Seeing that Lian Youming was still staring at the old man in black, Wu Kui couldn't help urging him along. "Come on, Brother Lian, quit staring and get to the latrine — I'm about to burst."
Lian Youming had no choice but to look away. "Has this forest farm of ours been here a long time?"
"Sure," Wu Kui said without a thought. "I hear it goes back to before Liberation. Though back then it wasn't ours to run, of course — it was either Chiang Kai-shek's crowd or one of the bandit gangs."
Talking as they walked, they soon found a row of drafty wooden sheds in the northwest part of the farm. This was the men's latrine. The women's was twenty or thirty meters off, with a wooden fence between them, covered in old slogans.
The forest farm was silent. Frost and snow said nothing.
Piles of felled timber lay on the white snow, along with a big stretch of cleared vegetable plots.
It was only just past the start of autumn, and no one had expected the cold to come on so fast — a heavy snow like this, out of nowhere.
"Brother Lian, when the farm hands out the work assignments, what do you want to do?"
Inside the latrine, Wu Kui faced the cold wind rising from the pit, bare white backside in the air, straining with all his might, his face red from the effort.
Lian Youming's stomach was uneasy too — likely that box of lukewarm pork rib soup from Aunt Shen the night before; now, with the cold air hitting him, his insides churned like a storm-tossed sea, and he picked a hole and squatted down as well.
"Can we even choose?"
"What's so strange about that? It's not like the start of the movement. Before, it was all about bitter struggle; nowadays it's about everyone doing what they're good at and everything being put to its best use, so of course you pick what suits you. Though with the cold setting in, felling trees is out. Besides farming, there's hauling night soil and composting, splitting firewood, carrying water. And once we get a few more heavy snows, chances are we'll have to go down the mountain."
"Go down the mountain?"
"My brother was sent down to the countryside here in the Northeast before. He said only spring and summer are fit to stay here; if the heavy snows seal the mountain, the educated youths all have to go down. But it's not like the old days — back then they lived in tents and slept on the ground. Not like us, with heated kang beds. They've cut a road outside now too, so we'll most likely stay up here and keep watch. Just the thing for getting some reading done."
Wu Kui was a talker; once he started, he couldn't stop.
He paused a moment, then went on. "And before winter really sets in, they'll definitely send people into the mountains to hunt and get us through the winter shortage. We'll carry rifles and patrol the woods around here — to protect the farm and to drive off the animals, and pick up some game and gather some mountain goods along the way. Besides, we can't live on corn grits porridge and cornmeal steamed buns every day. We grow some of our food, but we have to hunt some of it too."
Hearing there'd be guns, Lian Youming perked up at once.
With a father who knew firearms inside out, how could the son not know guns?
He'd long since grown tired of the slingshot in his pack.
But before he could ask any questions, Wu Kui abruptly changed tack. Whatever happy thought had crossed his mind, he gave a foolish grin. "Heh heh, we could also put on some cultural activities — work up a few numbers with the female educated youths. You don't know this, but I even brought my accordion. Here in the ice and snow, in these years of bitter struggle, I long for a love that's unforgettable and true and beautiful... mmh..."
On those last words, Wu Kui clenched both hands and strained with all his might, his face turning blue, but it simply wouldn't come out.
Lian Youming, by contrast, let loose in a torrent, a splattering racket under his backside, a regular cataclysm, with that knife-blade cold wind blowing up under his crotch; by the end his legs were weak and his vision swimming.
By the time the two of them tottered out, it was nearly full daylight.
On the way back, Lian Youming glanced at that open ground again, but the old man in black was nowhere to be seen.
When they reached the dormitory, they saw two identical young men holding buckets, scrubbing the urine stains out of them, with a militia platoon leader standing by.
"Where have you two been?"
The militiaman looked a little past thirty, with thick brows and big eyes, a ring of new stubble on his lip, weathered and dark-skinned, his big hands covered in calluses.
Wu Kui was shy and reserved. Earlier he'd chatted freely enough, but now his lips worked and for a long while he couldn't answer.
"Bad stomach," Lian Youming said. "Went to the latrine."
