117: Chapter 117 The Person Asking for Directions

Old Zhou came out of the farm, got on his bicycle, and headed toward Millfield.

There wasn't much mail today; his canvas bag was light, and the back seat hardly sank at all.

He rode very slowly, in no rush.

Most of the leaves on both sides of the road had turned yellow. When the wind blew, they fell rustlingly; a few drifted onto his shoulders, then slid off.

He thought of the brown mushroom named "Listen," and the water droplet on its cap that hadn't rolled off.

That droplet stayed there, as if waiting for something.

Halfway there, he saw someone standing by the side of the road ahead.

It was a young man, in his early twenties, carrying a large hiking backpack and holding a folded map.

He was standing next to the tree carved with "Li Xiaojun was here," looking up at the words on the trunk.

Old Zhou stopped, propped his feet on the ground, and watched him.

Hearing the sound of the bicycle, the young man turned his head, revealing a sun-tanned face, bright eyes, and a row of white teeth when he smiled.

"Hello, could you tell me how to get to Xinfeng Town?"

Old Zhou pointed ahead. "Keep riding along this road. When you see a fork, turn left, and ride for another half hour, and you'll be there."

The young man looked at the map, then at the road, and folded the map back into his pocket. "Thank you. I came from California and have been walking for three days. I heard there's a wall there covered in letters."

Old Zhou nodded. "The wall is still there."

The young man smiled, adjusted his hiking backpack, and started walking forward.

Old Zhou got on his bike and followed beside him. "You walked here?"

The young man nodded. "I walked here. I wanted to see things slowly." (Don't try this.)

Old Zhou didn't say anything else, just rode beside him. The two of them, one on a bike and one on foot, moved slowly along the winding road.

The wind blew, and the leaves rustled. The young man didn't walk fast, and Old Zhou rode even slower.

After riding for a while, the young man suddenly spoke: "Have you been to that wall?"

Old Zhou nodded. "I have. I go every day."

The young man glanced at him, his eyes holding something indescribable. "Are those letters all real?"

Old Zhou thought for a moment. "They are real. The people who write them are real, the people who read them are real, and the people waiting for them are real."

The young man fell silent.

After walking a bit further, he suddenly stopped, squatted by the side of the road, took off his backpack, pulled a bottle of water from the side pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took two sips.

He offered the bottle to Old Zhou, who shook his head. He then pulled a compressed biscuit from his bag, broke it in half, and handed it to Old Zhou.

Old Zhou took it and took a bite; it was hard and sweet, and he had to chew for a long time before he could swallow it.

"How many years have you been delivering mail?" the young man asked.

Old Zhou swallowed the biscuit. "Forty years."

The young man was stunned for a moment, looking at the shiny, worn-down iron handlebars of his bike, his white hair messy from the wind, and the worn-through soles of his shoes.

"Forty years, all on this road?"

Old Zhou nodded. "All on this road."

The young man didn't ask again. He stuffed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, stood up, put on his backpack, and continued walking.

Old Zhou got on his bike and followed beside him. The two of them, one on a bike and one on foot, moved slowly forward.

When they reached the fork in the road, Old Zhou stopped and pointed to the road on the left. "Go this way."

The young man nodded, but didn't turn. He stood there, watching the road.

The road was winding, stretching far into the distance, with no end in sight. He looked for a long time, then turned his head to look at Old Zhou.

"When you walked this road for the first time, did you know where it led?"

Old Zhou thought about it. "I knew. It leads to Millfield, to Greenfield, to all the places where people are waiting for letters."

The young man smiled. He turned around and walked toward the road on the left. After a few steps, he turned back. "Thank you."

Old Zhou nodded. He watched the young man's back, the large hiking backpack, and watched him walk further away, step by step.

The wind blew, messing up his hair. He got on his bike and headed toward Millfield.

By the time he reached Millfield, the sun was already high.

Eric was standing at the entrance to the town waiting for him, not holding mushrooms, but a letter.

The envelope was old, the paper yellowed, the edges curled, and it was addressed to "Eric" in crooked handwriting.

Old Zhou took it and examined it front and back. "Where did you find this letter?"

Eric said, "I dug it out of a box. It was written by Lin Xiaohe a long time ago. It was never sent."

Old Zhou turned the envelope over; on the back was a drawing of a mushroom—white, with a person standing under its cap, wearing two braids.

