembered the talon-like grip of Mrs. Kau, and with a shudder of revulsion he wrenched free of the old man, turned, and gave him an angry shove.

  —Damn it, Kambugger! What are you trying to do?

  —Kambugger? The man’s eyebrows jumped once in surprise, then he narrowed his eyes and gave Lu Beiping a conspiratorial smile. Heh! Sounds like you’ve been jollying around with Jade’s folk.

  —Get the hell away from me, you creep!

  Knowing that the Gaffer was just an insecure bully and that such people were easily cowed, Lu Beiping advanced on him, waving a fist.

  —Listen, Gaffer, if you don’t stop talking shit I’m going to break your nose.

  —Mercy me! the Gaffer cried. Mercy, mercy me! Come back here, I’ve got something else to tell you. This place is witched, son. Coming here has crossed the both of us.

  Reluctantly, Lu Beiping followed him into the stand of lace pines and listened skeptically while the Gaffer confided in a hushed, urgent voice:

  —You think I’m just giving you a hard time? You think I’m feeding you horseshit? Lu, you saw what the animals did. The critters wouldn’t dare set foot in this place if every devil in Hell were driving them. Isn’t that right?

  Lu Beiping gazed silently at his turncoat cattle. It was true—even now, while flirting with their old master, the cattle had never planted their hooves directly in the grass of the waste clearing, but skirted it assiduously, remaining always in the trees. It was as if this place truly were marked off by some kind of invisible boundary.

  —Look, the Gaffer went on, you see how of all these groves, just this place is grown over with fishreek grass? Fishreek grows just in one place, you know where that is? Where there’s been a burning. This grove got burned down, no two ways about it. You can even see the stumps. Everyone knows cattle like fishreek, but here they don’t dare take a nip of it. You see that, right?

  —Yes, Lu Beiping replied nonchalantly, you’re right, they wouldn’t eat it. So what?

  —Mercy me, boy! The Gaffer blinked theatrically. You have to understand! When I saw there was a clearing near Sector 10, I drove the beasts here, just like you did. It gave me the chills, seeing them not eat that grass. Then I saw it was Han’s grave! Old folks say, cattle like to eat grass that grows on graves. Grave grass grows thick. But they won’t go near graves where the dead don’t rest easy. Take it from an old hand, friend—cattle won’t graze on balegrass!

  Balegrass. It was true, he had seen the cattle behave this way before: Once or twice, after the herd had cropped down an entire hillside, he’d noticed a single, conspicuous clump of lush green grass that they had left mysteriously untouched. Could it be, Lu Beiping wondered uneasily, that some baleful presence inhabited those stands of grass?

  —Gaffer, Lu Beiping said, lowering his voice: Seriously, how did you know I’d bring the cattle here today?

  —I didn’t know, she knew! She brought you here, your ghost wife! Heh!—once more a note of frenzy entered the Gaffer’s voice—Sky’s my witness, friend Lu, sure as there are gods above and demons below! The foreman put me on grove maintenance duty after the hourlater, and I thought I’d come over to check on Choi’s grove. Heh! . . . Choi’s gone off who knows where, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t just cross paths with a haunt!

  —What? Where’s Choi’s grove?

  —Right here, son, this is it! The Gaffer grinned salaciously as he pointed at Sector 12. It’s getting dark, too bad Choi’s not around!

  Lu Beiping’s heart sank a foot deeper. First a haunted clearing, a mysterious forest fire, and an unmarked grave . . . and now, Choi. Han. Han was everywhere. Clearly the same dark thread wove all these things together. Han—she was crossed, alright. Choi’s whispered words echoed once more in Lu Beiping’s skull.

  Dusk was approaching. Lu Beiping listened to the sound of Mudclaw Creek rushing over the rocks, and suddenly the forest seemed very quiet. It was time to drive the cattle home. They were lowing impatiently, and when Lu Beiping turned to round them up the Gaffer had vanished like a wraith into the trees. For the first time in weeks, he heard the clanging of the afternoon work bell.

  Gwong . . . Gwong . . . Gwong . . . Gwong . . . Gwong . . .