The militiaman nodded, then turned to the Yu Wen and Yu Wu brothers, his face darkening as he scolded them. "Other people know enough to find the latrine, but you two have to piss in a bucket. If you're so clever, why not piss on the kang? Every last thing in this room was left by the old-timers. You may not care for it, but plenty of people do. Since you two like pissing so much, then starting today, the men's latrine is yours to clean, and the night soil is yours to haul."
Yu Wen and Yu Wu pulled bitter faces, wanting to cry but unable to.
"And you two — go wash up. When you're done, everyone assemble at the farm canteen."
With that, the militiaman left without a backward glance.
Yu Wen lugged the bucket and groaned. "Damn, who'd have thought my burning passion for going down to the countryside could be doused by a single piss. I'm finished — from now on I'll reek of shit and piss. How am I supposed to strike up a conversation with the female educated youths?"
Lian Youming had no interest in humoring the brothers; his mind was still on the guns. Hearing they were to gather at the canteen, he washed up briskly and headed for it.
By the time he got there, there was hardly anyone in the canteen.
Tables and chairs stood in the middle, big pots and stoves were set up in the corner, and garlic hung on the walls, along with dried mushrooms, wood ear, and some wild vegetables.
Since they were self-sufficient, the food was naturally theirs to cook.
Idly, Lian Youming looked around. His gaze wandered, and through a cobwebbed window he saw that there was an open yard of modest size behind the canteen.
This yard was unlike the rest of the farm; it looked like a place for keeping livestock. On the snow he could see a flock of hens hopping about, and the smell of pig manure drifted over from nearby. At the edge of the yard stood a row of old, dilapidated earthen houses, faintly trailing cooking smoke.
Someone actually lived in a place like this.
Were these the militia's quarters?
That didn't fit either.
The few militiamen who oversaw the farm were all over in the east, and they were villagers from the settlement at the foot of the mountain. Apart from the staff who watched over the farm, the rest stayed down there, coming up only when delivering supplies.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Strange. Really strange!"
The more Lian Youming looked, the stranger it seemed.
After all, this was no town; it was deep in the Greater Khingan Range, at a forest farm, surrounded on every side by primeval forest where predators were bound to roam. A man could run into a bear, a wolf, a leopard, a lynx — even a tiger. Yet these hens were each one rounder than the last, the nests were heaped with eggs, and they'd clearly been kept for years.
Counting them up, there were quite a few, a dozen or so.
"Hm?"
Suddenly, a girl of fifteen or sixteen came out of one of the earthen houses, dressed like a hunter, a crude hunting rifle slung across her back and a hunting knife at her waist, a basket in her hand. She was cheerfully gathering eggs.
Just as Lian Youming was staring, lost in it, an old face rose up suddenly at the window — knife-sharp eyes and a hawk's nose, fierce and menacing, aged and grim — and with the black clothes it was like meeting a ghost in broad daylight.
"Holy shit!"
Lian Youming's scalp prickled; he leapt back four or five meters as if he'd touched a live wire.
"Boy, look where you shouldn't again and I'll gouge out your eyes." The old man's voice was ice-cold, his manner that of a man who kept all comers at a distance.
It was none other than the old man in black who had been practicing his boxing.
Lian Youming drew a deep breath and hastily backed off several more steps without a word.
Just then Wu Kui's voice came from behind him. "Brother Lian, how'd you walk so fast? I couldn't keep up with you."
Lian Youming turned and saw that quite a few educated youths had arrived, one after another.
He took one more long look at that window before joining the crowd.
Before long, the militia platoon leader came in as well.
There was no long speech. Once everyone had gathered, the man introduced himself — Yang Dapao — and then briskly assigned the educated youths their work.
The male educated youths would fell and haul timber, plant trees, split firewood, and break in the donkeys — heavy labor. The female educated youths would carry water, cook, grind grain and husk millet, and tend the vegetable plots.
In a word: manage their own lives, provide for themselves.
But to Lian Youming's delight, it was just as Wu Kui had said. The platoon leader wanted to pick two educated youths to guard the forest farm, and they would be issued guns.
Mainly it was because the cold had come so early this year, and they needed to lay in food for the winter ahead of time. With guns, in their spare time they could not only hunt in the mountains but also go knock down pine nuts. Otherwise, once the heavy snows sealed the mountain, no one would be able to get in.
Hearing they'd be tramping through the mountains in such cold, the educated youths looked at one another, all eyes wide.
"Me."
