The Invisible Valley

by Wei, Su; Woerner, Austin;

  The jungle fell back into its usual cacophonous silence, the all-encompassing din of wind, water, and insects. Coming back to his senses, Lu Beiping released Autumn’s hand and said in an urgent whisper:

  —Autumn, let’s go. Alyosha’s done for. He must have been killed by . . .

  Autumn clamped his hand over Lu Beiping’s mouth, stifling the word Snakeweird before it could escape his lips, and commanded him with a withering look to remain silent. It was clear to Lu Beiping that now, of all times, in this place, of all places, he must be mindful not to violate any . . . laws.

  —Wait here, Autumn said quietly, crouching down. I’m going to go take a look.

  —No! Lu Beiping said, frightened. I’m coming with you.

  Stooping, he followed Autumn through a labyrinth of red-leafed kudzu vines, his eyes locked on the white-checkered waistcloth flexing intermittently among the leaves ahead of him. With cautious steps they mounted the nearest ridge, then picked their way down into an even darker, more densely forested valley.

  Even here a few bars of sunlight pierced the gloom, filtering down through the branches of half a dozen huge trees with trunks as wide across as a man’s arm span. They stood like a congress of thunderheads, each tree a forest, a fiefdom, a nation unto itself. All over their trunks, in the teeming shade, writhed the big, woody tentacles of epiphytic plants—either vines or roots, it was hard to tell—encasing their wide torsos like nets. As Lu Beiping followed Autumn down the slope, slip-sliding through thick mats of decomposing leaves, the trees loomed over him like titanic idols crowned with clouds, their stern, dark gazes weighing upon him.

  Nothing stirred here; the valley was utterly silent. Beneath the trees Lu Beiping noticed a small pool or mire, its surface almost completely covered by decaying leaves, and here and there water glinted through the black leaf-carpet, the light tinged with a rainbow sheen as if over many years the pool had accumulated a thick film of oil. No plants grew in this fallow ground, and the fallen branches that jutted through the leaves were coated with a glistening layer of rot. There was no sign that any living soul had ever passed through here, no footprints, no pawmarks, no slither trails to mark the passage of man or beast. There was only the pungent odor of decaying leaves, a sour, stifling scent that clotted his nostrils, heightening the sense that this was all a strange dream. Now that they’d crossed the ridge, it was clear that the rumbling sound, the shriek of the “infant,” and the cry of the dying bull had all emanated from this noisome, otherworldly place. Autumn and Lu Beiping traded a look of surprise. Once again Lu Beiping remembered the “baleglen,” the weird phantom valley that he’d stumbled into and then never been able to find again.

  —That . . . pool, Lu Beiping asked in a low voice: Does anything . . . live down there, you think?

  Autumn shook his head.

  —No, he whispered, and gestured up at the mountains that ringed the valley: It’s just a little pond. There’s a stone marker near here, I recall, which some surveyors planted during the years of the Republic. This marks the spot where three county lines cross, right here at the heart of Mudkettle Mountain.

  He glanced hurriedly around the shadow-thronged forest, then muttered:

  —Queer. Did we catch the ague? Kingfisher said the year Smudge’s dad got smudged, there was an awful run of fever in these parts. They say the vapors are strong back in these valleys, you’ll have the fits before you know it, and start hearing things . . .

  —What’s that? Lu Beiping said suddenly, pointing at a spot beneath one of the trees where an odd color stood out against the black-brown leaves. It was too dark in the shade to see the object clearly; they walked quickly toward it, then Lu Beiping stopped, a raw mixture of dread, grief, and awe rising in his throat. He bit his lip, choking back a cry of astonishment, and tears began rolling down his cheeks.

  At the foot of the tree, half-covered by rotting leaves, lay a wooden clapper—the cowbell he’d carved for Alyosha. And next to the cowbell, beneath the leaves, he saw a small, dark pool of fresh blood.

  Once more a great silence descended upon them, engulfing the entire forest. Autumn stood there for a moment, staring at the bloody cowbell, then he sank to his knees, and brought his forehead again and again to the ground.

