But Lu Beiping had no time to consider these mysteries, for he knew that he was also in a dangerous position. The bull might wrench free at any moment, and the ensuing avalanche might sweep Lu Beiping along with it and shatter him on the rocks at the bottom of the ravine.
He broke into a sweat, but he managed to keep his head. He shouted to Peter, and the bull calmed down a bit. Then he hooked an arm around a woody vine that dangled into the crevice, tested it to see if it could bear his weight, then reached out slowly and grabbed Peter’s left horn, which was slightly longer than his right. Just one little push—god! what a close call—and the bull slipped free from the tangle of branches. Though Lu Beiping couldn’t see them in the dark, he heard the thumping and thrashing as the branches came awake and bounced down the crevice toward the gorge. What just a moment ago seemed like an impregnable bulwark of wood sailed weightlessly, silently over the precipice and, after appearing to hang frozen for a split second in the light of Lu Beiping’s flashlight, vanished into the black ravine.
Gone, gone, gone. That was the end of that. A gibbous moon hung in the mouth of the gully, illuminating the silent, slumbering mountains beyond.
Somehow—he had no idea how he managed it—he dragged Peter by fits and starts out of the crevice and up onto the path. They were met by the happy trumpeting of the other cattle, who were resting nearby among the trees, and for a moment the valley echoed with their deep, piping voices. Peter, the lucky survivor, rubbed his muzzle and horns against Lu Beiping and grunted affectionately. Lu Beiping laid a light, reproachful slap on Peter’s brow, knowing that he, too, had just come back from a stroll along the edge of the beyond. As he regained his bearings, an odd thought occurred to him: For animals like Peter, for the dark, mindless wilderness that teemed beyond that cliff, did Chance mean anything at all? Did it even exist? He counted the cattle, found that two more were missing. He counted again and again, and the total came out different each time. He began wandering to and fro in the twilit valley, raising his voice in mounting anxiousness, not sure whether he was hunting for his stray cattle or for his own self, gone missing among the hills.
—Leeeee-leeeee-looooo-looooo-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!!!
Chapter 13
Night Music
At long last the daring piece of mischief that Lu Beiping and Autumn had plotted played itself out, in a way they never would have expected, as if according to some higher design.
The fourteenth typhoon of the season had just blown across Hainan Island, leaving Mudkettle Mountain hooded in yet another gray shroud of rain. It was manure-hauling day again. In addition to the foreman, who always headed up these expeditions, Kambugger, Choi, and Sergeant Fook had all made appearances recently, but Wing hadn’t shown his face for many weeks now. It’s time for my brother-in-law to take the stage, Lu Beiping thought. And sure enough, that afternoon Wing came tripping up the path at the head of the column, a pair of wicker scoop baskets dangling from his shoulder yoke and a big smile pasted across his face, sporting his usual green-billed cap and a spanking new, homemade Red Army uniform. As he appeared around the bend of the trail down by the gorgontree, Lu Beiping saw, to his mild amazement, that Fong was following right behind him, sashaying along in her customary manner and wearing a triumphant expression straight off of a propaganda poster. When she saw Lu Beiping she greeted him with a wave, then went back to bantering loudly with Wing. The reeking manure pile was now fodder for fascinating conversation, and all afternoon Fong chattered like a broken string of pearls while the workers sweated and heaved around them, silent props in her and Wing’s jubilant two-person show.
When Lu Beiping inquired discreetly with Cigar, his former rival for Fong’s affections, who was now laboring sullenly at the edge of the crowd, the elder re-ed laughed at him. You didn’t hear? he said. Fong is going to integrate! Lu Beiping, figuring he meant the business with the integration statement, was puzzled by this. Integrate? he said. But isn’t that old news? In a sense, Cigar replied cryptically. It’s a new spin on a piece of old news. Then finally Cigar pulled the veil off the mystery, and Lu Beiping reeled with surprise. Wow! he thought. The foreman really was a man of action. Everybody in the unit already knew, and Lu Beiping had been the only one still in the dark—Wing and Fong were getting married! Marrying a local was “integration” in the purest sense of the word. And sure enough, when the first roster of re-eds accepted for the personnel call was made public, Fong’s name topped the list. The foreman had made good on his contradictory promise that those who integrated locally could return to the city. Though the local she was marrying was the foreman’s own son, nobody could accuse him of not standing by his word.