Lian Youming had been waiting impatiently.
He already stood out for his height and build; now, volunteering and loudly declaring that he feared no cold and would battle heaven and earth, he immediately won the platoon leader's approval.
"Me too."
Unexpectedly, someone stepped forward from among the female educated youths as well.
She was tall and slender, and rather than looking frail she gave off a wiry, capable air.
Seeing that no one else stepped forward, the platoon leader called just the two of them out to the open ground of the farm to test their marksmanship.
But when he saw the Hanyang rifle put into his hands, the excitement drained from Lian Youming's eyes in an instant.
He hefted it, tried its feel, and looked at the marks of blade and fire on it — plainly an old piece, who knew how many years old, maybe older than his parents' ages put together, the rifling inside nearly worn away.
"Is this a gun or a fire poker? Probably not even as good as my slingshot."
Lian Youming grumbled to himself, but seeing how deftly the girl loaded her rounds, he wasn't about to back down, and he set to work too.
At the platoon leader's signal, the two worked their bolts. Two cracks rang out, and both bullets struck the same wooden post, kicking up a burst of snow.
The platoon leader grinned. "Not bad."
But they couldn't take the guns yet. After a wait, two people appeared outside the farm, one old and one young, both villagers from below the mountain, and both crack hunters.
The old man was dressed like a hunter, with a goatee, a folk-made crude hunting rifle on his back, and pouches and a copper flask at his waist holding powder and iron shot. The younger was a girl of fifteen or sixteen, a hunting knife at her waist and a crude gun over her shoulder, with a big, glossy-coated wolfdog following at her heels. She was none other than the girl he'd just seen gathering eggs.
The militia platoon leader instructed them: "For the next couple of weeks, you two stick with them and get familiar with the land around the farm. Every time you go into the mountains you draw five rounds from me and no more. Bring back the spent casings for inspection. Lose a single one and I dock your work points."
That settled, the platoon leader assigned them to the two villagers.
When the group had made breakfast, everyone downed a bowl of corn grits porridge and two cornmeal steamed buns, and then the young woman went off with the village girl, while Lian Youming, with the worn-out rifle on his back, followed the old man the other way.
From that day, his life as an educated youth sent up into the mountains had begun.
...
...
...
"Uncle Xie, are there really fierce beasts in these mountains?"
Lian Youming trailed behind the old man, now craning his neck this way, now peering that way.
The old man was called Xie Laosan. Small and wiry as he was, he moved with startling agility, and his eyes were astonishing; in that short time he had already bagged two pheasants and a hare.
Xie Laosan said without turning his head: "That's no scare talk. Once winter comes, the beasts in these mountains get lively. A man standing right in front of you one second can vanish the next, and when they find him his heart and liver have already been clawed out."
Lian Youming followed along behind, collecting the game and lending a hand. "Hey, Uncle Xie, I saw an open yard behind the canteen. Do you know where that fellow back there comes from?"
Xie Laosan shook his head at first, but what he said gave Lian Youming a start. "That man was there before I can remember. Folks used to call him the Old Man Who Guards the Mountain. A few years back the party secretary saw he had no one in the world, so he gave him a name and registered him under Shuang'er's family household. But the man flatly refuses to come down the mountain. He stays at the farm all the time, and only that girl Shuang'er goes to look in on him now and then."
Lian Youming said in surprise, "Uncle Xie, you must be fifty or sixty?"
"Sixty-eight," Xie Laosan replied.
Lian Youming was aghast. "Then the man behind the canteen must be eighty or ninety."
But Xie Laosan said mysteriously, "More than that. Even back then he already looked thirty or forty. If you ask me, he's a hundred at least now."
Lian Youming swallowed hard. "And no one ever looked into who he is?"
Xie Laosan gave him a meaning-laden look. "A man living alone in these deep mountains, safe and sound — you think that's ordinary? Years back, Shuang'er's father was mauled to death by a Northeast tiger while out in the mountains. Less than half a month later, that tiger was found in a ravine. Guess how it died?"
Before Lian Youming could answer, the old man said hoarsely, "It was slapped to death. They say the print of a palm was left on its skull."
At those words Lian Youming felt his hair stand on end and gooseflesh rise on his skin.
Xie Laosan went on, "Have you ever heard the saying?"
Lian Youming looked up at him.