  As Lu Beiping drove the herd back toward his hut, he began to fret about his meat. Those two pounds of pork jowl and assorted scraps, permeating the valley with their alluring scent, were a summons to every wild animal on Mudkettle Mountain. Last night he’d been startled awake by a boar attempting to butt its way through the hut’s flimsy wicker wall, and he’d managed to scare it off with his flashlight, meanwhile cursing himself for having foregone the flintlock rifle. If he’d had a gun, he might have bagged himself a prize whose gamy aroma would have had every Loi hunter in a ten-mile radius sniffing the air. No sooner had he fallen back to sleep than he was jolted awake again by a soft scuffling sound directly above him, like someone creeping stealthily across the roof. Ducking through the mosquito net he beheld a small, swarthy head hanging upside-down in the window, which disappeared immediately at the sound of him cursing in surprise, followed by a crackle of fleeing footsteps through the thatch. Running outside, he trained his flashlight on the roof and saw a gaggle of macaques hanging from the tree overhead, shrieking and making fists at him. As they scampered off into the canopy, he smelled the aroma of pork wafting from inside the hut and knew that those two pounds of meat brining in the stew pot were to blame. He’d been told that the monkeys of Mudkettle Mountain had long ago fled before the muskets of the Loi, retreating along the Mo-Sius toward Tomb Creek. Had his redolent treasure lured the Monkey King’s minions all the way from their grotto in the Mountain of Fruit and Flowers? (This was the first time during his stay on Mudkettle Mountain that he’d crossed paths with his primate cousins.) Then, the following morning, when he went out to wash his face, he noticed the cursive signatures of snakes scribbled in the lime-filled drainage ditch and knew that a delegation from the serpent kingdom had paid him a visit as well. Next to the ditch lay a segment of dark, mottled skin, as thick around as his wrist, which had once belonged to a black lyre snake. Snakes were attracted to strong scents, he knew; he’d succeeded in catching quite a few of them coiled in clumps of aromatic jungle grass and in wild pineapple thickets. Clearly his moat had stymied the snakes’ advance, but one hopeful lyre snake, enchanted by the aroma, had stood vigil there all night before shedding its skin and slithering away.

  When he let out his cattle that morning, the question of how to dispose of his reeking prize was already weighing heavily on his mind. He wasn’t sure why he’d let it brine so long instead of cooking it and eating it immediately. Probably, in the back of his mind, he’d been hoping to share it with Jade and Smudge. But why hadn’t he taken it up to the hollow first thing, then? What was he waiting for? In such hot weather the meat wouldn’t keep long, even cured in salt water. He knew that he couldn’t leave it in the hut, though; if he did, he’d return to find his home overrun by greedy-nosed monkeys and wild pigs. For a long time he lingered by the creek, planning at first to construct a tripod of branches in the shallows and perch the pot on top, where it would be safe from questing animals. But then he reconsidered, realizing that this arrangement would leave the meat vulnerable to vultures paradropping out of the sky. In the end he submerged the stew pot in a bucket of water, secured the lid with a rock, and buried the whole thing in the ashes of the fire. Water and ash would doubly insulate the scent; this improvised solution, he figured, ought to be pretty much foolproof.

  But as he hiked back up the trail toward his hut, shepherding a tottering Maria past the knobbly barked gorgontree, he smelled,
to his amazement—the smell of cooking meat! The unbelievable aroma cut sharply through the familiar smells of the evening jungle, causing both him and the cattle to quicken their pace, and the herd’s hoofbeats filled the valley with urgent thunder.

  (What a wonderful, intoxicating smell! Lu Beiping gushed to Tsung, as if, after all these years, the thought of it still made him tipsy. Never before had I smelled anything so rich, so dizzying, so magical!) Perhaps because the meat was on the point of turning, its savor heightened by a hint of gaminess, the moment the pot was heated over flames it breathed forth wonders. The aroma glittered on the evening air like shards of agate embedded in a vein of crystal; it was a powerful, startlingly pungent scent, but at the same time bright and delicate.

  The pall that had hung over Lu Beiping’s heart all afternoon—Han’s pervasive presence, the riddle of her unmarked grave—evaporated in an instant. The trail before him quivered like a string plucked softly by the aroma’s invisible fingers. All at once, a flash of understanding went off in Lu Beiping’s brain.