How Fong ended up in this happy situation was, of course, easy to trace. But Lu Beiping never would have expected that Fong, ever the high-minded progressive, would cast off Fook’s rising star in favor of a loser like Wing. And it made his head spin just a little to think that he, in marrying Wing’s sister’s ghost, had unwittingly paved the way for Wing to marry his own ex-girlfriend.
The beginning had been pure chance, but the end was inevitable. (Really, Lu Beiping repeated to Tsung years later: You can make fun of a lot of things, but you can’t make light of Chance.)
At the same moment that Lu Beiping connected these threads, he also realized that Wing and Fong’s appearance among the manure haulers that day was the foreman’s way of telling him that, with Wing set to marry, his own role as ghost husband was as good as over. Call it truth or make-believe, fact or fantasy, it was time for them all to turn the page and forget about Han.
Lu Beiping smiled bitterly. Now a new character had written herself into the drama that he and Autumn had so carefully scripted—the thought made him just a tad uneasy.
Dusk was gathering when he saw the workers off, and the sky was threatening rain. Instead of herding the cattle back into the freshly cleaned corral as he usually did, Lu Beiping gave a loud call in the direction of the hollow—Leeleelooloowaaaaaah!—then bounded down the slope to the creek, dug Han’s blouse out of the crack in the rocks, stuffed it in his satchel, and drove the herd, which had gathered round him of its own accord, down the mountain in the direction of camp.
The grove to which Wing had been assigned lay near the second bend of the creek; it was here that Lu Beiping had confronted him on the eve of the typhoon. Perhaps by the foreman’s conscious design, Wing was responsible for an area bordering on the clearing where Han was buried, not far from the sector Choi tapped. Over the past few days Lu Beiping and Autumn had surveyed all the possible routes through this grove, gotten their equipment ready, staked out a spot, then hacked a path through the swift-growing jungle grass so that anyone passing through the area would walk instinctually toward the location they’d chosen. Everything was ready, and whether their scheme succeeded or not was now out of their hands.
Taking a shortcut through a patch of vine-tangled forestland, Lu Beiping and the cattle emerged on the far side of the creek, where he hid behind a clump of bushes at the edge of the water so that he could secretly observe any movements on the trail below.
No! This was a disaster. Fong, the wild card, who’d been humping her manure baskets a short distance behind Wing while keeping up a steady stream of flirtatious chatter, now came running up, clearly planning to cut in front of him. This was the classic image of Seeking Peer Support—“revolutionary peer mentorship” was as crucial to romance as it was to Production, and a photograph of this young “integrated” couple chasing each other through the rubber grove with baskets of fertilizer swinging from their yokes would have made a perfect front-page image for the Agrecorps Daily Dispatch. Lu Beiping tensed. Better for Wing to be in front—much as Lu Beiping detested Fong, he wouldn’t want her to get the treatment they’d intended for her husband-to-be. Not only would it be too cruel, it would mess up his and Autumn’s entire plan.
How pathetic! Wing was no match for the Woman of Steel he had chos
en to marry. Laughing, she overtook him easily, then went racing off down the trail ahead of him. Good god—if this were a model-opera movie, there’d be a swell of dramatic music right now. But just as Fong started down the path that Autumn and Lu Beiping had cut through the grass, she took a running jump and launched herself into the air, heedless of the twin Heavy Burdens that swung from her shoulders, sticking her chin out and kicking her legs apart in an imitation of the triumphant flying split so often employed by the Fearless Heroines of the silver screen. Beautiful!
Lu Beiping breathed a sigh of relief. Saved by the Revolutionary Leap. Right at the Point of No Return—another well-oiled model-opera movie phrase—Fong had jumped clear over the sprig of maidengolds that Lu Beiping and Autumn had stuck in the earth to mark the spot. Trying his best to keep up with Fong, Wing came huffing and puffing down the trail after her, and before Lu Beiping could blink there was a loud whunk and Wing and his manure baskets spilled into the tall grass. At first Lu Beiping heard only a soft gasp of surprise as Wing struggled to right himself, then abruptly the young man began wailing at the top of his lungs like a pig being slaughtered.