  Chapter 9

  Amaranthine Rosewood

  It was evening by the time they made it back to the hollow. When they reached the pool they found the cattle still lazing among the trees, waiting for their master, joined recently by a few stragglers who’d picked their way down out of other mountain valleys. Lu Beiping counted heads and found none missing except for Alyosha and the inveterate wanderer Judas, who was known to saunter innocently back to camp after days spent peregrinating alone through the hills. The cattle seemed to understand intuitively what had happened, for when Lu Beiping approached, bearing Alyosha’s cowbell, they rose immediately at the familiar knocking sound and crowded round him in their eagerness to sniff the bell, shouldering one another out of the way as each brought its nose to the wood in turn in a gesture eerily similar to a kiss. The sight so moved Lu Beiping that he told Autumn he wanted to sit for a while and keep the grieving cattle company, and handing him the cowbell he instructed him to go on ahead. But as soon as Autumn set off down the trail the cattle rose in sudden agitation and, spurning their master, followed Autumn and the tock-tock-tocking clapper all the way down to the hollow.

  Kingfisher, Stump, and the three children sat by the log-soaking pool behind the cabins, waiting for them. Clearly they too had heard the bull’s dying wail and guessed what misfortune had befallen Alyosha in the high valley. When Autumn and Lu Beiping descended the stone steps at the back of the hollow, Jade strode out from behind the hearth stove and hurried over to meet them, clapping her hands briskly.

  —Good, glad to see nothing happened to these two. As long as the humans are safe, we ought to count ourselves lucky. Four Eyes, won’t you stay and drink another cup with Kingfisher tonight? Wait till you smell supper, I stewed up some wild monkeyheads with sour cabbage, it’s to die for—

  This blithe chatter, clearly intended to dispel the sober atmosphere, had the opposite effect when Jade uttered this last unfortunate phrase. Glancing nervously at Kingfisher, she prattled on:

  —Kingfish and Stump were just scolding me, saying I shouldn’t’ve let a city boy like you go up into the valley by yourself. If anything had happened to you, we’d—

  Kingfisher glared at her, and the “den mother” fell silent. Quickly Lu Beiping herded the animals to the slope on the far side of the pool, where he found Maria and her calf, whom he’d tethered to one of the corner posts of his hut that morning, resting on a pile of fresh-cut hay next to a wooden basin filled with water. Jade must have gone down earlier that afternoon and fetched them. The hay was a salad of different-lengthed pieces of grass, like pig feed, and Lu Beiping guessed that this was the work of Smudge and the little ones. Maria had eaten her fill and now lay sprawled in the pile of hay, a jumble of teats and legs, while her calf drank milk placidly. As Lu Beiping approached, Maria hailed him, trumpeting a long, warm note of greeting.

  Once he’d gotten the animals settled he returned to the pool behind the lodge, washed his face, and collected himself. When he stood up he glanced over at the cabin and froze. Behind the hearth stove and the supper table, in the dim interior of the lodge, the entire family knelt in prayer. In the shuddering lamplight Lu Beiping made out Alyosha’s cowbell placed fastidiously on the altar next to Smudge’s dad’s name tablet and the white porcelain Kwan-Yin. Kingfisher, clasping three incense sticks, muttered and led the assembled clan in a series of prostrations. Watching this, Lu Beiping had the distinct feeling that he’d been excluded. Whether this was intentional or not he couldn’t say—but today even he, no great believer in spirits, would’ve happily knelt and said a prayer for Alyosha. (Before long, Lu Beiping would learn that this sense of foreboding he felt had been quite on
the mark.)

  The mood at dinner was still somber, and he continued to feel like an outsider. Wordlessly Jade arranged the dishes that she’d sweated over all day, and wordlessly the others took their seats at the table. The bowl of beer, which had been placed on the altar as an offering, disappeared into the kitchen after Kingfisher spilled two ladlefuls for Horn. Jade filled their bowls with yam porridge, and the whole gang slurped diligently at the tasteless gruel. Nobody was dying for Jade’s stewed mushrooms tonight, and the redolent dish, which normally would have required protection by Jade’s nimble chopsticks, drew little attention except from the goggle-eyed youngsters. The atmosphere was sepulchral. Never before, dining “off the registers,” had Lu Beiping seen the driftfolk so unenthusiastic about food. He ventured a glance at Autumn, but as soon as the man set foot in the lodge he’d reverted to his usual rag-doll passivity, and didn’t acknowledge him. Weirdly, even Jade, who’d greeted them so gregariously when they entered the hollow, now looked despondent; once in a while she deposited a pinch of mushrooms in Lu Beiping’s bowl and threw him a mournful look. Smudge, sitting next to Lu Beiping, affected an expression of grown-up seriousness, but kept kicking him from time to time beneath the table with one of his small bare feet. Lu Beiping stole a glance at him, but the boy’s face remained impassive. Only when Kingfisher ducked outside to blow his nose did Smudge bring his lips to Lu Beiping’s ear and alert him in an urgent whisper:

  —Foreman and Kambugger came looking for you this afternoon!