  He herded the cattle, who were now lowing excitedly, into the corral and shut the gate. Glancing over the roof of his hut in the direction of the creek, he saw a milk-white ribbon of smoke curling skyward, and he smiled knowingly. Of course. That was where the smell was coming from.

  He bounded down the slope, his feet beating out a drum line beneath the cattle’s baritone chorus. The first thing he saw when he emerged on the bank was a clean, brown silhouette facing away from him, its back covered with tangled hair, full of expectancy, ripe with premeditation. Hearing his footsteps, Jade jumped down into the water.

  Clearly she’d been here for a while now, cooking and bathing, waiting for him. A wet knot of hair obscured half her face. Seen from behind, her skin had looked dark, but now that she stood in the creek her body, catching the light off the water’s surface, looked pale, almost pearly.

  On the stove that Lu Beiping had built on the bank out of piled stones, his stew pot was bubbling away merrily.

  Lu Beiping stopped running, took a deep breath. Then, as if the meat’s aroma were a conducting medium, all his courage and desire flashed forth at once.

  (The first time it was her on the bank, me naked in the water, Lu Beiping told Tsung. Now, our roles were reversed: her in the water, me on the bank. So, if you were me, what would you have done?

  What would I have done? Tsung said. Well, like you said before: Just go with it.

  Yes. Just go with it. Just go with it.)

  For a moment neither he nor Jade spoke.

  —Where’s Smudge? Lu Beiping asked finally.

  (At the mention of Smudge, Lu Beiping told Tsung, I felt immediately at ease. I told you, that boy was my guardian spirit.)

  —Where’s Smudge? Jade repeated, pushing the hair out of her face and examining him with a playful light in her eyes: Is that all that’s on your mind right now?

  Rubbing his hands together and glancing around the gully, Lu Beiping said:

  —Uh, how long have you been here cooking my meat? It smells great.

  Jade burst out laughing, her brown breasts and shoulders shaking as she stood doubled over in the shallows.

  —Ha! How long have I been cooking your meat? Ha!

  Her whoops of laughter shattered the silence of the valley, and echoes rang faintly in the cliffs. Lu Beiping started laughing too. Their laughter became a shield, a screen, insulating them from their emotions, like a draught of strong liquor.

  When Jade had finally collected herself, she looked frankly at Lu Beiping and said in a teasing voice:

  —If you’re the Bull Devil, like Smudge says, why don’t you come in the water and prove it?

  Lu Beiping remained on the shore, chuckling awkwardly.

  —Come on, are you getting in, or not?

  —Damn it! Lu Beiping said, a rush of hot air shooting to his skull as he kicked off his rubber boots: If I’m the Bull Devil, you’re a witch! A wispwoman!

  —A witch? Jade said, flicking water at him. How about a river spirit? Come on, get in the water.

  —Listen, if I’m the Bull Devil, you must be a wispwoman! he said vehemently, his eyes meeting, then shrinking from her gaze as he unwound the undershirt from his head and tossed it aside: You’re the shape-changing leopard woman from the Cave of Spiders! He unzipped his shorts and let them drop to the ground.

  Baring his fresh, brown, sun-minted body to Jade, he strode into the water. The afternoon sun spangled the water’s surface, shining so brightly it hurt his eyes. Every hair on his body stood quivering at attention, and the blood pounded in his brain.

  Jade slapped playful salvos of water at him as if trying to provoke another water fight. He waded toward her. Then, amid a sea of silver light, their bodies snapped tight to one another. First Jade sprang forward, pulling him into her arms; then Lu Beiping’s arms slipped around her waist and clamped her tight, squeezing so hard that she gasped for air.

  —Four Eyes, she murmured in his ear, her flesh seeming to flow like liquid through his hands: Four Eyes, I’ve been waiting, I’ve been waiting for you.

  Saying nothing, he closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, in her neck, in the valley beneath her breasts, nuzzling voraciously and at random. On the bank the meat bubbled and spat; its warm, amber-and-agate fragrance rose to fill the gray vault of the valley, like lambent gold light over a temple altar.

