third day
after we got to Wuhan, my parents packed it up in a box
and sent it back to Dr He.’
Someone said awkwardly, ‘That’s really too bad.’
Yu Yong laughed and replied, ‘Yes, I suppose. But you
have to consider it from my parents’ point of view. How
could they have agreed to conceal stolen goods? How could
they have let me become a thief?’
How the Ceremony Ends
It was last winter that the folklorist paid his visit to
the village of Eight Pines. Carrying his rucksack by the
straps, he jumped off the public bus from the city and
started walking north-east. The road was covered in a
thin layer of fine snow which, from afar, assumed a light-blue
tint; shadows from the winding lines of high-voltage
wires and telephone poles chequered the surface evenly.
Occasionally, flocks of birds passed over the man’s head:
sudden, but orderly nonetheless. The folklorist walked
towards Eight Pines. By now, he too has become part of
the landscape of my memory.
By the entrance to the village, an old man sat on the
ground mending a large ceramic urn, his kit bag lying to
one side. A tiny, dark red flame licked at a piece of melting
tin; the smell of it crept through the air, which otherwise
held only the crispness that comes after snowfall. The old
man grasped a tin clamp with his tongs and squatted to
examine the urn for cracks, but hearing the crunch of
footsteps in the snow, he interrupted his work and glanced
behind him. He saw a stranger walking towards Eight
Pines, then turning back to the task in hand, he took no
further notice of him. Spitting on a crack in the urn, he
exerted all his strength to force the clamp inside; it held
for only a moment before falling into the fire. The old man
frowned, and as he did so he discovered the stranger was
now standing behind him, gazing intently at the urn.
‘I held it in too long, now it’s gone too soft,’ the old
man explained.
‘What period is it from?’ asked the folklorist.
‘What?’ said the old man.
‘The urn.’ The folklorist flicked the side of it with his
index finger and a clear ringing resounded from it. Then
he observed, ‘Dragon-and-phoenix pattern. Longfeng .
Qing Dynasty.’
The old man picked up another clamp with his tongs,
and this time it fitted easily into the crack, filling it. He
grinned at the folklorist and said, ‘There! That’s the way
to do it! I’ve been mending pottery for fifty years now all
around these parts. Where are you from?’
‘The city. Is this Eight Pines?’
‘More or less. What brings you here?’
‘I collect folk stories.’ The academic had hesitated before
answering, thinking that an old man from the countryside
might not understand what he meant by that.
‘Then you’ll need to find a storyteller. Who do you
have in mind?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anyone here yet.’
‘You should look for Wulin.’ The old man grinned
again. Then he bent over to blow out the fire and
repeated, ‘Go and look for Wulin. He has stories coming
out of his ears.’
The folklorist rested one hand on the urn and gazed
around at the village in winter. The sun shone dimly
on the paddies which were turning dry and white. The
trees, scattered among the graves and ditches, had all let
their leaves fall, and there was nothing to be seen of the
pines he had envisaged. The most striking thing about
the scene was a solitary scarecrow among the paddies,
blackening with age, wearing a straw hat, in whose brim
an intrepid bird had pecked holes.
Apparently the folklorist stayed in a classroom at the
primary school. There are no hostels of any kind in Eight
Pines, so that’s where outsiders are generally housed. You
can sleep on the desks free of charge, but you have to be
out by the time the morning bell rings. So in the mornings,
the folklorist put on his rucksack and set out from the
primary school. He demonstrated a particular interest
in the village’s recessed doorways, walking in and out,
examining them. His face was
after we got to Wuhan, my parents packed it up in a box
and sent it back to Dr He.’
Someone said awkwardly, ‘That’s really too bad.’
Yu Yong laughed and replied, ‘Yes, I suppose. But you
have to consider it from my parents’ point of view. How
could they have agreed to conceal stolen goods? How could
they have let me become a thief?’
How the Ceremony Ends
It was last winter that the folklorist paid his visit to
the village of Eight Pines. Carrying his rucksack by the
straps, he jumped off the public bus from the city and
started walking north-east. The road was covered in a
thin layer of fine snow which, from afar, assumed a light-blue
tint; shadows from the winding lines of high-voltage
wires and telephone poles chequered the surface evenly.
Occasionally, flocks of birds passed over the man’s head:
sudden, but orderly nonetheless. The folklorist walked
towards Eight Pines. By now, he too has become part of
the landscape of my memory.
By the entrance to the village, an old man sat on the
ground mending a large ceramic urn, his kit bag lying to
one side. A tiny, dark red flame licked at a piece of melting
tin; the smell of it crept through the air, which otherwise
held only the crispness that comes after snowfall. The old
man grasped a tin clamp with his tongs and squatted to
examine the urn for cracks, but hearing the crunch of
footsteps in the snow, he interrupted his work and glanced
behind him. He saw a stranger walking towards Eight
Pines, then turning back to the task in hand, he took no
further notice of him. Spitting on a crack in the urn, he
exerted all his strength to force the clamp inside; it held
for only a moment before falling into the fire. The old man
frowned, and as he did so he discovered the stranger was
now standing behind him, gazing intently at the urn.
‘I held it in too long, now it’s gone too soft,’ the old
man explained.
‘What period is it from?’ asked the folklorist.
‘What?’ said the old man.
‘The urn.’ The folklorist flicked the side of it with his
index finger and a clear ringing resounded from it. Then
he observed, ‘Dragon-and-phoenix pattern. Longfeng .
Qing Dynasty.’
The old man picked up another clamp with his tongs,
and this time it fitted easily into the crack, filling it. He
grinned at the folklorist and said, ‘There! That’s the way
to do it! I’ve been mending pottery for fifty years now all
around these parts. Where are you from?’
‘The city. Is this Eight Pines?’
‘More or less. What brings you here?’
‘I collect folk stories.’ The academic had hesitated before
answering, thinking that an old man from the countryside
might not understand what he meant by that.
‘Then you’ll need to find a storyteller. Who do you
have in mind?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anyone here yet.’
‘You should look for Wulin.’ The old man grinned
again. Then he bent over to blow out the fire and
repeated, ‘Go and look for Wulin. He has stories coming
out of his ears.’
The folklorist rested one hand on the urn and gazed
around at the village in winter. The sun shone dimly
on the paddies which were turning dry and white. The
trees, scattered among the graves and ditches, had all let
their leaves fall, and there was nothing to be seen of the
pines he had envisaged. The most striking thing about
the scene was a solitary scarecrow among the paddies,
blackening with age, wearing a straw hat, in whose brim
an intrepid bird had pecked holes.
Apparently the folklorist stayed in a classroom at the
primary school. There are no hostels of any kind in Eight
Pines, so that’s where outsiders are generally housed. You
can sleep on the desks free of charge, but you have to be
out by the time the morning bell rings. So in the mornings,
the folklorist put on his rucksack and set out from the
primary school. He demonstrated a particular interest
in the village’s recessed doorways, walking in and out,
examining them. His face was
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