  Instantly Lu Beiping grasped the gravity of the situation. If Alyosha’s suspicious death—or any other of many possible reasons—had brought a doler “magistrate” up into the hollow, Kingfisher and the others would be counting their prayer beads and contemplating a suitable retribution.

  Sure enough, the moment Kingfisher stepped back through the door he cleared his throat and said:

  —Four Eyes, have you eaten your fill? I fear you must be hungry after a long day upmountain.

  His tone was gentle, but Lu Beiping detected a smoldering edge to his voice. Everybody drank porridge for a few silent seconds, then Kingfisher lit his water pipe, took a couple of drags, and began speaking in earnest.

  —Been a long time since I checked an almanac, so I can’t say whether this is a fair day or ill. Yesterday a storm more fearsome than any I’ve ever seen blows through here, Jade frets about you all day, turns out you’re well, and on top of that your cow bears a babe overnight. Where there’s new life, there’s light, light that can push back the vile shadows of this world.

  Kingfisher spoke slowly, puffing smoke between sentences. The whole family listened with held breath as their chieftain worked through his spiritual calculus. Stump chose now, of all times, to lurch up off the bed and steer his massive frame, hunched over like a shrimp, around the others and in the direction of the door. Kingfisher glowered at him. Stump stammered:

  —I . . . I need to take a shit.

  Jade snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. Smudge was not so successful and broke into giggles. Tick, sensing an opening, piped up in a tittering voice:

  —I need to take a shit too!

  Kingfisher blanched, grabbed a porridge bowl, and hurled it squarely at Smudge.

  —A blight on you, you miserable little cur! You hungry for a whipping? How many ounces do you think you count for around here? You—

  Kingfisher raised the big bamboo pipe and was about to strike Smudge when Jade rushed over and planted herself between them, shielding her son. Kingfisher shoved her out of the way, raised the pipe again, and this time a black stream of tobacco juice arced out of the barrel, splattering all over the table and turning their dinner into a tarry mess. Momentarily dazed, Kingfisher lowered his pipe. Then, seeing Smudge’s obstinate face still staring up at him without a hint of shame or deference, half-formed syllables of protest working their way around the boy’s gritted teeth, Kingfisher’s anger flared again and he lifted the pipe once more. This time, though, it was Lu Beiping who stopped him, his hand shooting out to grab the pipe.

  —Kingfisher! If you’re angry, take it out on me, okay? Lu Beiping said, fixing him with a level gaze. I know you have something to say to me. Just say it, then you can punish Smudge if you still want to.

  The tension in the room subsided. Stump, who had had the poor fortune to set off this bout of mayhem, slunk back to the table and sat, red-faced and squirming, as if his bottom had sprouted needles. Autumn, sitting next to him, gave Lu Beiping a wink. Jade, leaning over the table to clean up the contents of the overturned porridge bowl, gazed into the pot of squid-ink soup to which her stewed mushrooms had been reduced, and muttered:

  —God, Kingfisher, what a mess. If you like shit soup, I’ll remember that for next time.

  Then she slapped her lips and said no more. Lu Beiping smiled to himself, thinking: That woman simply cannot keep her mouth shut.

  —You’re right, Four Eyes, Kingfisher said, wiping the look of embarrassment off of his face and reining the conversation back to the subject at hand: You’re a strong man, I see you’ve got grit. So I’m going to tell this to you straight. Things have been real odd on Mudkettle Mountain lately. First, that young man comes slinking up here burning paper money. Then the storm comes, then the flood. Today the gods that live up on the mountain got angry, no mistaking it, and she showed herself, and a cow got smudged. Or could it be that I’m in the wrong—that I riled her, cursing you with her name in broad daylight before you headed up into the high valley?