  The truth was, this was the first time Lu Beiping had ever kissed a woman, and he didn’t really know now. Only after Jade had grabbed his busy head and pressed her lips directly against his did a sensation of thirst wake in his own lips, and instinct took over. The smooth stones beneath his feet and the vine-obscured sky above his head began to turn in a slow gyre.

  Cold water beat against their bare stomachs and backs. Several times they slipped and almost fell into the water, but each time the creek’s surface seemed to turn solid beneath them, repelling them and driving them tighter together. Jade was the first to come back to her senses, and lifting her face to his, she tugged him slowly through the water toward the shore. Her white flowered blouse and navy blue shorts lay in the tall grass, and a few broad banana leaves were spread nearby. (Only much later would Lu Beiping realize how thoroughly Jade had prepared for this adventure.) Dazed, oblivious, he staggered after her into the grass, where they toppled together in a heap. Then, jolted back to reality by the change of scene or by the chilly touch of the evening air, Lu Beiping cried out, shoved Jade away, and sat up in the grass.

  —Gah! he stammered, gazing at Jade’s sprawled, naked limbs as if out of a dream: What the hell am I doing? I’ve gone crazy!

  —Me too! Jade said, sitting up eagerly and pushing the hair out of her face. Oh, Four Eyes . . . darling . . . child . . .

  The first few words were murmured in a dazed tone, as if she weren’t fully conscious of speaking them; but the last word was pointed, deliberate, teasing. She pounced on Lu Beiping, grabbed him by the shoulders and, shaking him viciously, fixed his fogged eyes with two bright, adamant beams of light:

  —Four Eyes, I know what I’m doing. I’m going crazy.

  Lu Beiping sat there, blinded by her eyes, pinioned in her grip. This wasn’t the woman who’d lured him gently into the water. From beneath that tangled nest of hair a stranger’s face gazed back at him, sunburned, ruddy, glowing with an intense light that gripped his eyes like a powerful suction cup. Those red lips, wild hair, and trembling breasts didn’t belong to Jade, but to a siren, a rusalka, a shapechanging wispwoman who padded through the jungle in the form of a leopard or a tiger. And the gaze that held him was that of a wild creature: strong, placid, proud, even noble. This nobility seemed a thing borne of the wilderness itself, a wild, capricious, sovereign power. Child . . . As his heretical, long-dormant desires flared to life again at her teasing invitation; as his willpower melted away completely beneath the renewed heat of
his interior furnace; he heard, calling from somewhere deep inside him, or out of some other, distant dimension, a voice: I too know exactly what I’m doing. I’m going crazy.

  All these perceptions took no more than an instant to play out in Lu Beiping’s mind. But in the months and years that followed he would come to realize that in this brief moment of clarity, he’d finally admitted, in a deep corner of his being, that Revolution was, in fact, inevitable. Even on the morning when he first laid eyes on Jade, sitting in the sunlit meadow above the babbling creek, his nerves had begun beating a martial rhythm in anticipation of today’s fight. The ribbon had been cut, and the steamship was already sliding down the slipway toward its predestined channel.

  So, in the moments that followed, the tide of battle turned dramatically on the banks of Mudclaw Creek. Goaded to anger by Jade’s fingers digging into his shoulders, Lu Beiping let out a roar, like a bull enraged by the crimson cloth, and plunged toward his adversary while on all sides imaginary onlookers raised a deafening cry. (At the same time, his adversary seemed to be standing in a different dimension, waiting calmly to watch the fray.) With his hands, which he’d all but forgotten about, he attacked the breasts that swung insolently before his eyes. With his lips, which she’d taught him to use just a moment before, he rained a hail of kisses on her face, neck, and nipples. She groaned as if in pain, and as she heaved beneath Lu Beiping, the curves of her body grew supple as clay. Releasing her, he struck out downward, over the ridges of her ribs, along the bend of her hip, detouring briefly to the little valley of her navel; down, down he went, till he stood at the edge of a dark, tangled copse, and there, trembling, he stopped.

  Never before had he visited this alien turf. He’d gazed at it, furtively, on prints of European oil paintings in the green years of his early adolescence; he’d yearned after it vaguely on countless parched, damp nights. Now, at last, it stood before him beckoning, a dim, shadowy threshold over which danced glimmers of a divine, riddle-like light.