Origin (1)

I once fancied myself a master of fate, able to beguile time and space and construct the ultimate future. I believed my days would not slip away in fleeting pleasures, and that the future would be utterly different from the present — graceful, and far out of reach. — Reardon May

    I remember how, as a child, in those hot summers, I would always go to the river to catch shrimp and play in the water, feeling a coolness that soaked into the heart beneath the blazing sun; I remember how every book I read had an enticing story and a shining summer, possessed of a profound meaning impossible to grasp; I remember, in the morning light of spring, between the ridges of the fields and beside the river channels, pool after pool of lush green water; I remember, after being scolded by a teacher, the affection of my elders and the talk of my companions. These bits and pieces of the past gradually led me to find my own way of living, and made me who I am today.

    I want to recall exactly which people and which events shaped the person I am today — this sly, cruel, money-grubbing, lecherous, utterly wicked me. Where is my point of origin?

    After long contemplation, I found that I had no clue at all. I struggled free of the tangled, broken days of old with nothing to show for it, only exhaustion. I thought of my wife’s words: she wrote to me two days ago saying that she was “trapped here.” By that she meant that she was raising our still-swaddled child alone while also looking after the harvest in the fields, besieged within a tiny space and time, overworked. My wife is alone in our countryside cottage, a quiet, breezy, two-story old house by the river.

    I realized that I, too, am trapped here. The place where I am is unbearably hot, and the air is foul. I raise a hand and find two more red bumps on my arm — there are too many mosquitoes here. Of course, I have no qualms about killing. Often, in the faint light of dawn after a sleepless night, I suddenly wake; I have forgotten how many times, upon waking, I have found on my arm a frail little flying insect with a piercing-sucking mouthpart, who knows how long it had been feeding there, and I always, without hesitation, slap down hard. It is truly a pitiful thing: the mosquitoes and various exquisite little creatures feed for a long while, yet often, under the sweep of a human hand, die in an instant.

    Perhaps our own existence is like that of the mosquito feeding in the instant before its death. Our beliefs lead us to think it is work, friends, houses, money — but which of us is not a warrior in the midst of slaughter, whose life hangs by a thread?

    In summer, during thunderstorms, the centipedes all crawl out onto the small paths through the mountain forests. Centipedes favor hot, humid environments, because they need a certain level of moisture to keep their bodies’ water in balance; moreover, the rain affects their original habitats, making them unable to survive there any longer.

    And the place where I am, Xizhai Town, happens to be a small town with frequent rainfall, where startling thunder comes every three to five days. So it has nourished a large group of craftsmen who make their living catching and selling centipedes. In our eyes, these centipede-catchers are mysterious figures full of magic; people call them “demon masters.” They are nimble and skilled, able by special methods to quiet the centipedes down, and then, with meticulous craftsmanship, make them into all kinds of handicrafts or jewelry. Because of their exquisite workmanship and precious materials, these pieces of jewelry are very rare and expensive, so only a few wealthy people can buy them.

    Just last week, at the town’s “Weihe Tavern,” chatting idly with Lao Xiang and his friends, I heard this anecdote: On a night of raging thunder and rain, three “demon masters” set out in the rain. That night was quite uncanny: endless thunder accompanied by flashing lightning, like ten thousand horses galloping, unstoppable. The raindrops falling thick from the sky were like the tears of gods and ghosts, drenching the earth. Thunder and rain shook the ground without ceasing, making hearts leap with fright. The rain struck the roof, making a crisp pattering sound, as if possessed of boundless power, making one panicked and restless. It was at this moment that the three “demon masters” set out. That night, the centipedes came like soybeans scattered to the ground, rushing in ceaselessly from every direction onto the small mountain paths. At first they were full of enthusiasm: with every centipede caught, they cheered and danced with joy. Later, there were simply too many centipedes — easily more than ten times the usual number — more than they could handle. And the rain grew ever more urgent, the thunder louder with every clap; they were utterly exhausted, yet the centipedes still covered the mountain road, familiar yet strange beneath the night rain. They began to feel afraid. After that night, the three “demon masters” vanished from the town. Some said they had lost their way in that night’s thunderstorm and fallen from a cliff; others said that after that night, each of them had earned more money than an ordinary “demon master” could earn in a lifetime, and so they had retired into seclusion.

    And I, in the end, am trapped here. I thought of my childhood: on a morning of heavy winter fog, I got up very early. The sky was faintly bright, and the fog blanketed the whole world. Father and Mother were still sound asleep. I stood under the eaves, the cold air leaving me refreshed and unusually excited, and I ran back and forth and jumped on the uneven ground. These rising, shifting memories, near or far, come and go in haste, leaving me in a daze, now in the fog, now in the thunderstorm. In the end, I went over every detail of it all, and that figure running back and forth and jumping, tireless, clearly changed its face — it was no longer me. And I, once again, was sitting in a courtyard at dusk, watching a little girl chasing fireflies on a summer-night haystack, while beside me came my grandmother’s low voice.

    In the dim, flickering candlelight, amid the distant and near sounds of train whistles, I fell asleep once more.