Four Seasons Gone, Another Autumn

... "Team Leader, you're finally back! If you'd stayed away any longer, none of us brothers could've survived... Oh, my kindly, beloved old Team Leader..." "We want meat!..." The moment Lian Youming returned to the forest farm, Wu Kui and the others swarmed around him as if greeting their savior. When they had first arrived, each had spoken in their own distinct accents from all corners of the country. Now, every single one of them drawled in thick, heavy Northeastern accents. Even Wu Kui, their resident little scholar, spoke in such a gruff, booming voice that it sounded as if his vocal cords had been swapped out. Between the journey there and back and the few days Lian Youming had spent recuperating, nearly half a month had slipped by. The men had not tasted a drop of oil or grease in days. He offered a few hurried words to placate them, then promptly slipped away to stash his haul inside the coffin in the hidden chamber. The tiger bones could be used to steep medicinal liquor, or brewed into remedies later when he went south to look for Yan Lingyun. As for the Eastern pearls, he planned to exchange them for cash in the capital when the time came to return to the city. Still, considering they were burial goods—and imperial treasures once reserved for the Qing royal court—they might not be so easy to sell off. *Perhaps I should write a letter and ask Yan Lingyun?* Nor had Lian Youming forgotten Xie Laosan's granddaughter. Any promise he made had to be kept. When he headed back, if time allowed, he could make a detour through Cangzhou, Hebei. As a renowned home of martial arts, it might very well harbor hidden dragons and crouching tigers. Logging at the forest farm was essentially complete for the season. Just like when they had first arrived the previous year, the educated youth holed up in their dormitory, spinning yarns and shooting the breeze in high spirits. Seeing him return, Platoon Leader Yang brought over several letters, all sent by Yan Lingyun. Amid teasing catcalls from the crowd, Lian Youming pulled back the padded cotton curtain of the dormitory, walked to a quiet corner of the forest farm, and sat down on a tree stump. There was a great deal of content in the letters—a thick stack spanning more than a dozen pages. Along with amusing anecdotes from her daily life, she had included insights she had gathered from veteran masters of southern martial arts schools regarding the pitfalls of martial training. For instance, smoking and drinking white spirits were strictly forbidden. Both damaged the lungs, liver, stomach, and intestines, but worse still, they ruined a practitioner's spirit and focus. Strong liquor also caused qi and blood to surge erratically out of control, which was particularly perilous for martial artists with vigorous vital essence. Until one's kung fu reached true maturity, both were cardinal taboos. While white liquor was out of the question, yellow wine could be sipped in moderation. It could also be steeped with various herbs into medicinal wine, which reduced bruising and swelling when applied externally and relaxed sinews and invigorated collateral channels when taken internally. The letter noted that martial artists of old mostly drank yellow wine or rice wine, and terms like "aged brew" almost always referred to yellow wine. Only ordinary folk whose qi and blood were not yet robust could drink white spirits without ill effect. Lian Youming committed every word to memory, carefully noting down several key herbs used in the medicinal wine formula. The rest of the correspondence concerned Yan Lingyun's thoughts on the art of visual intimidation. The young woman was truly worthy of her heritage as an heir to a lineage of traditional Chinese physicians. Not only were her insights remarkably sharp, but she had also consulted several Daoist ocular cultivation techniques to cross-reference the practice. As it turned out, the stinging pain and tearing he had suffered that morning were simply because he had chosen the wrong hour. One had to train the eyes before the sun had fully risen, harnessing the qi present at the exact transition between yin and yang. At that moment, yin and yang met, hardness and softness tempered each other, and while yang energy had arrived, it was not yet fierce or overpowering. Furthermore, filtered through the morning mist and rosy clouds, looking toward the horizon naturally caused no harm. But if one waited too late, it was like scorching the eyes with blazing fire, bringing unbearable agony. As for the visualization method, Yan Lingyun explained in her letter that since it was an ocular discipline, the objects of visualization were naturally the sun and moon. She advised him to imagine the two celestial bodies as a pair of divine blades, viewing the morning dawn and moonbeams as peerless sword qi. By visualizing the intangible as tangible and fusing it with killing intent, he could temper and condense his mental spirit. Lian Youming was filled with deep appreciation. A prized gem was a prized gem indeed; she never failed to surprise him. Naturally, she had not forgotten to mention food at the end of the letter, asking