Chapter Nineteen: Desert Night

Although Shaoqiu was lying in bed, he could not stop worrying about Dog-Ye knocking on his door in the middle of the night—a prospect far more perilous than any ghost. Faced with such provocation, Shaoqiu felt helpless. Had he been in good health, it might not have mattered, but in his current state, how could he possibly contend with a man like Dog-Ye? A sound at the door made him hold his breath, but listening closely, there was nothing. Was it a ghost trying to scare him?

He did not fear ghosts, but the thought of a malicious intruder filled him with dread. Yet, after a gust of wind, the knocking ceased immediately; it was only the wind rattling the door. In this desolate village, the world had fallen silent, save for the sound of the small stream flowing eastward. In the dead of night, it sounded strangely beautiful.

Shaoqiu broke into a violent fit of coughing. He had medicine now, so he reasoned the illness would not be the death of him, and he tried to ignore it. A cold draft seeped in. He was freezing, but he dared not light a fire; if others saw, they would mock him for being foolish or, worse, whisper that he had lost his mind.

So, he did nothing. Let it be cold; it was no great matter. What truly troubled him was the lack of money for his medical treatment. He would have to borrow from someone tomorrow, but in this godforsaken village, he had no kin. Who would lend money to a man with no property, fearing he could never pay it back? The thought kept him awake, yet he knew he had to sleep, or his health would only deteriorate further.

Outside, a heavy rain began to fall. The sound of it in the middle of the night was so desolate it brought tears to his eyes.

Still unable to sleep, Shaoqiu faintly heard someone calling out in the distance. He strained his ears, but heard nothing. It was likely just the wind howling, tricking his ears. Illness, he realized, made everything seem distorted.

The desolate village grew eerily quiet. Even the sound of the stream was drowned out by the patter of rain against the eaves. Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Who could possibly be coming at this hour? Shaoqiu chose to ignore it, closing his eyes; he had to prioritize his recovery. But the knocking persisted. Surely the wind could not exert such force? It was bizarre. Shaoqiu climbed out of bed, ignoring the cold, determined to put an end to the disturbance.

He pulled the door open, but there was nothing there save for a biting gust of wind that made his thin frame shiver violently. It was too cold; he had to shut the door, lest he fall even sicker.

He climbed back into bed, pulled the quilt over his head, and after another bout of coughing, he thought of Xiaohua until he finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

Dog-Ye, however, remained awake. He stepped out of his house, stood before Shaoqiu’s dilapidated shack, and sat on a rock. His blade caught the reflection of the rain, looking cold, damp, and menacing.

The blade flashed once before the door, then Dog-Ye walked along the dirt path. He struck a pomelo tree with his knife, causing the branches to tremble and shed a cascade of raindrops. "Damn you, I'll finish you in two strikes!" His voice echoed through the desolate village, though Shaoqiu could no longer hear it, lost as he was in the rain-filled dreams of the night.

When Shaoqiu woke, the sky was still dark. It seemed as though the sun would never rise again. With no hope of sleep left, he lay on his worn-out bed, coughing until the sound reverberated through the room. He felt he was nearing his end.

Too restless to lie still, he paced the room and rummaged through his wardrobe. To his astonishment, he found some money tucked away in a corner. With this, his medical costs were covered. Overjoyed and alone in the dead of the village night, he hummed a little tune.

He stepped outside, following the dirt path, crossing the stream, and walking until he reached the foot of a great mountain. Before dawn, he found a temple at the base of the peak. Not knowing its purpose, he simply entered to offer a prayer to the Bodhisattva. After burning incense, he continued forward, emerging from the mountain to face an endless, sprawling desert.

Shaoqiu sat at the edge of the dunes, where dust swirled and yellow sand stretched as far as the eye could see, obscuring all direction.

"Why have I come to this wretched place?" he wondered. He turned to leave, but felt a giant, invisible hand reach out from the desert to grab him. He looked back, but saw nothing. The sky began to brighten, revealing the stark contours of the vast desert.

"Go back and get some sleep, or you won't be able to walk out of this desert tomorrow," he told himself. He retraced his steps until he reached his shack once more.

Upon arrival, he found the door standing open. He had no way of knowing who had opened it—perhaps the wind, though it seemed impossible for the wind to have such strength. Nothing was missing, so he let it be.

Though nothing was stolen, it was clear someone had been inside. He did not recognize the stranger, and he felt a flash of indignation—entering a man’s home without permission was surely a crime. But he lacked the strength to argue, let alone fight.

"Pardon me, I'm leaving my hammer here for a moment!" the man said with an air of indisputable authority. Seeing that the man was a craftsman, Shaoqiu said nothing; let him leave it. The man dropped the tool, and as he departed, he let out a loud, lingering fart.

Shaoqiu closed the door. The night was fading, though the trees and houses remained shrouded in shadows. He climbed back into bed, determined to sleep, for he knew he had to rest if he were to survive the journey through the great desert.