—Fie! Stump bellowed, then he rushed straight at Autumn and tried to grab the whip. But a well-placed punch from Autumn knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling into the dust.
—Why, you . . . you . . . Kingfisher stuttered, astonished at this show of fiery self-confidence from his normally listless companion.
—Kingfisher, Autumn commanded, You try to control everything and everybody with those laws of yours. But you’ve got to remember that they apply to you too!
Kingfisher grabbed his water pipe and was about to strike Autumn out of spite when Smudge, Tick, and Roach stampeded over and grabbed him by the legs, howling beseechingly at their uncle.
The giant snakeskin lay strewn across the yard, trampled to a muddy hash.
The crescent moon hung in the lychee tree’s bare branches, a spotlight illuminating the raucous farce below. Pipes, bowls, log stools, and the overturned table lay scattered across the ground like stage props, while high above them the dark forms of the mountains huddled shoulder to shoulder, watching intently—perhaps discerning in the poses of the actors a hidden truth that they alone could read, having watched this same pageant repeat itself act after act since time immemorial. A cold wind blew, carrying a foretaste of winter. Mudclaw Creek burbled on incessantly, seeming always on the verge of spitting out some shocking revelation.
But Kingfisher was exhausted. His body sagged, and he staggered a few paces toward the lodge, then he lost his footing and fell to his knees. Bowing his head toward the dark bowl of the mountain, he cried out, tears streaming down his face:
—Horn! Please! What’s right? Where’s the light? Help me! I don’t understand . . .
A bellyache bird was singing in the trees. Bellllll-ly ache! Bellllll-ly ache! it cried, complaining of abdominal discomfort in a clear Man Cheong accent. Farther down in the valley, a water rail answered: Ooo-ah . . .
ooo-ah . . . ooo-ah . . . a desolate, imploring cry that was enough to send shivers down the back of any human listener. A laughingthrush, which the locals called a “gigglebird,” gushed its melodious but rather moronic-sounding stream of questions: Really—really—really? You sure? You sure? You really sure? while a cumber wren down by the creek announced: Chewed it! Chewed it!, reporting matter-of-factly on its latest meal of watercumber flowers.
The first thing to return to Lu Beiping through the heavy delirium was not the pain, but his sense of hearing. Listening to the clamor of evening birdsong, he couldn’t tell if it was night or day, whether he was lying in bed or floating in the clouds. The bright, clear cries of the birds were like knives stabbing at his dulled nerves. Then he felt the searing pain in his body, and he groaned. Are you awake? he heard a soft voice calling through the fog. He opened his eyes, but the effort was too much, and before he could make out the speaker’s form his eyelids slipped closed again. Was it the pain, or the fatigue? Or pain and fatigue dueling inside him? The pain that blazed all over his body every time he tried to move goaded him toward wakefulness, but exhaustion was a bottomless pit into which his budding consciousness slowly sank, till it was completely subsumed.
Or rather, the topmost layer of his consciousness was awake; he felt the brush of a hand gently bathing his wounds. The lightest touch on his wounds was piercing agony, making him grimace, groan, hyperventilate, cry out; but deeper down, he was still asleep, deeply, sweetly asleep, unable to raise up even the faintest, most diaphanous tendril of motivation or desire. Sometimes pain pushed exhaustion into the background, and the sensations of his skin, ears, and tongue became acute: He was thirsty, cried out Water . . . Someone put something cool against his lips, and liquid comfort suffused his body. But more often fatigue toppled the pain, engulfed it, drowned it. He felt someone picking the thorns out of his wounds, every movement of the pin triggering a reflexive twitch, but the spasms of pain were like the rocking of a terrible cradle, each one compounding the pain of the last while simultaneously easing him down into the boundless, bottomless darkness of sleep.
Too tired. A scrap of red paper had unleashed on him such a teeming crowd of absurdities that his narrow window of experience was filled to the bursting point, strained to the breaking point. It was all just too much. Never mind that the weeks of “selfless contributions” and “manure nannying” had already squeezed his endurance dry, wrung out every last drop of the flamboyantly competitive spirit that he usually mustered to meet such challenges. This pain was a vacation: a breath in a loud, relentless march, a desperately needed white space on a canvas cluttered with colors. Would that everything had already come to pass, that nothing more would ever happen, that he could just call it quits, hang up his hat, and slip away.
