The odor of lime and the scent of dry grass mingled in the night air. Watch as Man builds his towers, watch as his towers crumble . . . It was a line from some old play—which one, Lu Beiping couldn’t remember—lamenting the impermanence of all human endeavors. Now that his castle had been rebuilt, was it time to pass it on to a new owner?
Jade’s face floated before him in the darkness. It was just as he remembered it from their first meeting in the sunlit meadow: shiny, mica-like earrings dangling from her ears; thick, sun-reddened braids spilling into her lap. Perched on a log, a hand-rolled cigarette burning between her fingers, like a gypsy woman out of a Russian novel. Or no—maybe he’d only imagined her that way. Was it just his own imagination that made this woman seem so powerfully alluring? He pictured two leopards wrestling by the water, thought of the leopard-riding wispwoman, the water-witch; he remembered the eerie incantation that she uttered in the firelight on the night of the typhoon. It dawned on him that every time they’d . . . “done it,” it had been by the water. Water, water, always water. Was water their destiny? Was it a supernatural sign, a mystic premonition? How did it fit in with Kingfisher’s system of spirits, sins, and laws? They said that Lu Beiping had too much darkness in him, too much “shadow air.” So which of the five elements was he missing? Did he need water, or fire? Iron, or wood? Iron woodsbane, water flamesbane . . . which realm did “it” belong to, water or fire? God, enough now. This was getting too bizarre.
The water seemed to grow quieter, and the racket of insects swelled to fill the silence. A pair of birdcalls, clear and melodious, sounded far off in the forest, somewhere behind the grove of fragrant agarwood trees that grew near his campsite. A rising call here, answered by a falling call there: long short, long short, keeeeeeee—oooh, keeeeeeee—oooh . . . A mating call, perhaps? Kwan, kwan, call the ospreys from the river isle . . .
Making good, Jade called it. I made good with Four Eyes. What did that mean, exactly? Was “good” the same thing as love? Probably not. Ever since the fourth grade, when he and his soccer-playing pals had traded furtive whispers about the girl who sat next to him in class, he’d constructed a towering edifice of fantasies around that word, love. Now, he had “made good” with Jade—but did he love her? Did she love him? He couldn’t say. In any event, the thing between him and her was very different from what he’d imagined love would be like.
He rolled over again. All these torrid imaginings had given him an erection, and he was beginning to feel hot and uncomfortable. He thought: Maybe that’s all “making good” was—“doing it.” In Jade and Kingfisher’s world, “it” wasn’t shameful. It wasn’t a sin, it wasn’t taboo. Bearing and sowing, sharing sympathy with other living beings, none of that was sin, Kingfisher had said. Jade had even told him that when she and the men slept together, they didn’t hide it from the kids. For them, “making good” was good, pure and simple; it was a bright, natural thing, like the sunlight or the mountain air. For all its strangeness, the driftfolk way of thinking had a wholesome simplicity that made the tight-laced pieties of his own world, and the dark perversions that they concealed, seem all the more absurd. In the beginning he’d been convinced that the tangled web of relationships that bound him, Jade, and her men together was freakish, aberrant, morally wrong. But what was right, then? Who decided what was moral? Did the morals of the outside world have jurisdiction over Jade and Kingfisher’s tiny province of light and shadow, superstitions and taboos? Were the morals of the mountain required to bend knee to the morals of the valley? At this thought a spacious feeling opened up inside him, and he felt as if he were standing on a distant star, gazing down at the dust and tumult of the human world. In that square inch of dust, “it”—the “it” of lofty Love and lowly lust, all tangled together—was a hallowed mystery at the same time that it was a filthy taboo. But in Jade’s world it was a simple fact of daily life, like the water in the creek, running sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes clear, sometimes turbid, but always there, always flowing, unremarkable.