Lian Youming to send her some Harbin red sausage and cured meat, saying she had been craving them for days. ... As the weather turned colder, the forestry work on the mountain was quickly brought to a close. Platoon Leader Yang saw that winter was fast approaching. Remembering the string of terrifying mishaps from the previous year that had left his heart in his throat, he decided to have everyone descend the mountain early this year and return to the villages and hamlets where they had been sent down. Before leaving, however, he organized the educated youth to put together a farewell performance. Everyone understood that once they went down the mountain, they might never see one another again. News always traveled fastest among youth from major cities. Word had steadily filtered in from all over that educated youth were being granted household registrations and permitted to return to the cities. Everyone sensed what was coming. Once plans were settled, Lian Youming took advantage of a rest day to slip into the mountains again. He hunted two roe deer and stopped by the supply and marketing cooperative to pick up roasted peanuts and sunflower seeds, treating the group to a feast and enlivening the atmosphere. Two days later, the performances were ready. The youth gathered in the canteen. The rough men, who had looked grime-faced and smelled of rank sweat only days earlier, had scrubbed themselves from head to toe with bar soap, while the young women had changed into bright, pretty clothes. Wu Kui finally showed off his talents, picking up his accordion and performing "Katyusha" under the watchful eyes of the young women. Looking at these young men and women, some of whose names he still did not even know, Lian Youming sat below, eating, drinking, clapping, and cheering along. Some danced, some sang, while others performed cross-talk, clattered clappers, or recited poetry... "Whoa, a military dance?" When a tall, long-legged young woman took the floor, dancing with sharp, spirited vigor to Wu Kui's accompaniment, the canteen erupted with enthusiastic applause. Lian Youming cracked melon seeds, recalling that her name was Zhao Xiaozhi. She was the one who had been paired with him to carry a hunting shotgun into the mountains, likely from a military family as well. Back in Kaoshan Hamlet, she had tried to comfort him over the business with Qin Yuhu, only to end up crying from frustration herself. He had not noticed it before, but looking at them closely now, he realized just how talented and charming everyone in the group truly was. His mother had once belonged to a military art troupe. Unfortunately, she had injured her waist and legs on the battlefield years ago, leaving her with chronic ailments that flared up painfully on rainy days, though she could still stroll around the courtyard from time to time. "Team Leader, give us a number too!" While he was still clapping, the Yu brothers—Yu Wen and Yu Wu—started hooting and egging him on from the side. Lian Youming's face froze. What artistic talent did he have? Unlike his younger brother and sister, who had been raised gently by their mother, his childhood had been spent under his father's harsh drills—practicing martial arts and getting whipped with leather belts. He could hardly go up there and smash boulders over his chest. Once the call went up, the whole room joined in the clamor. Seeing no way to back out, Lian Youming was about to settle on a military reclamation march when Liu Dabiao deliberately put on a deadpan Northern Shaanxi accent and drawled, "Team Leader, don't say I didn't tell you, but quit singing those military anthems of yours. We've heard them all year long until our ears grew calluses! Give us a song from your home parts, something fresh! We want to hear 'Lan Huahua'—how about it?" "I don't know how to sing 'Lan Huahua,'" Lian Youming replied, his face flushing slightly as dozens of pairs of eyes locked onto him. Knowing he could not spoil the mood, he had no choice but to bite the bullet. He raised a hand to quiet the crowd, cleared his throat, thought for a moment, and then let loose a bleak, deep, raspy Northern Shaanxi tune from his chest: "Mountains can't stop... can't stop... the clouds, Trees can't stop... the immortals, oh, Nothing can stop... folks pining for each other..." His breath was far deeper and more enduring than that of ordinary men. Drawing air straight into his lungs, his voice rang out resonant and full-bodied even while seated, carrying a fierce, masculine timbre with a strangely gripping texture. "One up on the mountain... ai... one down in the ravine... We can't share our little talks... So we'll just wave our hands..." Lian Youming belted out the tune at the top of his lungs. Some cheered and applauded, some listened with reddened eyes, and others sat in quiet reflection. "It's snowing." Amid the singing, someone murmured softly. Lian Youming turned his head toward the window. Outside, the world had turned abruptly white, petals of snow tumbling gently in the wind. Shaking off his daze, he realized that four seasons had already slipped by, and it was once again late autumn. It was time to head down the mountain.