How could he be so cruel . . . Lu Beiping heard a voice choked with pity speaking close beside him, so close that he could reach out and touch the person who spoke. He strained to open his eyes, say something, curse the pain or make a wisecrack. But the effort drained his last reserves of energy in the battle between pain and fatigue, and he gave up. His muscles went slack, and he drifted off to sleep.
He slept all day. Sometimes a bad dream or a stab of pain jerked him awake, but his wakefulness was no different from sleep, his eyes unseeing, his consciousness a blank. The birds sang, then the forest fell silent; night fell, then dawn came. Lu Beiping didn’t know how deeply he slept, or for how long. He didn’t know who’d stripped off his blood-crusted clothes, cleaned and bathed his wounds, picked the splinters out of his skin. He didn’t know who’d untied him from the wooden frame beneath the lychee tree and carried him down the creek and over the ridge to his hut. And of course he didn’t know, would never know, that his “vacation in pain” had created, for another person, a vacation in affection—a sudden and unlooked-for chance to leap across worlds that stood in the way, and gently, leisurely, unreservedly give succor to one long-fretted-for, give care to one long-admired, offer tears of sympathy and murmurs of concern. Such that in a dark corner of his heart he thanked Heaven for the act of violence that gave him this opportunity.
Unconsciousness can be a form of bliss; and ignorance is often the clearest, most self-conscious excuse.
Lu Beiping lay on his bed with only a waistcloth for covering, his sleeping, pain-wracked body twisted into one laughable pose after another. He didn’t know that the poultices spread on his wounds were made from fresh herbs picked in the mountains, chewed till they were soft and then crushed to a paste, spread, then washed off, then spread again. He didn’t know that his hut had been cleaned, his water jug refilled, didn’t know that his cattle had been let out to graze, their corral bedded with fresh straw. And he didn’t know how much his caregiver rejoiced in the fact that he didn’t know. Lightly, busily, joyously he tripped across the mountainside, dispensing his many duties, not even neglecting to haul Kambugger’s regular shipments of timber down Mudclaw Creek to the places they’d arranged. Every evening he sat by Lu Beiping’s bedside in the light of the lantern, listening to his friend’s breathing grow more and more tranquil, letting his own cares flow freely over that pitiful figure. Never before had his days passed so easily, with such natural order, such a reliable sense of satisfaction. All day he savored the not-knowing that made all this possible, indulged it, saved it, stretched it, diluted it, preserved it for lean days in the future. If only nobody ever knew—even him? Or except him? He didn’t know . . .
It was the racket of birdsong as the birds returned to their roosts in the evening that dragged Lu Beiping’s consciousness up out of the chasm of sleep. First he heard the birds calling, then he felt the pain. Birdcalls stabbed at his eardrums, and pain lanced through his limbs. Now he might have the strength to lift his lids; the blood had returned to his chest, vigor had reentered his muscles. But he didn’t want to open his eyes and emerge from the darkness.
A strange feeling, a sensation of warmth mixed with soreness, spread out slowly over his body. Bathing in this feeling, he thought half consciously: Is someone changing my b
andages? Who is it? Whose fingertips would be so light, so careful, each touch containing miles of unspoken meaning? Was it Jade? Even in half sleep he tensed at the thought of her. But he was happy to linger longer in this womb-like darkness, for the hands that tended him had slid away from his wounds and begun to massage him. The touch of the palms against his skin was a complex, many-layered sensation: gentle and caring, every brush of the fingertips conveying meticulous restraint; pitying and compassionate, the hollows of the palms radiating warmth; faintly mocking, a light caress suggesting the arch of an eyebrow; full of love, every stroke trembling as if with a slight charge of electricity. No, this wasn’t Jade. Jade’s fingers would be more dexterous than these, but less careful. Or had that bloody nightmare changed everything? Maybe. Only Jade would cherish him, protect him like this. The shallows of his mind were beginning to clear, though the depths were still murky. Secretly, conspiratorially, he arched his body to drink in that sensation, like naked soil absorbing sun and rainfall, letting the desires awoken by that remarkable touch lap freely over him, warm, rosy, and radiant.