The sound of the creek hypnotized him. No wonder the sages of old liked to meditate by the water. As he sank halfway into dream, he watched his own silhouette step free of his body and walk, undulating amid the babbling of the water, toward the threshold of life and death, where it paused, hesitant, wavering at the border of that unseen land. The shadow husband. He’d married a ghost, a very real and very complicated woman, Han, had ventured into these otherworldly hills that were her home, and in the process he’d gained a real woman, Jade, who was just a shadow in the daylit world, an outcast, nameless, invisible. It was his destiny, it seemed, to walk a path that ran along the frontier between light and shadow. Whether it was a game of make-believe no longer mattered—he must still walk the path. For by playing this absurd role that Chance had assigned him, he could sample the flavors of life pushed to various extremes, could pursue in these strings of accidents and coincidences a hidden meaning that, though elusive, was not at all accidental. Though the weight of the sunlight, the heft of the damp air, and the fullness of surprise often knocked him off balance. Fate seemed bent upon harrying him toward some impossible outer limit, flipping him back and forth faster and faster between different roles, rushing him straight from inception to apex. Now, a typhoon had swept through the land like an all-erasing Biblical flood. Could it be that now, when it seemed like everything was about to begin, his story was actually nearing its end?
He woke up with a start.
The silhouette had turned and was walking back from that hazy threshold. Yes, it was him, it was his own shadow. But now it stopped, as if reluctant to return to his body, and stood there, gazing back at him.
His shadow chuckled. No, this wasn’t a dream at all.
He sprang out of bed. In the pale light of dawn he saw a figure standing in the doorway.
It was Autumn. As usual he was drenched with dew. Laughing, he said:
—Did I wake you? Were you having a bad dream?
—What . . . how . . . how long have you been here? Lu Beiping stammered, still heavy with sleep.
—It’s early yet. You should sleep more. I’ll leave.
—Why’d you come? Is something wrong?
—Nope. I’m just an early bird. I have to get up before sunrise to scout the day’s timber, clear the ground, cut a trail to haul out the wood. I figured I’d stop by and take a gander at your new abode.
Autumn’s voice sounded clear and refreshing, like the dew. Now fully awake, Lu Beiping noticed a pool of water in the dirt outside the door and figured that Autumn must have been standing there for a while. Autumn propped his machete against the doorframe. He wore no shirt, as was his habit, and his red-and-white checkered Teochew waistcloth was sopping wet.
—Sit down, Lu Beiping said, yawning and stretching. You’re soaked!
—Sleep, sleep but a minute more, for it is such bitterness to wake . . . Autumn intoned as he sat down on the log stool next to the bed. I’m sorry, I spoiled your sweet dreams.
—My sweet dreams? Lu Beiping said, leaning back against the windowsill: More like sour dreams. Kind of fishy, he added with a shrug and a laugh, remembering “it.”
Autumn winked.
—Fishy dreams? Fishy how?
—Hard to explain. Dreams can’t be put into words, right? If they could, they wouldn’t be dreams. Lu Beiping glanced at Autumn, then changed the subject: Autumn, he said, you’re a man of many faces, you know that?
—Many faces? How, pray tell? Faces are a lot easier to describe than dreams.
—Well, when it’s just you and me, it’s all “pray tell” and “sweet dreams,” Li Shutong and amarawhatsis rosewood. You’ve got a lot to say, lots of secrets. But when you’re around Kingfisher and Jade, you’re as silent as a stick of wood. An old, fallen log that’s being chewed up by insects, rotting from the inside.
—That’s a good description, Autumn said placidly.
> —But then, when you’re around Jade and Smudge, you come to life again. You start sprouting timid little green fronds, quaking and quivering in the light of the—
Autumn jumped up from the stool and gave Lu Beiping a shove.
—Hell with you and your little green fronds! he said, wrestling Lu Beiping back onto the bed and pinning him there. I’ll show you quaking and quivering!
—Hey, quit it! Lu Beiping gasped. I wasn’t serious! I was just giving you a hard time.
Down in the corral the cattle stirred and moaned, dismayed at the muffled sounds of struggle emanating from the hut.
—Hmph, Autumn snorted as he released Lu Beiping: When Jade’s around, you’re the one quivering—
—Let’s talk about something else, Lu Beiping interrupted. What was that poem you recited when you came in? Was it Li Shutong?
