Chapter 48 Calling for Backup

One day, Shaoqiu shouldered his hoe and headed up into the grand mountains once more. After toiling in his terraced fields all day long, he had to make his return when the sun hung low in the western sky. Yet, before heading back, he needed to gather some firewood on the mountaintop; otherwise, there would be nothing to burn once he returned home.

When he reached the summit, not a single soul was in sight. Most people had already returned to their homes by this hour, either chatting idly with their womenfolk or, much like Shaoqiu himself, worrying over firewood. With the mountaintop momentarily deserted, Shaoqiu seemed to be the only person lingering there. Deep within the dense forest, it was utterly grim and terrifying. He had originally intended to fetch some firewood, but upon seeing the eerie atmosphere, he lost his nerve and dared not go in.

He sat down right there on the mountaintop, gazing at the impending sunset, and once again his thoughts drifted to Xiaohua. He wondered what on earth she was doing at this moment. Was she, too, fretting over firewood just like him?

This was a steep slope, and midway up grew a dense grove of trees that locals rarely dared to enter on ordinary days. As a mere scholar, Shaoqiu found the thought even more terrifying, especially with dusk settling in. Still, being an educated man, Shaoqiu did not take such superstitions too seriously. Sitting right here on the grand mountain, who could possibly do anything to him?

He glanced at the setting sun, which was about to slip below the horizon. At the edge of the sky, someone seemed to be shouting something. He listened closely, but could not make out any words. Perhaps he had simply misheard? A night breeze rose, carrying a chill that made him feel cold. Shaoqiu stood up, intending to head back. But the moment he rose, his footing gave way, and he tumbled forward, rolling continuously into the depths of the dense forest. He had no idea how much time had passed, but when he finally regained consciousness, pitch-black darkness surrounded him, so thick he could barely see his own hand before his face.

"Where on earth am I?" Shaoqiu asked himself. After carefully inspecting his surroundings, he realized he was stranded deep within the thick forest. Standing right beside him was a coffin, as black as ink, which made him tremble uncontrollably with fear.

He tried to climb to his feet, but his body felt as heavy as a thousand catties, refusing to rise. He could only lie flat on the ground. Despite the dampness, there was nothing he could do. Facing such a strange and ominous thing alone in this dense forest was more than he could bear. Furthermore, he had been perfectly fine—how on earth had he fallen down from the mountain? What was going on here?

The depths of the dense forest were truly shrouded in gloom; sunlight could not pierce through, and even if there was a moon outside, not a shred of its light reached the interior of the grove.

The terror was immense, and with no one to keep him company, he could only remain prone on the ground. Fortunately, the earth was covered in a thick layer of moss, so it was not particularly filthy. When he finally managed to stand up and looked around, he discovered that the coffin that had stood beside him a moment ago had vanished without a trace, completely gone.

Shaoqiu did not dare stay there any longer, nor did he dare head downward, for legend had it that even more unbearable things lurked in the valley bottom below. He must not go down there—he would rather die than descend. Driven by desperation, he scrambled frantically back toward the summit. When he finally reached the top with great difficulty, he found that the pile of firewood he had left there earlier was gone. Could the wind have blown it away?

Empty-handed, he returned to his cottage, cooked a meal, and then stood outside his door, gazing into the distance at the mountains. The desolate village was fairly well-lit by then; the villagers had probably gathered together to chat about trivial matters from far and wide, while someone like Shaoqiu, standing before his own threshold, would not catch their attention at all.

Right at that moment, a woman stood on the opposite bank of the small river, stretching her neck and calling out to him repeatedly. Faced with this woman, Shaoqiu decided simply to ignore her. The woman across the stream shouted for Shaoqiu for a while, and for some reason, she began calling out the name of Mount Gelimu. From deep within Mount Gelimu, the faint sound of someone weeping seemed to drift continuously.

Shaoqiu immediately bolted his door shut. The moment he stepped inside, the woman on the opposite bank stopped shouting, and the lingering, mournful weeping of a woman drifting from Mount Gelimu vanished as well. Shaoqiu opened his books, turned on the lamp, and resumed reading by himself.

Outside the door, the fierce wind howled incessantly. A stone struck his house with a crisp ring, then rolled off to some unknown destination.

Shaoqiu could not fathom who would stand on the opposite bank calling out to him in the dead of night. Originally, he intended to pay no heed; after all, he needed to sleep so he could go up the mountain to work the next day. Yet try as he might, he could not fall asleep, and the shouting from across the river never abated, as if the caller vowed not to stop until he answered.

In the end, Shaoqiu had no choice but to step back outside. The desolate village was now devoid of any lights, save for the ceaseless sound of the small river flowing eastward, a lonely murmur that filled the hearer with speechless desolation. Fortunately, the moonlight poured down, with stars scattered like embers, ensuring the path remained visible. He walked out from the threshold of his house, continuing forward until he reached the small river. Standing on this side of the bank, he wanted to listen and find out who on earth was calling him.

He stood there for I don't know how long, only to find that there was no one on the opposite bank. It seemed he had been overly suspicious, perhaps having misheard after all. Yet he had heard it so clearly—how could he have been mistaken?

"Shaoqiu!" The voice from across the small river began calling again. However, Shaoqiu hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not he should respond. Yet he felt that if he did not answer, wouldn't it be terribly impolite?

"Sigh," Shaoqiu replied, seeing how hard the person was trying to call him.

Hearing someone answer, the person on the opposite bank stopped shouting. Shaoqiu had no intention of crossing the river; instead, he returned to his cottage and stood once more before his doorway. He wanted to sleep, but all drowsiness had fled.

His mood turned sour, and he suddenly recalled the legends told by the elders of the desolate village: when someone hears a stranger calling their name, especially in the middle of the night, they must never answer. Yet for some reason, he had gone ahead and responded. He wondered if this could possibly be a good omen.

He stood there by the doorway, not daring to sleep for a long time, fearing some terrifying apparition might appear. Yet if he did not sleep, what else could he do? There was no one to talk to in this desolate village, and the night looked so profoundly dark.

If someone were here to accompany him, perhaps he wouldn't feel so afraid. But at this moment, who else could possibly keep him company? There was no one left; he could only accompany himself. Outside the door, heavy snow began to fall continuously. Fearing to stay outside, Shaoqiu went back into his room, sat down before his dilapidated desk, and for a long while sat dazed and at a loss.

"Forget it. Maybe I just misheard. What is there to be afraid of? Tomorrow I still have to go up the mountain to farm," Shaoqiu told himself.

The cold by now was extreme, but he dared not light a fire. Ever since the last time he built a fire and was beaten by the dark bandits, Shaoqiu had grown rather averse to fire; being beaten again was certainly out of the question. Outside, the snow was now flying thick and heavy, a vast expanse of white. Tree branches unable to bear the weight of the accumulated snow kept snapping off with rustling sounds.

Just then, he seemed to hear the woman across the small river calling his name once more. He could not understand why she insisted on shouting through the bitter cold of this snowy night. Was his name really that pleasant to pronounce? Better to just ignore her. Shaoqiu climbed onto his bed, though he dared not sleep. He simply lay there listening quietly as the voice calling his name drifted and danced with the wind, accompanied by the sound of the small river flowing eastward, making the desolate village feel even more desolate still.