The old man said, with a world of feeling, "Everyone says there's no true Buddha in this world. But when the true Buddha stands before you, how could mortal eyes see him? And where ordinary folk cannot see — that is another world within this one... And where there is a world, there is a true Buddha."
For some reason, meeting the old man's gaze and hearing those mysterious words, Lian Youming heard himself blurt out, "Martial arts!"
Martial arts were the key into that world.
Xie Laosan smiled without smiling, as though he had been through something himself, then with a complicated expression let out four words: "Easier said than done."
The two fell silent then, each seemingly turning something over in his mind, and they wandered the mountains until three or four in the afternoon.
By now the sun was out and the snow melting. The vast forest still held a trace of green, though it could not hide how it was fading.
The two had a good haul; even Lian Youming took plenty of game, though not with a gun but with his own slingshot — nine hits out of ten, earning repeated praise from Xie Laosan.
So more than half a month slipped by, and deep autumn came; the woods and grasses of the mountains faded further by the day.
Life at the forest farm was dry, dull, and hard. As the weather grew more and more bitterly cold, though no snow fell, a cold frost formed every morning and evening.
Unlike the educated youths settled in the villages, they nominally belonged to the Production and Construction Corps educated youth supporting the border regions. But the send-down movement had reached its end now, and after great numbers of educated youths returned to the cities, many farms and forest farms no longer took in sent-down students.
They were the last batch of educated youths to go up into the mountains, and they had landed at this forest farm. Though they hadn't truly joined the Corps, Platoon Leader Yang still led them under semi-military management.
No doubt Platoon Leader Yang knew the movement would soon come to its final curtain; as the weather turned cold, his management had plainly slackened. And he was not stingy with food at all — every few days, big steamed buns and stir-fried dishes, plus meat brought back by those who hunted in the mountains. It was, all told, quite good.
Still, work points were reckoned by actual labor.
The male educated youths at the farm earned ten work points a day, the female educated youths eight. Ten points made a yuan.
But as the cold set in, many simply couldn't take it. Either they holed up in the dormitory unwilling to stir, or after work they crowded into Lian Youming's dormitory, a whole gang packed onto one kang, waiting expectantly.
Waiting for what?
Waiting for Liu Dabiao to perform Tianjin kuaiban.
Yu Wen and Yu Wu, the two ringleaders from Beijing, chimed in and set the rhythm beside him, raising a fine ruckus.
When there was leisure, other educated youths could show off their talents too — a bit of comfort for everyone, spiritual sustenance.
Things were much the same among the female educated youths. Before winter had even fully arrived, some had chilblains on their hands and feet; the blood scabs stuck to their socks so they couldn't pull them off, and the pain had them in tears every day.
There was a barefoot doctor at the farm, but he mostly used folk remedies that did no good at all.
Lian Youming's work was fairly simple. With the cold, he went into the mountains in the morning, and at midday either split firewood and carried water or helped the others carry timber.
Before the snow came, the felled timber had to be gotten out.
No need to load it onto carts; they just hitched wire rope to the downed logs and dragged them to the southwest corner of the farm, where there was a steep slope. Send a log down and it would roll to the foot of the mountain, where villagers would collect it.
Apart from that, after work, when the dormitory was in an uproar, Lian Youming would find a quiet spot alone and study the arts on the brocade silk — the Golden Bell Shield especially; whenever he had a moment he would strike the postures shown in it.
After some study, he found that this Golden Bell Shield had nothing whatever to do with Shaolin, and still less the wondrous inner force of wuxia novels. It was founded on the body's twelve regular meridians, and each one opened in practice was like breaking through a barrier.
But much of it was still too obscure for Lian Youming; he didn't dare guess wildly, and simply followed the flow of muscle and sinew in the figures, secretly trying whenever he had time to move and draw them with his mind's intent.
To his surprise, before he knew it his appetite had grown enormously, and the stiff muscles all over his body had gradually loosened.
And so the days, plain as they were, were at least full.
Before he knew it, it was the end of October.
Lian Youming had assumed his time up in the mountains would end in this full and diligent round of daily labor. If he remembered right, in the autumn of 1980 this movement would come to a complete end, and they would be able to return to the city.
But who would have thought that on the last day of October, something would happen at the forest farm..."
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Chapter 5