Autumn didn’t answer. Stooping, he surveyed the hut, grabbed the flashlight that lay in one corner and cast its beam over the new stove, the brown satchel that lay nearby spilling its cargo of contraband novels onto the floor. He picked one up, fanned the pages, and chuckled.
—I believe this is the first time I’ve ever crossed your threshold, Bei. If I’d known earlier, I’d have borrowed a few books.
Laying down the book, he asked:
—What do you like to read, besides Alexei and Dmitri and all that? Do you like the ancients? The poets?
—Well, Lu Beiping replied, I’m not such a fan of sonnets. Seven-seven-seven, five-five-five, all those chockablock syllables like cubes of beancurd—he watched a misty sunbeam inch its way around the half-closed door, filling the hut with the light tang of morning jungle air, and feeling a faint thrill at the antiquated oddness of this scene, of enthusing about esoteric literary pursuits on a clear morning in the wilderness, he went on excitedly: But lyrics, I love those! Long, galloping lines—da, da-da, da-da, da-dum! Da-da-da dum! Those have got verve, vitality!
Lu Beiping stopped short, listening to the sound of his own dramatic cadences echoing in the rafters.
—So whose lyrics do you like? Autumn asked, his eyes glittering.
—Xin Qiji, Lu Beiping replied immediately. At least yon hills are pleasing to mine eye, and I fancy they think the same of me . . . O, that those men of old still walked the earth, if only that they might envy my bacchanal! Isn’t that great?
For a moment Autumn stared at Lu Beiping with his mouth half-open, as if this sudden outburst of poetic enthusiasm had tapped a spring of deep feeling inside him. Then he heaved a sigh and plunked down on the log stool.
—Bei, he said, you really are much younger than me. My Xin Qiji-ing days are long over, I fear.
Lu Beiping smiled at this eccentric yet eloquent turn of phrase.
—So, who do you like? Lu Beiping asked with a quick look at his friend, sensing that something in this exchange had touched one of Autumn’s sensitive spots.
—Nara Singde. That’s who I was reciting when I walked in.
—Nara Singde, Lu Beiping repeated. Sounds like a European name to me.
It was now obvious to Lu Beiping that he’d stumbled across another sprig of amaranthine rosewood. Autumn’s world was filled with things that to him must always seem distant and strange. With a wan smile, Autumn said:
—My dad taught me his poetry when I was little. He’s also sometimes called Nara Jungjo, he was a famous Manchu lyricist. He wrote a book called Drinkwater Airs—lovely name, isn’t it? It was my dad’s favorite.
Autumn paused, his palms spread open, as if once again self-consciously adjusting his mode of speech. Then he began chanting in a soft voice:
Drunk, I lie among the army tents
Watching the starry heavens shake;
The howling of wolves assaults my sense
And the rushing river prevents
Me, even in dreams, from darkening the door
Of the home I did forsake—
Sleep, sleep but a minute more,
For it is such bitterness to wake.
—What do you think? Do you like it? Just like this scene right now, you waking in the wilderness, next to a river. Pity, though, that what’s been disturbing your dreams isn’t the howling of wolves but the mooing of the cattle.
Indeed, at that moment the cattle were lowing impatiently in the corral. Both of them laughed. Lu Beiping said:
—I love it, it’s a great poem. Can you recite another?
By winding valley and crooked track
We march through the mountains, northward bound;
The lights of our fires bejewel the black,
Glittering like stars all ’round;
With pent-up rage and savage spite
The wind declaims its sorrow all night,
Arresting my spirit’s homeward flight—
In my arbor, I knew not this awful sound.
—That’s from Nara’s “Song of Long Yearning,” Autumn said. You like it too?
—“Song of Long Yearning!” Wow! A sudden, inexplicable excitement came over Lu Beiping, and he sprang up from the bed and threw open the door, letting in a blaze of mist-clotted sunlight that wreathed him in a hazy glow. Giving Autumn a playful shove that nearly tipped him off of the log stool, Lu Beiping cried: Alright, Autumn, you win! I don’t know a fraction of the stuff you do. Li Shutong, Nara Singde . . . I think you must be one of those gentleman hermits, living alone here in the mountains since ancient times!