—Auuugh! Heeeeeelp! Wing’s strangled cries echoed through the forest. Initially Fong didn’t slow her pace, just glanced over her shoulder to laugh at her fiancé’s pratfall, but when his shouts didn’t cease and it became clear that something was wrong, she dropped her baskets and came running back, adding her shrieks of dismay to Wing’s screams:
—Oh my god! What happened? You’re bleeding! Oh my god, Wing!
—I stepped in a hog trap, Fong! Augh! One of those stupid Tam-chow hill men . . .
—A what?
—Auuuuuuugh!
—Help! Help! Fong’s urgent soprano rang out over Wing’s anguished moans. Is anybody here? Come quick! We’ve got an emergency!
A flock of roosting birds exploded out of the treetops, flapping in every direction and heightening the chaos.
Lu Beiping, lying among the bushes on the far side of the creek, sniggered to himself. Here he was, in the traditional movie villain pose: the Class Enemy crouching in the underbrush, ready to launch his Nefarious Counterrevolutionary Plot. This was a role he’d never before had the chance to play. Trying his best to stay coolheaded, he tied Alexei, the new lead bull, to a nearby vine and, while the knocking of the clapper summoned the rest of the herd out of the surrounding forest, strode down the slope and waded across the creek toward the scene of the crime.
The dusk was deepening, and the forest lay in deep shadow. A handful of workers who’d been busy spreading manure in neighboring sectors had heard Wing’s and Fong’s cries of distress and rushed over to help. Lu Beiping saw the blue-white flame of a tapper’s head-mounted carbide lamp wavering toward him out of the gloom, then recognized the face beneath it—Choi.
While a small crowd gathered round the wailing Wing, Fong made out Lu Beiping’s approaching figure and called out urgently:
—Come here, Lu! Thank god it’s you. You’re a more experienced forester than any of us—do you know how to open a hog trap?
Shouldering his way through the onlookers Lu Beiping saw, in the blue lamplight, the crude spring-loaded trap clamped on Wing’s right foot. Wing’s brand-new canvas army sneaker had split in two, and blood oozed from the crack.
Wing wriggled backwards instinctively upon seeing Lu Beiping, but he nonetheless beseeched him in a choked voice:
—Hey, Lu! . . . Urgh, ack! Can you help me?
—Hmm, Lu Beiping said as he bent to examine the trap: I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t know how to open one of these. All I know is that you’d better not move. The more you struggle, the tighter it’ll grip.
—Oh my god! Fong cried, sounding like she was on the verge of tears. What are we going to do, then? He won’t be crippled for life, will he? Will he?
—Let’s all quit jawing and do something! Choi cut in. Everybody hoist him up and carry him to the infirmary!
—No! Wing groaned from below. Don’t do it! Don’t move me!
—Here’s an idea, Lu Beiping said. I just saw one of the migrants from Whitesands cutting timber over there in the forest. I’ll bet he knows how to open a hog trap. Wait here. I’ll be right back.
Without further ado Lu Beiping slipped into the bushes. Fong leaned down to say something to Wing but he pushed her away with a groan of irritation, probably still resenting her for baiting him into a chase game. There was nothing left for Fong to do but stand at the edge of the crowd, wiping tears from her face. Choi and the other hands hung uselessly around Wing, exclaiming sympathetically and trying to make helpful suggestions, while nearby in the trees the creek kept up its constant, burbling commentary.
Before long Lu Beiping came running back. He was carrying a satchel now, and his face shone with sweat.
—The woodcutter’s on his way, Lu Beiping said, panting for breath. His name’s Autumn. Lu Beiping bent over, his hands on his thighs, and stood gazing downward for a moment, as if either examining Wing’s wound or arriving at a decision; then he looked up and said in a stern voice: Wing, before he arrives, I want to ask you a few questions.
Reflexively Wing tried to clamber to his feet, then he flopped down immediately with a gasp of pain.
—What . . . what are you trying you do?
