Now that the dream-woman Shuishui had mentioned shoes, the situation was of course extremely serious. But because Shuishui's family home was so far from Maqiao, by the time the bearer of the message had hurried back to Maqiao, it was too late and Zhaoqing had already disappeared before the message was delivered. While the village was sending search parties in all directions, someone remembered the business with the figure in white and sent people off to the mountain. Finally, hoarse wails from the cracked throat of Zhaoqing's wife floated in fragments on the wind down the mountain.

Zhaoqing's soul, it turned out, had already floated off. He died horrifically, facedown at the side of a stream, his severed head lying swollen about three meters away in the brook, bitten to pieces by a dense covering of ants. This violent murder sent Shockwaves through the commune and the county's Public Security, and several cadres came to conduct repeated investigations. The cadres' flame was high and they didn't believe in any floating-soul business, or in fate. Their first guess was that GMD spies had been dropped from the air onto the mountain, or that oxen-rustling bad elements from near Pingjiang were responsible. In order to calm the general public and stop the strange rumors flying around, the higher-ups made strenuous efforts to solve the case, carrying out mysterious surveys, taking fingerprints, struggling a few suspicious landlords and rich peasants here and there, panicking the chickens and the dogs half to death-but still no explanation was found. The commune even arranged for the People's Militia to take turns standing guard in the evenings, to guard against tragedy repeating itself.

Standing guard was a tough job. The evenings being cold and the urge to doze off very strong, I was propped up under the armpit by a spear, my feet like two blocks of ice, and needed to jump regularly up and down to restore sensation to my toes. I heard crunching footsteps on the road leading to Tianzi Peak: every tiny hair stood up on end as I listened out again-nothing. Despite hiding in a corner out of the wind, I couldn't control my intermittent shivers. After brief hesitation, I took another few steps back and retreated to the house: even though (just as a temporary expedient) I was surveying the night from behind a window, I was still fulfilling my duties, I reasoned. In the end, my legs tortured with cold and my eyes ever returning to my quilt, I couldn't stop myself burrowing in and (half-)lying on the bed. I still reckoned I was taking frequent sidelong glances outside, not failing to keep up my revolutionary vigilance.

I was worried a figure dressed in white would suddenly skim past outside.

Dazed and confused, I woke up to discover it was already very light; in a panic, I ran outside without glimpsing a soul. Some routine yells were coming from the ox-shed-someone preparing to let the oxen out. All was quiet and peaceful.

Since I couldn't spot anyone come to investigate where the sentry had gone, I relaxed.

It was not until I was transferred to work in the county and bumped into Yanwu on a visit to the city to buy oil paint that I heard another theory concerning the strange death of Shortie Zhao. Yanwu said that at the time he'd told Public Security that Zhaoqing had definitely not been killed by a third party-it'd been suicide. Or, to be more precise, it was accidental death by suicide. Why did he die at the side of the stream? he mused. Why had there been no sign of a struggle on the scene? He must've found some fish or something else in the stream, hidden in the crack of a stone, and poked at it with the wooden handle on his grass knife. He must have poked a bit too violently, without noticing the sharp blade was pointed directly at his own neck: with one stab into the air, one pull of the knife, he lopped his own head off from behind.

This hypothesis was very daring. I've used a grass knife, sometimes called a dragon-horse knife: it's a knife with a very long wooden handle that enables you to slash cattail grass whilst standing upright, on which the blade and wooden handle are at right angles. When I thought about it, with Yanwu's deductions in mind, a chill ran right down the back of my neck.

Unfortunately, as Yanwu's class status was very poor at the time, the Public Security Bureau couldn't take any notice of what he said.

Besides, he didn't have any proof.

: And so, amidst such confused circumstances, Zhaoqing's head fell off. While on sentry duty in the middle of the night, viewing Tianzi Peak suddenly loom closer, vaster in the moonlight, I got to thinking about his life. Because he was so low, so stingy, I'd never had a good word to say about him. Only after his death did I think back to that time when (under orders from above) I'd climbed up a wall to paint Chairman Mao quotations and the ladder had suddenly started sliding unstoppably downwards; I'd only saved myself from falling by grabbing onto a horizontal beam close at hand. Quite some distance off, Zhaoqing had seen all this happen, dropped a bowl of food from his hand to the ground with a clang and ran over yelling: "help-someone help-oh my-" He jumped up and down, producing cries of extreme anguish, jumped here and there till he was dizzy, then jumped back again without having accomplished anything much, wailing and weeping as he did so.

Perhaps I wasn't in any great danger and he didn't need to wail or done anything to help me out. But out of all my friends and acquaintances present at that moment, not one was as terrified and panicked as he, not one shed tears involuntarily for me. I was grateful for his tears-though only for a very brief moment, though they quickly shrank back into a pair of small eyes to which I'd never be able to feel close. Later on, wherever I went, however many cities and villages I forgot, I couldn't wipe from my memory that brief glance downwards at a face below, just a face that, enlarged by perspective, had obliterated from view the scrawny body beneath, and that was showering down a noisy waterfall of yellow tears for me.

I wanted to say something to thank him, to pay him back somehow, a few yuan, a piece of soda, say, but he wouldn't have it.

I carried a bedful of cotton blankets over to his house and asked his wife to use them to cushion Zhaoqing's coffin. All his life he'd slept on carrying poles; from now on he should be allowed to sleep well. He'd been busy all his life; from now on he should be allowed to be lax.

To be "lax," in Maqiao dialect, means to "relax."

: When I was in Maqiao, Zhaoqing told me more than once that I shouldn't go up into the mountains early in the morning, that I should wait at least until the sun had come out. He also pointed out to me something densely blue in among the scattered trees on the mountain, that floated in and out of view, hanging like threads, like bands on the branches and leaves, slowly drifting away in smoky rings: miasma, this was called. There were several different sorts of miasma: in spring there was spring-grass miasma, in summer there was yellow-plum miasma, in autumn there was yellow-grass miasma- all were highly poisonous. If people blundered into it, their skin would inevitably come out in ulcers, their faces go blue-yellow, their fingers black. It could even kill them.

He also said that you couldn't be too careful even when you went up into the mountains in daytime. The night before you went up, you couldn't eat tiny scraps of things and you definitely couldn't sleep with a woman, definitely had to give up temptations and lusts. Before going up into the mountains, you'd best drink a mouthful of rice wine to warm the body too, to strengthen the yang.