  Kingfisher spoke quietly now, and a note of melancholy entered his voice as he went on:

  —We who live on this mountain, starting back with Smudge’s pa, Horn, we’ve always known that when we fell timber, we’ve got to take care not to cut the land’s veins. The Tam-chow hill men, Lam-ko tribesfolk, and Loi and Hmong hunters we’ve met in these parts have warned us, time and time again, that half the ley lines on this island cross right here under Mudkettle Mountain, and that no matter what we do, we can’t afford to rile the wyrm-demon that lives up in that bowl. They say she comes and goes through that pool, the Sea’s Eye, that funnels straight out to sea. That’s how she comes up from her godly dwelling place. The year he fell into shadow, Smudge’s pa saw her skin up in the valley and didn’t know to pray, so when he went up onto the mountain on Midsummer he got squashed beneath a falling tree. Midsummer—he didn’t know Midsummer’s her sacred day! Never, never wake the snake air on Midsummer!

  Kingfisher put his nose to the water pipe, discovered it was already empty, and handed it to Jade. He continued:

  —These past couple years we’ve had no trouble from her. Yesterday, when that fierce wind blew through, it didn’t do a speck of harm to us, here in the hollow. You can bet it was her blessing that kept us safe. Why, then, did she get angry today, why’d she show herself to us and gobble up your bull like a sweetpaste morsel? In my forty-five years I’ve heard plenty of tales of dogs, pigs, and chickens getting swallowed by snakes, but I’ve never, not once, heard tell of a snake big enough to swallow a bull. If this isn’t the work of a wyrm, a dragon, a thousand-year-old snake-spirit—then what is it? Horned demons and hidden serpents—what the ancients meant by that, I know all too well!

  Kingfisher’s speech had cast a chill over the room. Borrowing the light from Stump’s pipe he lit three incense sticks, walked over to the altar, and looking upward traced some sort of symbol in the air, then he bowed, muttered something beneath his breath, and planted the burning sticks in the small censer before Alyosha’s clapper. Everybody in the room watched Kingfisher’s motions in reverent silence, as if he were a priest performing last rites at a gravesite.

  This guy, Lu Beiping thought, really is like some kind of evil priest. He’s the grand shaman of Mudkettle Mountain.

  Outside, from the direction of the other lodge, came the sound of a door banging in the wind. Kingfisher sighed and returned to the table.

 
; —I’ve always said, we driftfolk, our lives are twigs in Heaven’s palm. We can’t afford to get on the bad side of evil people, but more than anything we can’t afford to get on the spirits’ bad side. I don’t know what we did to warrant their anger, such that she bestirred herself up there in the mountain’s belly. Four Eyes—now Kingfisher fixed Lu Beiping with a dark, searching gaze—here’s what I think. All this queer stuff started happening right about the time you first came up to the hollow. If you, if you . . . if you’re the villain who’s going to bring down ruin on our poor heads . . . then, please! Tell us!

  As Kingfisher’s speech mounted toward its climax Lu Beiping had risen, ready to make his testimony, expecting Kingfisher to call him to account. But to Lu Beiping’s surprise this jeremiad culminated in a humble plea, then ended abruptly. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything Kingfisher rubbed his hands together briskly and said:

  —That’s enough for tonight. Stump, go take your shit.

  Then he turned, grabbed his water pipe, and without one look at Lu Beiping he strode out the door.

  Lu Beiping was flabbergasted. Jade leaned over to say something to him, but he pushed her away roughly. Outside the moon shone bright, bathing the hills in the same cool, limpid light that he remembered from his first night in the hollow. Why hadn’t Kingfisher once mentioned the foreman’s visit? As he puzzled over this, Autumn went to the door, glanced back at Lu Beiping, and beckoned him to follow.

  Three bamboo cots stood in a row, set off by thatch-and-bamboo screens. Autumn’s was nestled in the far corner and looked slightly more fastidiously cared for than the others, the only additions being a hand-sewn pillow and an old, ratty blanket that covered half the bed. Kingfisher’s and Stump’s cots were bare except for a jumble of waistcloths and shirts that probably served as bedclothes when the nights got cold, and for pillows each had a single thick log of bamboo, their surfaces worn to a smooth sheen like the water pipe that leaned against Jade’s bed.