—Lee-lee-loo-loo-WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!
Clearly, something Lu Beiping said had once again touched a nerve.
Autumn’s tactic proved to be a good one. In barely half an hour’s time they were surrounded by an undulating sea of horned heads. One by one the animals reported to Lu Beiping, then meandered over to the pond to nibble the tall grass that grew nearby. Lu Beiping and Autumn stood on either side of the tablet, belting an occasional cattle call into the mountains and then returning their attentions to the inscription on the stone, comparing it character by character with the copied version in Autumn’s notebook. At the moment Lu Beiping held the little black book, whose pages were brittle and yellowed with age.
—Who’s Li Shutong? he asked as he flipped through the notebook. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about it; in those days every bookish youngster had his own “confidential” journal full of famous quotations, lines of poetry, lists of good adjectives, and so forth. Autumn’s handwriting was blocky and laborious, every character looking like it had been copied from a crib sheet, and in fact he had devoted several pages to practicing hardpoint calligraphy, the letters now indecipherable where the cheap ink had run. But almost all of the poetry that he’d copied out had the same heading: “Lyrics by Li Shutong”—song lyrics, Lu Beiping guessed.
—You haven’t heard of Li Shutong? Autumn said, bringing his head close enough to Lu Beiping’s that he could make out the tracks of wind-dried tears still visible on Autumn’s cheeks. I don’t know much about him. My dad told me he was a monk, a very learned monk.
—A learned monk? Are there such things? Lu Beiping scoffed. The impression of monks he’d gotten from his history textbooks was not a good one. He read one of the poems:
May Promenade
by Li Shutong
The silks of the revelers flutter and dance
Caressed by a gossamer breeze,
While gusts of springtime blossoms whirl
’Round these painted gaieties:
Pearblossom, rapeblossom gold as the sun,
Wild mustard and green willowflower,
Then the oriole cries, and the revelers depart
As the bell tolls the day’s last hour.
—What do you think? Autumn asked excitedly.
—Doesn’t do much for me, Lu Beiping replied, then immediately regretted it. He knew now that it was at times like these that Autumn was at his most vulnerable. Hastily he added: I mean, this is just the lyrics, I’d need to hear the tune to get the full effect. Here, let me read another!
September Scene
by Li Shutong
A lone sail skims the lake,
Twinkling against the blue;
The pavilion’s slender spire
Obscures the moon from view;
How many honeyed glances
Behind the willow branches
Have tendered promises that proved untrue?
The mountain gazes down,
Its dark brow coyly bent;
Pink clouds hurry by
In blushing dishevelment;
The night wind, softly humming,
Hints at autumn’s coming,
And flowers nod their blooms in assent.
—Hmm! Well . . . this one’s interesting! Lu Beiping said, hemming and hawing as he wracked his brain for something complimentary to say. That line about the honeyed glances is really nice. But . . . this doesn’t seem like a poem a monk would write!
Already the excitement had faded from Autumn’s face. He made no reply, then turned and continued hollering up into the steep-walled valley.
—Leeleelooloo-WAAAAAHHHH!
Crap, Lu Beiping thought. He decided to shut up, and lowering his head he fanned the pages in search of another poem. Then suddenly, with a cry of amazement, he stopped.
—Whoa! Who wrote this? This calligraphy is incredible!
Autumn turned to look at Lu Beiping, a shudder of cold pride passing through his eyes. Biting off the words one by one, he said:
—My dad wrote that.
—Your dad? Lu Beiping’s heart lurched when Autumn’s eyes met his. He knew now that he’d struck the source of Autumn’s melancholy, the place where all those tears had come from. Unable to hold Autumn’s gaze, he looked down and began to read the lines written in that vigorous hand:
Stanzas Written to the Tune of “A Golden Thread”
How do you fare, Wu fourth-sired?
If ever you regain the long-desired
Sun-warmed earth
That gave you birth,
Could you bear to think on all that has since transpired?
Long is your road, with none to ease your woe:
Your children still young, your house in poverty mired;
Dim is the memory of the last cup we shared
In a leafy plum bower long ago;
Sad victim of Fate! Prey to men of lesser worth—
To liars and traitors who at each turn conspired
To lay you low;
Now all you know
Are the moaning winds of the frigid north.
