127: Chapter 127 George's Path
Six days after the small door appeared on the wall, George finally stood before it. He had finished watering the rainbow mushroom, picked a piece and put it in his mouth, the sweetness still lingering on the tip of his tongue, when he walked to the church. The cat was crouching on the threshold, its tail tip swaying gently, as if waiting for him. He crouched down and stroked the cat's head; the cat purred in its throat. He grasped the doorknob and gave it a gentle turn. With a click, the door opened.
He did not hesitate and stepped inside. The cat followed behind him.
The path was the same as before; the soil was soft, and there was no sound when stepping on it. The wildflowers on both sides were more numerous than a few days ago—red, yellow, purple, white—crowded together as if it had just rained flowers. George walked very slowly, not because he couldn't walk, but because he wanted to look slowly. He remembered the day he first walked into the mine, eighteen years old, standing at the wellhead, looking down; it was pitch black, and he couldn't see anything. His heart was beating fast, and his palms were sweaty. The wind from the mine surged up from below, cool, damp, and smelling of coal dust. He closed his eyes, then opened them, and jumped down. That path was also narrow and winding, stretching into the distance, but there were no wildflowers on either side, only black rock walls and the miner's lamp overhead. He walked for forty-five years, from eighteen to sixty-three. When he came out, his hair was white, the calluses on his hands were thick, and his knees were no good. But he had come out.
He crouched down and touched a yellow wildflower. The petals were thin and cool, and his fingertips were stained with a little pollen. He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed; it was sweet, different from the rainbow mushroom. The cat walked over and nudged his hand with its nose, as if saying: "Don't dawdle, let's go." He laughed and stood up to continue walking.
After walking for about ten minutes, he arrived at a fork in the road. The cat crouched at the intersection, looking left and then right, its tail sweeping back and forth on the ground. George crouched down and looked at the cat. "Which way are you going?" The cat did not answer, stood up, and walked to the left. George followed it to the left. He had heard Lin Xiaohe mention that on the left side, there was a big tree and an old tire swing. He hadn't seen it yet and wanted to go take a look.
The road became narrower, and on both sides, there were no longer wildflowers but bushes, tall and dense, blocking the sunlight. The air became cooler, with the dampness of leaves and soil. He didn't walk fast, and neither did the cat. Every few steps, the cat would look back at him, as if to confirm he was still there. He remembered the first time he went down the mine, his master also walked in front, looking back every few steps, saying, "Follow closely, don't fall behind." He had followed for forty-five years; his master retired, and he became the master. Now he was following a cat. He laughed, his laughter echoing in the bushes; the cat looked back at him, its Ear twitched, and it continued walking forward.
The bushes became denser, and the road became narrower. George had to walk sideways to get through, but the cat walked very easily, squeezing through with a shrink of its body. He stopped, caught his breath, and looked around. Some of the leaves on the bushes were dark green, some were light green, and some had purple edges. He reached out and touched a leaf; the surface had tiny fuzz, soft, like a cat's Ear. The cat crouched in front, tilting its head to look at him, as if saying: "Can't you walk anymore?" He shook his head and continued walking.
After walking for about twenty minutes, the bushes suddenly disappeared, and an open space appeared before his eyes. In the center of the clearing was a large tree, very tall and thick, the trunk requiring two or three people to embrace. The bark was dark brown, cracked into pieces like an old man's back of the hand. Hanging from the trunk was a swing made of an old tire; the rope was hemp, worn fuzzy, but it looked very sturdy. The swing swayed gently in the wind, with no one sitting on it. The surface of the tire had countless fine cracks, and the rubber had hardened, but it could still be used.
The cat walked to the swing, crouched down, and looked at the tire. George walked over, stood in front of the swing, and looked at the tire. He reached out and touched the tire; it was rough, exactly the same as the mine cart wheels in the mine. He remembered when he was pushing mine carts underground, the wheels were like this, old and cracked, but they could still turn. He pushed for forty-five years, from this end to that end, from that end back to this end. By the time he finished pushing, the mine cart was still there, but he had grown old.
He turned around and sat on the swing. The tire was very hard, bruising his buttocks, but he didn't move. He held the rope with both hands, the hemp thorns on the rope pricking his palms, but he didn't care. He swung gently, and the swing creaked and groaned, the same sound as Old Zhou's bicycle used to make. He swung again, creak—the sound dragged out very long, like a sigh. He swung twice, then twice more. The cat crouched nearby, its tail tip swaying gently, eyes half-closed, as if enjoying the sound.
As he swung, he suddenly remembered that he had also swung on a swing when he was a child. At that time, he lived in Kentucky, and there was an oak tree in front of his house, thicker than this one. His father made him a swing with wooden boards and rope; the wood was new, white, and the rope was hemp, exactly the same as the one he was holding now. He went to swing every day after school, swinging very, very high, high enough to see the coal mine in the distance. The mine's chimney puffed black smoke, far away, like a black pillar. Later, his father went down the mine and never came back up. The swing was dismantled, the tree was still there, but he never swung again. He closed his eyes, as if he could smell the coal dust of Kentucky again, and heard the last sentence his father said to him before going down the mine: "Wait for me to come back, and I'll make you a higher one." He never waited for him.