As the warm feeling slid off of his cheeks and down along his neck, he began to laugh quietly inside. His caregiver’s caresses had changed from hands to lips, and he heard the barely audible sound of shallow, withheld breath. When the spot of warmth hesitated on the inside of his thigh, sending a rush of heat up into his groin, then alighted on his penis, immediately giving him an erection, he knew he couldn’t feign sleep any longer. He opened his eyes, casting around for some lewd joke to say to Jade. Then he saw the figure bent over him in bed and sat up, thunderstruck.
—Oh my god . . . Autumn?
Autumn’s hands flew away from him, and he stood frozen in place by the bedside, his face turned bright crimson, unable to look directly at Lu Beiping.
—Autumn . . . what are you doing?
For a moment Lu Beiping truly didn’t understand. But now the pain brought on by his sharp movement exploded all over his body, and grimacing he tried to lie back down on the pillow.
Autumn rushed over and reached out a hand to help him. But now the touch of his fingers was repellent as snakeskin, and Lu Beiping pushed him away with a cry of anger.
—Don’t touch me! Get away from me!
Autumn tottered back a few steps. Then he turned and, without a word, opened the door and slipped out.
Lu Beiping slumped stiffly against the bamboo wall.
The sunset glowed gold, still clamorous with birdsong. A few sunbeams slanted through the hut, full of glittering motes of sawdust drifting down from the rafters. The cattle complained quietly. On top of the water jug next to the bed sat Lu Beiping’s washbasin, inside it a liquidy paste of pulverized herbs. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was, then he saw sitting on the stove the enamel jar that he’d used to carry his beef up from camp, and the events of the past few weeks flooded back to him.
The door opened again, and Autumn leaned in and muttered without looking at him:
—Cattle’ve grazed already. Medicine’s in the basin, don’t forget to put it on again this evening.
Then he left.
Listening to Autumn’s hurried footsteps dwindle downhill toward the creek, Lu Beiping didn’t know what he’d just seen or done. Both the dreamlike warmth and the chill of his own rejection of Autumn clung stiffly to his skin. Then pain burst over him once more, knifing deep into his shoulders and back. He was cold, wanted to get up and walk around, but found that there wasn’t an ounce of strength left in his body. He was too weak to sit up straight, and lying back down was going to be a trial.
Easing himself down on the bed while groaning and cursing, he noticed Smudge’s big head poking through the door, a look of seasoned sympathy on the boy’s face as he gazed at Lu Beiping with his large black eyes.
—Smudge?
Smudge walked in, carrying a scrap-wood basket that contained a bowl of porridge, a bowl of greens, and a handful of fat, medicinal-looking leaves. Cocking his head and affecting a tone of matronly concern, he said:
—How’re your hurts? Have you got everything you need? Kingfisher bade me bring you this basket—I swear, it was Kingfisher told me to.
Lu Beiping twisted his head to one side, as if just hearing Kingfisher’s name uttered aloud was painful to him.
—How’s Jade? How’s your pa?
—Pa’s well, Smudge said cheerily. Uncle Autumn saved her from the worst of it. You got hurt bad, Pa just got a couple lashes. Do you wit what’s troubling Uncle Autumn, though? I saw him crying on his way back up the mountain, and he didn’t stop nor say hello.
Lu Beiping hung his head and said nothing. Smudge stared at him.
—I don’t know, Lu Beiping said. I just . . .
He shook his head and sighed.
—I really don’t know.
A vacation in pain—what a strange kind of vacation!
He had a fever now, and he could do nothing but lie in bed drifting in and out of sleep, frittering away the daylight hours. Jade came. Hugged him and sobbed uncontrollably, repeated how awful and you poor thing, wiped a lot of snot and tears on the edge of the bedframe. Lu Beiping wanted to reassure her, make light of the whole thing, but the sight of her belly always stopped him short. That rising bulge sent a chill through his heart, renewed all the recent trauma and made him reluctant to think too deeply about either the past or the future.
