Chapter 44: Ghost Eye

On this day, the Gelimu Mountains shrank once more, to the point of almost vanishing entirely. Shaoqiu stood before his doorway, gazing at the transformation of the great mountains, until, in a blur, they were no longer visible at all.

The inhabitants of the desolate village were terrified to the marrow. The sudden disappearance of the Gelimu Mountains, to people accustomed to their magnificent vistas, was nothing short of a bolt from the blue. Some even swore they would no longer go on living in this world. Others began to yearn for the mountains, with a few even weeping; days without the Gelimu Mountains could hardly be called days at all for the folk of the desolate village.

With the Gelimu Mountains gone, wind and snow lunged straight from the distant Siberia, leaving not even a chicken or dog alive in their wake. They stripped the thatch and tiles from Shaoqiu’s roof one by one, smashing them to dust and scattering them upon the gale. Had the Gelimu Mountains stood as a barrier, the snowstorm would never have raged so fiercely, nor would anyone have huddled in their homes, shivering and crying out against the cold.

Yet, with the mountains gone, Shaoqiu found his breathing much easier, and the weight in his chest lifted. The sight of the trees and grasses in the desolate village struck him as unusually pleasant. Even so, there were those who, in the dead of night, would wander alone into the wilderness of the desolate village and burn ritual paper facing the direction where the Gelimu Mountains had once stood, testifying to their everlasting remembrance.

One day, Aunt Hua returned from the mountains and passed by Shaoqiu’s doorway. Catching sight of Shaoqiu, she uttered not a single word, the coldness on her face thick enough to freeze the nearby brook into a solid sheet of ice. Shaoqiu had no idea how he could have ever offended Aunt Hua to incur such bitter resentment. After she had passed, he was once again left alone before his threshold, listening to the eastward-flowing waters of the brook, feeling a vast and desolate melancholy wash over him just as it always had.

Shaoqiu was deeply displeased with his own behavior, cursing himself for his lack of manners in failing to greet her. Yet he could hardly be blamed; it was not as though he hadn't seen the expression on Aunt Hua's face as she walked by. That expression was terrifying enough to frighten him to death—describing it as resembling a coffin lid would not be an exaggeration.

It must be because he had not treated little Hua well, or perhaps he simply had no business looking at little Hua in the first place. Why else would Aunt Hua treat him with such an icy visage? After Aunt Hua had moved on, Shaoqiu sat once more before his doorway, staring up at the sky. And what was left in that sky now? Nothingness, absolute emptiness—much like his own failed life, where everything, one might say, had come to nothing.

Long after Aunt Hua had departed, Shaoqiu remained seated by his door, eating his meal and pondering why the Gelimu Mountains had vanished. Just then, Aunt Hua returned, a smile plastered across her face. She even walked right up to his doorway and asked him what he was eating. After inspecting the meager dishes in his bowl, she continued down the dirt path of the village, plunging Shaoqiu back into a state of bottomless boredom as he sat alone before his door.

At that moment, the Long-Bladed Swordsman came striding down from Flower Aunt’s house. With his long blade slung across his back, he cast a glance at Shaoqiu—a gaze unmistakably brimming with bloodlust. Did he mean to carve him up right here and now? Yet Shaoqiu had never crossed the swordsman in any way. What could possibly be the meaning of this?

When the swordsman departed in his straw raincoat, the desolate village reverted to a deathly stillness.

The ghost-like eyes of the Long-Bladed Swordsman left Shaoqiu’s heart fluttering with dread as he sat by his door, entirely at a loss for how to cope. He had no idea what to do next.

With no other choice, he retreated inside his cottage and bolted the door, for the wind and snow outside were growing steadily fiercer, and lingering out there any longer was out of the question.

He could not simply walk away from this desolate village, for he possessed too little strength left in his limbs. Where could he possibly go? Just then, the door to his main hall creaked open. Someone had slipped inside quietly, swift as the wind. Fearing a thief had come to plunder his belongings, Shaoqiu stepped out to take a look. One look was all it took to leave him utterly aghast. Someone had entered his hall and, without so much as a by-your-leave, dumped some unknown object right inside. This infuriated Shaoqiu greatly, yet since the intruder showed no fear, he dared not force a confrontation. Instead, he forced a smile and offered a greeting, pretending to understand nothing.

It turned out to be a craftsman working next door, who had apparently found his tools too heavy to carry all the way back and had simply deposited them in Shaoqiu’s house. Such unbridled arrogance was utterly infuriating, as if the house belonged not to Shaoqiu, but to him, allowing him to dump his belongings wherever he pleased. Pity poor Shaoqiu was merely a scholar; otherwise, a brawl would surely have broken out. But Shaoqiu did nothing of the sort. He could only stare helplessly and let the man leave the items there. What else could he do?

Old Wang next door was building a house, frequently creating deafening commotions that made it impossible for Shaoqiu to settle down and read. And if he wasn't reading, what else was there for Shaoqiu to do in this desolate village? Not only that, but as Old Wang passed Shaoqiu's house, he hurled a stone toward it upon seeing Flower Aunt singing by the doorway.

Fortunately, the stone missed Shaoqiu, crashing instead through the window glass and rolling across the floor for a long time before finally coming to a halt. His glass window was now broken, and the howling northwest wind rushed into the room, rustling the pages of his books in a frantic dance.

Shaoqiu thought of heading to the outer room to build a fire for warmth, but there was no firewood to be found, as the kindling he had gathered from the mountains earlier in the day had completely vanished. And figuring out the identity of the thief was no easy task. He had no choice but to endure, letting the biting cold gnaw at him. The chill penetrated every fiber of his being, and a violent fit of coughing wracked his frame.

With no alternative, Shaoqiu picked up a tattered rag from the floor and stuffed it into the broken window hole. The wind and snow were momentarily blocked, making the room feel a fraction warmer. He resumed reading, but for reasons unknown, his lamp flickered out and then suddenly relit itself. Feeling as though someone were standing right behind him, he spun around, only to see nothing.

And so, he settled down to read Song dynasty lyrics. After a full meal, the exquisite beauty of the prose truly shone through, and the howling wind in the desolate village finally subsided. Tomorrow promised to be a fine day after all.

Old Wang suddenly turned back, letting out a deafening roar right outside Shaoqiu’s door. The shock of the shout shattered the lamp, plunging the room into absolute darkness where nothing could be seen. Fortunately, Shaoqiu was handy enough to fix the lamp; with a few quick adjustments, he had it glowing again and went back to his reading.

After reading for a long stretch, he pushed open the door to take a look. A vast expanse of white snow stretched before him, and the cold wind bit at his face like a razor blade.

Someone was being murdered on the opposite bank of the brook. The victim begged incessantly for mercy, but in this desolate village, mercy had no place; the vanquished met with only one end. The deed was done, followed by a dead silence, broken only by the ceaseless, eastward-flowing murmur of the brook.

Better to close the door again; the wind was simply too strong. Yet at that moment, his thoughts drifted once more to little Hua. What, he wondered, could she possibly be doing at this very hour?