But take heart, and do not beat your breast;
How many who are to Earth’s edges pressed
Enjoy the company
Of their own family,
Your own flesh and blood by your side—truly, you are blessed!
Not so I, doomed forever to spill
Bitter tears for my lost love, and dwell as a guest
Beneath borrowed eaves, drifting, alone—
But O, I do not envy you the winter’s chill.
Think on staunch Baoxu, who at last did free
His captive homeland, when Time put to the test
The oath he swore to fulfill,
His wild hope, cherished still
While others despaired—by these stanzas, remember me.
The poem continued on the following page, but already a thick, choking gloom had fallen over Lu Beiping, and he stopped, unable to go on. He couldn’t bring himself to look up and confront Autumn’s tears again, so he just sat there, staring at the lines of brusquely written fountain-pen characters crowding the yellowed page. The handwriting was brisk and forceful, the pen nib biting into the paper hard enough to draw blood. For a long time Lu Beiping stared in silence at the poem, then at last he looked up, met Autumn’s eyes, and said slowly, holding out his right hand:
—Autumn . . . I’m sorry.
A look of confusion and panic passed briefly across Autumn’s face; then he took Lu Beiping’s hand with both of his and gripped it for a long time, gazing at him. There were no tears in his eyes now, but his jaw was clenched tight and Lu Beiping could see the muscles working beneath his skin and as he ground his teeth.
—Autumn, Lu Beiping said, hesitant: Who wrote this poem? Was it your dad?
Autumn said nothing.
—Autumn, won’t you tell me something about yourself?
Autumn let go of his hand.
The pool exhaled another long stream of bubbles. The cloud-streaked mountains loomed imposingly on all sides, but the leisurely munching of the cattle created an atmosphere of ease and quiet. Autumn gave another few listless cattle calls, then turned back to Lu Beiping and said with a wan smile:
—There’ll be plenty of time later for telling stories, Bei. You know, every one of us driftfolk has so many stories to tell that we could sit by the fireside and jaw for a week straight and barely scratch the surface. If you don’t believe me, ask Jade, Kingfisher, or Stump. Come on, it’s getting late, if any of your cattle haven’t found their way out yet, then we might really have to go in and hunt for them. Count them, let’s see!
Thrown for a loop by the abrupt change in Autumn’s manner, Lu Beiping leapt to his feet and crie
d out:
—Autumn, you can’t just leave me hanging! Did your dad really write that poem? It’s so powerful, I want to write it down myself!
Autumn dusted the pine needles off of his thighs, took the notebook from Lu Beiping, and tucked it carefully under his waistcloth. Lu Beiping guessed that he’d sewn a hidden pocket in there specifically to hold that little book.
—No, he didn’t write it. Such art was beyond my father. He copied it down for me the night I left, the night I ran off to join the driftfolk. He told me a famous Qing magistrate wrote that poem for a friend of his who’d been exiled to a distant frontier. He said that that poem saved his friend’s life.
—Huh? So is your father—
—Was, not is. Count your cattle, let’s go.
Without another word Autumn strode out of the grove where the tablet lay, went around the pond, and started up the trail leading into the high valley. Lu Beiping stood there for a moment, dazed, unable to keep pace with the erratic turns of Autumn’s mood. What a strange character—you never knew whether he was going to laugh or cry. Feeling nonplussed, he ran after Autumn, pausing for a moment to belt another cattle call up into the mountains.
—Leeleelooloo-WAAAAAAHHHHHH!
The reassembled herd now lazed on the gentle slope above the pool, having sated themselves on the tall grass. Lu Beiping walked among the cattle, counting heads, then suddenly he heard Autumn shout from farther up the trail—
—Bei! Can you tell which cow that is, calling high up in the valley?
Lu Beiping cocked his head and listened.
. . . auuugh—ngauuugh! Ngauh! Ngg—AUUUGH! Tock-tock, tock-tock!