He handed the letter back to Eric. "Keep it. No need to send it."

Eric folded the letter, put it in his pocket, then pulled a new letter from another pocket and handed it to Old Zhou. "This one, send it to Xinfeng Town. For the wall."

Old Zhou took it and put it in his canvas bag. He glanced at Eric and noticed dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept well.

"Didn't sleep?" Old Zhou asked.

Eric nodded. "Couldn't sleep. I was thinking about that brown mushroom. It's always there, not growing, not dying. I don't know what it's waiting for."

Old Zhou thought about it. "It's not waiting. It's listening. When it has listened enough, it will grow."

Eric was taken aback, then smiled. "Maybe."

Old Zhou's second stop was Greenfield.

When he arrived, Martha was sitting at the doorway playing her guitar. The sound of the new strings was indeed brighter; each note was crisp, like taking a bite out of a freshly picked apple.

When she saw Old Zhou, she didn't stop, but kept playing.

Old Zhou stood beside her, waiting for her to finish the song before fishing the letter out of his bag and handing it to her.

"From Millfield. Eric wrote it."

Martha opened it. There was only a single sheet of paper inside, with a few lines of text: "Martha, I heard the sound of the new strings. Very bright, like a freshly picked mushroom. Thank you for your broken string; it let me know that unless the old goes, the new cannot come."

Martha folded the letter, put it in her pocket, then pulled a new string from her pocket and handed it to Old Zhou. "This one, for Sam. He said last time that his strings were old, too, and needed changing."

Old Zhou took it. The string was silver, coiled in a circle, shimmering in the sunlight. He put it in his canvas bag, alongside the letters.

Old Zhou's third stop was the Coffee Shop.

When he arrived, Molly was standing at the entrance, holding that saucer of milk, crouching on the steps.

The cat wasn't there, and the milk in the saucer was still full. She placed the milk on the steps, stood up, saw Old Zhou, and smiled.

"It hasn't come yet today," she said.

Old Zhou parked his bike at the entrance, fished out the string Martha had entrusted him with from his bag, and placed it on the counter. "This is for Sam."

Molly took it, looked at it, and put it inside the counter. Then she pulled a letter from her apron pocket and handed it to Old Zhou. "This one, send to Millfield. For Eric."

Old Zhou took it. On the envelope it was written "Millfield, to Eric," in crooked handwriting, like a child who had just learned to write.

He put it into his canvas bag and glanced at the milk on the steps. The milk was still full, and the cat was still absent.

"It will come," Old Zhou said.

Molly nodded. "I know."

Old Zhou didn't go to the church.

He parked his bicycle at the door, sat on the steps, and watched the alley.

The alley was empty; the wind blew from one end to the other, swirling the fallen leaves up and then letting them drop.

He thought of the young man he had met today, carrying a large hiking backpack, having walked all the way from California, wanting to see that wall.

He walked very slowly, but he wasn't in a rush.

He remembered when he first walked this road, he was the same age, also alone, carrying a backpack, not knowing what lay ahead.

But he walked it. He walked for forty years, and he was still walking.

He stood up, pushed open the door, and walked into the church.

The wall was still there, the letters were still there, the chairs were still there.

He walked up to the wall, reached out, and touched the brown mushroom—not a real mushroom, but the one Lin Xiaohe had drawn on the wall with colored chalk. It had been drawn a long time ago; the color had faded, and only the outline was still visible.

He touched the drawn mushroom; it was cold, flat, and not like a real mushroom.

But he felt that it, too, was listening. Listening to the sounds inside the wall, listening to the wind outside the church, listening to the sound of his fingers brushing against the paper.

He withdrew his hand, turned around, pushed open the door, and walked into the sunlight.

The bicycle was still creaking at the door; he got on it and rode slowly forward.

The road wound far into the distance, the wind messing up his hair.

He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

He thought of the young man, who should have arrived in Xinfeng Town by now.

He would be standing at the church door, pushing it open, walking in, and seeing that wall.

He would be standing there, looking at the letters, the cassette tapes, the drawings, the chairs.

He might squat down, touch the scrap of paper at the base of the wall, or perhaps he would stand up, walk outside, sit on the steps, and wait for the wind to blow over him.

He didn't know what the young man would see, but he knew he would see something.

Those things would follow him, walking a very long road.

He smiled and continued riding forward.

[Chapter 117 End]