—A gentleman hermit? Autumn said with a dry chuckle. Not a bit. Just a beggar, scraping by the only way I can. So, he went on, the way my dad tells it, Nara Singde read that poem you saw in my diary the other day, by Gu Zhenguan, and he was so moved he wept, and swore he’d rescue his friend’s friend who’d been sentenced to exile on a far-off frontier.
—What? Whose friend? I’m confused.
—Said he’d rescue Gu Zhenguan’s friend, Wu Zhaoji, who’d had a pass of bad luck and been punished unjustly. Autumn paused for a moment, lost in thought. Right, he said, I remember now. My dad said Nara’s father, a lord named Mingzhu, was the Grand Tutor, a very influential man at court. Nara begged his father to help, and his father got the Emperor to step in on Nara’s behalf and save his friend’s friend from the trouble he was in.
—Wow! So this Nara Singde was a powerful man.
—He was the Grand Tutor’s eldest son, yes. What you’d nowadays call a cadre brat. Oh . . . Autumn sighed, and said in a voice tinged with melancholy: You wouldn’t hear that kind of story these days. A friend saving a friend on account of a poem he wrote. That sort of thing only happened in olden times.
—Autumn!
Lu Beiping slapped the bed and sat back down again, gazing in awe at this waistcloth-clad “beggar” whose brain was an encyclopedia of classical lore. The subtle air of erudition that Lu Beiping sometimes caught wafting off of Autumn not only surprised him, but moved him deeply.
—Oh . . . Lu Beiping sighed, and said without thinking: Too bad I’m not Nara Singde.
Autumn studied him for a long moment. Toward the end of it, his lips began to tremble slightly.
—Bei, it’s enough . . . just to hear you say that.
Then he stood up quickly, as if trying to hide something.
—I ought to go, he said, and leaned over to pick up his machete. Lu Beiping rushed around and tried to block his way as he made for the door.
—Autumn, don’t go! Let’s talk some more, eh? Lu Beiping said, trying his best to express coherently and casually the swarm of thoughts that had just rushed into his head. Things have been crazy lately, there’s been a lot of stuff bothering me. And now you’re the only person on this whole mountain who I can talk to.
There was a slight hitch in Autumn’s stride, but he kept on walking. Once he was outside he turned and looked back at Lu Beiping with a devious grin.
—That’s
not so. What about Jade? Oh—he added with careful nonchalance—I forgot to tell you, Jade’s sick. She hasn’t eaten for two or three days. Stump and Kingfisher gave her herbs, but it’s no help. You ought to come see her.
—What? Lu Beiping exclaimed. She’s sick? With what? Is it serious?
—See? Autumn said with a sour look. She’s got a hold on your heart yet. If she saw the look on your face just now, I’ll bet she’d get better right away. You ought to go.
—No way, Lu Beiping said, leaning on the doorframe. Not if Kingfisher’s there. I don’t want to see that man’s face.
—That’s where you’re in the wrong, Bei, Autumn said, his voice suddenly stern. You oughtn’t to bear a grudge against Kingfisher. He comes on fierce sometimes, but he’s gentle inside. His heartwater runs clear. He means best for all of us—for you too.
—For me? How?
—I don’t know. But I trust his judgment. He can tell you’re . . . in some kind of trouble.
—What do you mean? What . . . Lu Beiping began, then he stopped himself. Autumn didn’t answer. Instead, he brandished his machete at Lu Beiping and called out: Bei, ready your blade! I challenge you! Then he danced up into the bushes that grew on the hillside above the hut, assumed a fighter’s squat, and started whirling his machete back and forth from hand to hand in a show of martial legerdemain. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! With confident, dexterous motions, Autumn dodged, parried, slashed, and harried the imaginary opponents that flanked him on all sides, scything the leaves of the bushes into an emerald confetti that sparkled with dew as it fluttered to the ground.
Lu Beiping stared in astonishment. Autumn, thoroughly engrossed in his make-pretend showdown with the surrounding vegetation, swung his machete in faster and faster circles till it became a silver blur.
What a weird guy, Lu Beiping thought. He was every bit the gentleman hermit, an eccentric outcast with a story to tell.
The Invisible Valley Page 26