Sure enough, he heard a series of faint lows, growing shorter and sharper, as if in mounting alarm, interspersed with the knocks of a wooden clapper. Lu Beiping cried out in dismay. It was Alyosha! He’d heard him calling first thing that morning, but there’d been no sign of him when the herd regrouped—and he was, after all, their leader. Lu Beiping rushed after Autumn, his heart thudding. He’d carved that wooden cowbell for Alyosha first, before Maria’s, because he so often led the herd. God, what had happened to him? Was he tangled in some thick net of vines, or trapped in a steep ravine, unable to climb out?
—Wait! Autumn shouted. Did Jade give you a brimstone rag? He walked over to Lu Beiping and tugged gently at the T-shirt that Lu Beiping had tied around his waist, saying: You ought to put your shirt on so your tender skin doesn’t get all cut up like mine. And make sure your rag belt’s on the outside, so the smell can get out.
Lifting one apron of his waistcloth, he added solemnly:
—It’s dangerous up there, she’s not to be taken lightly. Whenever I’m not wearing this cloth I let it soak in a jug full of brimstone water. Trust me, it works.
Once more a chill gathered in Lu Beiping’s chest. Alyosha’s cries had ceased, but as they hiked up into the high valley the day seemed to grow dim. It was still early afternoon by Lu Beiping’s reckoning, but the jungle canopy above them was growing denser, shutting out the light. And so Lu Beiping, following Autumn along a path visible only to him, ventured at last into the dark wilds at the heart of Mudkettle Mountain.
God, this truly was a primeval wilderness. A forest? More like a sylvan fortress, a maze of vertiginous ramparts formed by thick nets of creepers hanging all the way from the treetops to the ground. The path, if it could be called a path, involved burrowing through nests of thorny vines, clambering over the massive knuckles of aerial roots, teetering over dark chasms on bridges of fallen trees, slip-sliding down sheer slopes while clinging to elephantine shafts of bamboo that grew out at sharp angles from the hillsides. Relying on the keen sense of direction that Autumn had cultivated over the course of many tree-scouting expeditions, they navigated a circuitous route into the inky depths of the jungle. From afar, the bowl of Mudkettle Mountain just looked like a big, dark semicircle, but once inside, Lu Beiping saw that it was a world unto itself, a maze of crisscrossing ravines, winding ridges, and mountain streams leaping down precipitous slopes. It was just like Autumn said, when they stood at the mouth of the valley their cattle calls had resounded throughout the bowl, but now, deep inside the labyrinth, even their loudest cries were muffled as if by a thick blanket. Hollering at the top their lungs, they would be answered by no more than a fitful scattering of echoes, then once again the valley would be awash with sound, the aggregate roar of wind, running water, and the calls of animals and insects inundating their ears. By now it was already dark as night, and the chinks of sunlight high up in the canopy were like stars studding a black firmament.
Lu Beiping’s heart was in his throat. Without Autumn’s help he wouldn’t have had a prayer of finding his way in this place. This was bona fide wilderness, a true virgin rainforest; by comparison the tracts of jungle down by Mudclaw Creek through which he was accustomed to roam must be nothing more than secondary, tertiary, even quaternary-growth forest! Autumn relieved him of his machete, now merely an encumbrance; he needed both hands free to meet the many demands for climbing, crawling, groping, and burrowing that the jungle imposed on him. In the company of the other re-eds Lu Beiping fancied himself a mountain man, but now, forced to navigate a real mountain wilderness, he was once more a clueless, very out-of-place city kid, utterly dependent on Autumn’s help.
—Hey, Autumn, can we rest for a bit? Lu Beiping panted, half-leaning on, half-hanging from a large woody vine that dangled between two sky-eclipsing trees, daunted by the prospect of pressing farther into this interminable darkness. Autumn, who seemed keyed up into a state of nervous excitement, stopped, tilted his head to one side, and murmured absently:
—Strange. I could’ve sworn from the sound of it this morning that your bull was calling from right at this spot.
—Autumn, do you come in here every morning when you scout timber? Lu Beiping asked, mopping his brow.
—Where else? Autumn replied with a rare smile of pride. I know every nook and cranny of this valley.
—It’s so dark in here. Don’t you get scared?
In the thick tangle of vines behind Autumn’s back Lu Beiping thought he saw a slithering movement, and reflexively fingered his sulfur-soaked belt.
—Sure, I’m scared. When I’m afraid of her, I sing.