Glancing over his shoulder, Lu Beiping scanned the crowd for Choi and saw her staring wide-eyed at his satchel, backing away through the press of bodies.
—Choi, wait!
He rushed over and grabbed her by the shoulder. Choi twisted away vehemently. Two older male workers stared at them in surprise.
—Whatever’s wrong? Something the matter with you two?
—Lu! Fong cried, suddenly realizing what was going on: You—you—stop it! You’ve got something up your sleeve!
Just then Autumn’s sinewy silhouette materialized out of the shadows.
—Stay here, Fong! Lu Beiping shouted at her as he succeeded in getting a grip on Choi’s arm. Everybody else can go back. We’ll take care of bringing Wing back to camp.
Autumn, bare-chested and clad in a checkered waistcloth, strode over to them and said without looking at Lu Beiping:
—Who stepped in the trap?
Seeing Wing, he stooped to assess the damage. As he inspected the trap he said in a mild voice:
—I see, this is a number-three trap. Won’t kill you, but it hurts a sight, eh?
—Hold on, Autumn, Lu Beiping said, stepping between him and Wing. I have a couple questions for Wing first.
—Bastard! You’re trying to blackmail me! Wing moaned. You won’t get anything out of me, not even if you beat me to death! Fong, he’s just jealous of me because you—
By now Fong had calmed down and stood gazing with a mixture of fear and mounting suspicion back and forth between Choi, Lu Beiping, and her panic-stricken, trash-talking fiancé. In the light of the blue flame that hissed atop Choi’s headlamp, Fong watched Lu Beiping open his satchel and draw out a tattered blouse cut in an outmoded style.
Wing burst into sobs.
The grove hands, reluctant to withdraw from the scene, stood a short distance away with worry etched all over their faces, debating in hushed voices while pricking up their ears to catch snatches of conversation that drifted their way.
. . . set that forest fire? Did you jump in the creek? Tell me!
I, I, I . . . yes . . .
What were you burning? Why were you slinking around . . .
. . . grave money for Han . . . my dad told me to burn her things . . .
Their voices, wafting on the orchard cross-breezes, faded in and out of hearing.
. . . what terrible thing did you and your father do to Han? Tell us!
. . . I, I . . . doing homework with her . . . slept together . . . I saw my dad . . .
f-f-fire . . .
Darkness seeped thro
ugh the grove, and the creek’s sibilant whisper seemed to emanate from the shadows. The workers, straining to hear their voices, made out only bits and pieces and had no notion what it all might mean. Then they saw Fong bury her face in her hands and run away sobbing into the trees.
That night the fat rainclouds that had been massing over Mudkettle Mountain all afternoon broke open at last, unleashing a torrential downpour.
What a glorious sound! A bedraggled Autumn burst through the door of the hut, accompanied by the rapturous roar of rain. Lu Beiping shook a finger at him and bellowed:
—Enemy of the People! How dare you assault a soldier of the Revolution using a hog trap? You miserable, unrepentant reactionary! The two of them fell to laughing, then Lu Beiping said: You’re a cruel man, Autumn. How’d you think to use a hog trap? Is there some sort of precedent for that?
—Precedent? Autumn said. Not everything I do has got a rosewood story behind it, Bei. These hills are a cruel place to live in. If you’re not two steps ahead of all the savage things that might harm you out here, not to mention the savage people, you’ll live a short life.
Autumn had made an exception to his usual habit and donned a sleeveless cotton undershirt to ward off the chill of the late March night. Lu Beiping, seeing that his friend was completely soaked, tossed Autumn a set of dry underclothes and then got to work starting a fire in the hearth stove. The stove had lain cold for several weeks now, and when the damp kindling caught it filled the room with a thick haze of smoke that sent them both into coughing fits. As Autumn changed into Lu Beiping’s spare clothing, Lu Beiping caught a glimpse of his naked back and was reminded of the time Jade had done the same thing, on a cold, rainy evening much like this one. They’d gotten to talking, and soon it felt like they had so much to talk about that they might gab all night. Smudge had been with them then—and now, Smudge was giving Lu Beiping the cold shoulder. As Lu Beiping stirred the fire his thoughts began to wander, and he sighed.
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