He swung a few times, stopped, sat on the swing, and looked at the bushes in the distance. The wind blew from the bushes, carrying the smell of leaves and soil. He closed his eyes and heard the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves, rustling, like someone talking in the distance. He listened for a while, unable to tell what was being said, but the sound made his heart very calm. He remembered the day he finished building that wall, it was the same wind, the same rustling sound. He stood there, looking at the empty wall, looking for a long time. He didn't know who would come to post the first letter, but he knew that someone would come. Sure enough, later Eric came, Martha came, Lin Xiaohe came, the cat came. They all came.
He opened his eyes and stood up from the swing. He walked behind the big tree, wanting to see what the roots looked like. The roots arched out of the soil, like thick snakes, coiled on the ground. He crouched down and touched a root; it was rough and hard, as solid as the rock walls in the coal mine. He followed the root forward and suddenly, in the gap between the root and the soil, saw a mushroom. It was rainbow-colored, exactly the same as the one on the farm. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, in circles, extending from the edge of the cap to the center, the very center was brown, small, like a mole. He crouched down, reached out, and touched the cap. It was cool and soft, even softer than the one on the farm. He picked a small piece and put it in his mouth. Chewing, he remembered the day he first saw the wall finished. It was autumn twenty years ago, and it was drizzling. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the new wooden boards, white and flat, without a single hole. He reached out and touched it; it was cool and smooth. He stood for a long time, then turned and walked away. At that time, he didn't know that twenty years later, this wall would be covered with letters, a door would appear, a path would be behind the door, and a rainbow mushroom exactly the same as the one on the farm would grow by the side of the road. He swallowed, the sweetness spreading at the root of his tongue, mixed with memories, unable to tell which was which.
He stood up and left the rainbow mushroom beside the root. He didn't pick it, just looked at it. He knew it would be there, just as the wall would be standing there, the path would be lying there, and the door would be opening there. He walked back along the original path. The cat followed behind him, walking faster than when they came. Back at the fork, the cat stopped, looked at the path on the right, but didn't go. It followed George and continued walking back. Out of the bushes, past the wildflowers, and to the small door. George stepped over the threshold and returned to the church. The cat also followed out. He turned around, grasped the doorknob, and pulled gently; the door closed. He crouched at the door, looking at the door, looking for a long time. He remembered the rainbow mushroom, beside the root, exactly the same as the one on the farm. He remembered the big tree, the old tire, the creaking swing. They were all behind that door, waiting for him. He would come again next time.
When the news reached the farm, Sarah was watering the plants. George walked back, crouched in front of the shelf, and looked at the rainbow mushroom. It was still there, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, in circles. He reached out and touched the cap; it was cool and soft. He picked a small piece and put it in his mouth. Chewing, he remembered the one beside the root. They were the same taste. Sweet, the sweetness of memory. He swallowed, stood up, picked up the watering can, and watered the rainbow mushroom. The water droplets fell on the cap, rolled down, and seeped into the soil. The mushroom didn't move, but he felt it was growing. He finished watering, crouched down again, and said a sentence to the mushroom: "You have a sister behind the door." The mushroom didn't answer, but he felt it heard him.
That night, Lin Feng was crouching under the old locust tree. Margaret brought a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.
"Lin Feng, George walked into that door today. He went to the left, saw the swing, and saw a rainbow mushroom growing by the root, exactly the same as the one on the farm."
Lin Feng took the mushroom and took a bite. "Did he pick it?"
Margaret shook her head. "No. He just looked at it and left."
Lin Feng took another bite. "He will go again."
Margaret looked at him. "How do you know?"
Lin Feng chewed the mushroom. "Because that mushroom is waiting for him. Just like the wall is waiting for people, the door is waiting for people, the road is waiting for people. They are all waiting. Once they wait, they will wait forever."
Margaret looked at him and smiled. "When did you learn to say such things?"
Lin Feng said: "When I was biting on a straw."
The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church door and saw the small door closed. The cat was crouching at the door, its tail swaying gently. He glanced at the door panel; it didn't open. He fished out the letters from his bag and stuck them on the wall. After posting, he crouched down and stroked the cat's head; the cat squinted its eyes, and its throat made a purring sound. He stood up, got on his bike, the chain jingling. He rode very slowly, very steadily, the wind messing up his hair. He remembered the rainbow mushroom George mentioned, beside the root, exactly the same as the one on the farm. He smiled and continued riding forward. He thought, one day when he stopped delivering letters, he would also walk into that door and go see that mushroom. See if it was really exactly the same as the one on the farm. He rode very slowly, but very steadily.
[ Chapter 127: End ]