—You sing? Lu Beiping asked with sudden interest. I didn’t know you sang, Autumn. What songs do you sing?
—The ones by Li Shutong which you just read. My dad taught me them when I was little.
The expression on Autumn’s sweat-streaked face was now easy and cheerful. There was no vestige left of his earlier gloom.
—Your dad taught you to sing songs written by a monk? Lu Beiping asked, his curiosity whetted by this interesting discovery. Can you sing one for me now?
No sooner had the question escaped his lips than Autumn’s quiet, reedy voice began piping in the shadows: The silks—of the re-ve-lers flut-ter and dance, ca-ressed—by a goss-amer breeze . . .
—Nice! You’ve got a good ear, you know that? I like it, it’s in three-four time . . . oom-pa-pa, oom-pa-pa . . . The percussionist’s son, true to form, started clapping out the rhythm beneath Autumn’s melody. You know, Lu Beiping added, my dad told me that these days, no orchestra can play anything in three-four. It’s illegal.
—What’s three-four? Autumn asked, his pupils glittering in the darkness. Bei, what does your father do?
—You haven’t heard of three-four time? You know, a waltz, like when men and women used to dance together? Lu Beiping struck the pose of a ballroom dancer, then laughed and explained: My dad used to play percussion in a Western-style orchestra. With violins and trumpets and all that stuff. He’s the one who stands in the back, snoozing and waiting for the moment when he’s supposed to hit the bass drum or clack the little wooden fish heads. It’s kind of a menial job.
—How could you say that about your own father? Autumn exclaimed, laughin
g despite himself, and Lu Beiping laughed too. It seemed that in that moment, both the faintly patronizing air that Lu Beiping couldn’t help adopting whenever he talked with Autumn, and Autumn’s own slightly guarded manner, evaporated, and they were on an even footing at last. Coming into a wild place like this, Lu Beiping noticed, had the effect of drawing people closer together.
In the midst of their laughter, Autumn’s face stiffened in the shadows, and drawing close to Lu Beiping he put a finger to his lips, shushing him. A moment later Lu Beiping heard a strange sound far off in the jungle. He grabbed Autumn’s hand instinctively.
It was a deep, distant, muffled rumble, like a roll of thunder in a neighboring valley, an upswell of sound so vast it seemed almost silent, and at the same time to emanate from the earth itself. Immediately Lu Beiping remembered the roar that had preceded the typhoon, that weird, borborygmic perturbation that had seemed to rise up out of the forest floor and envelop the entire valley. Listen! Autumn hissed in his ear. Then, with a fearful shudder, Lu Beiping heard it: the Child Crying from Beyond the Grave, the hoarse wail of a ghostly infant—as sudden as the flash of foam on the water when a cormorant stoops for its prey, and just as fleeting. Then, just when Lu Beiping began to doubt his ears, a different cry, clear and unmistakable, pierced the silence. God, no! That was Alyosha! This wasn’t his usual gallant trumpeting; it was a weak, strangled moan, as if a heavy object were crushing his throat, accompanied by the fitful knocking of the clapper. The moans continued for a brief while, then faded from hearing.
A hush fell over the forest. Then, after a long interval, a bloodcurdling, high-pitched bovine wail knifed through the air, setting the earth ashiver and reverberating in the treetops:
Ngauuuugh—AAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGHGHHHHHH!
The echoes leapt upward through the canopy and were gone. So was the rumbling sound, the voice of the Crying Child, leaving behind a silence that seemed older than the earth itself, larger than all of Mudkettle Mountain, a terrible thing to hear.
Lu Beiping was now covered in sweat. He slumped limply on Autumn’s shoulder. Supporting him with one hand, Autumn gripped the front apron of his waistcloth in the other and brandished it before him like a shield or flag, his eyes darting in every direction. Yes, Lu Beiping thought, his mind in tumult—it had to be it, it had to be her . . . Looking down, he noticed the bulge of Autumn’s genitals visible through the man’s damp running shorts. Strange, he thought: Out here in the jungle, Autumn showed a bold, masculine side that contrasted sharply with the passive, shrinking manner he adopted around Kingfisher and Jade.
The Invisible Valley Page 22