Kingfisher and Stump came too. The trio of little monkeys trooped with them down the mountain, and their loud antics relieved some of the awkwardness. Kingfisher brought poultices of freshly crushed herbs and ministered to Lu Beiping with the deftness of an old village healer. Stump took a small glass bottle out of his wicker hip-pouch, saying it contained a special tincture that he’d made himself using dried gecko skins and hillflower rice wine, and made Lu Beiping drink it to replenish his voids. Lu Beiping lay with his head bent away from them on the pillow, saying nothing, while Kingfisher filled the silence—not one word of apology, just a constant gruff patter as he read Lu Beiping’s wrists and tongue: A month for the bones, a fortnight for the flesh, a week for the skin. Don’t fret, son, soon as the bile comes out you’ll feel better. As he was about to leave, Kingfisher patted his shoulder, where the welt left by the whip’s first bite still throbbed, and said:
—You’re a good man, Four Eyes. You’ve got grit.
—You said that already, Kingfisher.
But what made him feel worst of all were not the uncomfortable topics that lay unbroached between him and the two men, but the constant, quiet sounds of activity he heard in the mornings and evenings outside the hut.
Every morning Autumn came down the mountain and let out the cattle for him, then herded them back after the day’s grazing, counted them and bedded the corral with fresh straw. All this he seemed to do in his off-hours, between timber-scouting and lumber-hauling trips for Kingfisher. Several times Lu Beiping woke to find a bowl of freshly crushed herbs sitting on the wooden stopper of the water jug, along with bottles of mercurochrome and gentian violet and a small roll of fresh bandages. He knew Autumn came into the hut whenever he was asleep, and that he must have bought these “magistrate’s
medicines” on his trips downmountain to sell wood. He also guessed that Autumn was the one who delivered Jade’s bowls of porridge and soup. At first he thought it was Smudge who placed the baskets on the jug for him to find when he awoke, then he realized it couldn’t be so, it was too much of a coincidence for Smudge to arrive only when he happened to be asleep. And if it were Smudge, the boy would certainly have pestered him until he was awake.
The silence was the most painful thing of all. Through the thin bamboo wall he heard plenty of movement, plenty of noise—but there were no words.
As his injuries healed, Lu Beiping grew apprehensive, unsure how to face down the ever-more-awkward wall of silence that was building between him and Autumn. Lying in bed, l
istening to the oppressive sound of Autumn’s diligent labors, he felt as if the scant wicker barrier that separated them had been slathered over with mud, then covered with ice, growing thicker, colder, heavier, even acquiring a thin crust of animosity. Maybe animosity was too strong a word. The initial silence had simply gathered inertia till it was impossible to find words to break it, till it hung palpably around him, wintry and all-enveloping. After a few more days, when his wounds were almost healed and strength had returned to his limbs, the bowls of herbs and baskets of food began to be dropped quietly on his doorstep, not placed on the water jug. Lu Beiping would wait tactfully till the end of the evening, when the rustling of straw had ceased, then pad out the door, stretch his back—the deep cut on his waist still ached just a bit—then sigh, lean down, pick up his unclaimed dinner, take it back into his hut, and eat it without appetite or relish.
On the day when Lu Beiping felt well enough to manage his daily cowherd duties again, he gauged the number of days that had probably passed and guessed that he was due for another visit from the manure-hauling team. He resolved to tell Autumn that he shouldn’t come tomorrow, but he put it off all evening, at a loss for how to begin the conversation. Finally, when he heard the corral’s thick wooden gate clunk closed, he steeled himself and pushed open the door. Autumn turned his back to him and walked quickly downhill toward the stream. Lu Beiping rushed out a few paces and shouted Autumn’s name, but Autumn didn’t answer, and without looking back he bounded across the creek rocks and vanished into the forest.
The next day, Autumn didn’t come.
Early winter was Hainan’s rainy season. An intermittent drizzle, like the plum rains of the lower Yangtze, dragged on for several sullen, gray weeks, till his hut’s brand new thatched roof dripped like a sponge, making for cold nights between damp blankets and mold-spotted clothes. Every day Smudge delivered light meals that Jade had prepared, and sometimes Lu Beiping drove his cattle up through the rain to the hollow, where he watched Jade bustle ponderously about and bantered politely with Stump and Kingfisher. It was as if nothing had happened. The only difference was that he rarely saw Autumn, and didn’t ask after him. The days dribbled on just like the rain, predictable, endless, listless.
The Invisible Valley Page 31