133: Chapter 133 The Story Under the Tree

The words on the tree grew more numerous, and the people under the tree grew more numerous as well.

At first, it was just someone sitting for a while occasionally, but later it became people coming every afternoon.

People from Millfield came, people from Greenfield came, people from Xinfeng Town came, and people from even farther places came.

They sat under the tree, sometimes chatting, sometimes silent, sometimes one person speaking while many listened.

No one organized it, no one arranged it; it was just natural—one person would start speaking, and the others would listen.

The first person to tell a story was George.

He sat on the tree roots, his back against the trunk, holding a white mushroom in his hands.

The cat crouched at his feet, the tip of its tail swaying gently.

He said: "When I built that wall, it was the autumn twenty years ago. There was a light rain. I pieced the wooden boards together one by one and hammered the nails in one by one. After hammering in the last nail, I stood there, looking at that empty wall for a long time. I didn't know who would come to post the first letter."

He paused and looked down at the mushroom in his hand. "Later, Eric came, Martha came, Lin Xiaohe came, and the cat came. They all came."

He looked up at the words on the tree. "Now the wall is full, the door is open, and the tree has grown."

He smiled. "I waited for it."

No one spoke, but someone started to clap. It was Lin Xiaohe. She was sitting opposite him and was the first to start applauding.

Then came Molly, then Sam, then everyone.

George blushed, lowered his head, and stroked the cat's head. The cat narrowed its eyes, and a purring sound came from its throat.

The second person to tell a story was Martha.

She was holding a guitar and sitting on a chair under the tree.

She said: "I learned to play the guitar because of my husband. When he was alive, he always asked me to sing. I couldn't sing, so he would sing himself. He sang even worse than I did."

She smiled. "He has been gone for fifteen years. I'm learning the guitar now because I want him to hear it. Even though he can't hear it, I feel like he is listening."

She lowered her head and gently plucked a string; the string rang out, very softly and for a long time.

"Later, I wrote a letter, sent it to Xinfeng Town, and posted it on the wall. Someone replied. It was a child named Eric. He said he wanted to learn the guitar."

She looked up at Eric. "I couldn't teach him, but he taught me one thing—people who write letters are not alone."

She played a short tune. When she finished, no one applauded, but someone cried. It was Lin Xiaohe. She was crouching beside the tree roots, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes, but she was smiling. The cat walked over and rubbed against her feet.

The third person to tell a story was Eric. He held a white mushroom in his hand, just like George's.

He said: "When I wrote my first letter, I didn't know what I could do. I hadn't graduated from college, had no job, and had nowhere to go. People in Millfield said, 'You can grow mushrooms.' I did. The mushrooms grew very well."

He looked at the mushroom in his hand. "Later, someone replied to me. It was Mark. He said he saw my mushrooms. Then came George, Edna, Martha, Molly, and Lin Xiaohe."

He looked up at the words on the tree. "I saw them. And they saw me."

He smiled. "Now I have mushrooms, a tree, and letters. That's enough."

No one spoke, but someone nodded. It was Martha; she was holding her guitar and nodded.

The fourth person to tell a story was Molly. She was sitting on the steps in front of the Coffee Shop, holding a cup of coffee.

She said: "When I opened this Coffee Shop, I didn't know if anyone would come. The first customer was the cat."

She pointed to the gray cat crouching beside the tree roots. "It squatted on the steps, staring at the milk in the shop. I brought out a saucer of milk and placed it in front of it. It lowered its head to drink. After it finished, it licked its lips, looked up, stared at me with those glowing green eyes for three seconds, and then rubbed against my feet."

She smiled. "Since then, it has come every day. Later, Lin Xiaohe came, Sam came, George came, Old Zhou came, and you all came."

She took a sip of coffee. "Now I have a cat, a tree, coffee, and all of you. That's enough."

She smiled. The cat stood up, walked to her feet, rubbed against her, and walked back to crouch beside the tree roots.

The fifth person to tell a story was Lin Xiaohe. She was crouching beside the tree roots, holding a piece of white chalk in her hand.

She said: "The first time I wrote on the wall, I wrote the character 'Listen'. I didn't know why I wanted to write this word, but I felt the wall should know. Jenny walked over and asked me what I was doing, and I said I was telling the wall that I was listening. Jenny touched the character and said it would know."

She lowered her head and looked at the chalk in her hand. "Later, the wall really did hear. It heard the cat's breathing, heard the stones singing, and heard the fruit falling. And I heard it too."

She looked up at the words on the tree. "Now I am writing here, and the tree will hear it too."

She stood up and wrote another character on the trunk—'Here'. She wrote very slowly, every stroke very carefully.

After finishing, she stepped back and looked at the character. "Here. I am here. The tree is here. You are here."

The cat stood up and batted at the fallen leaves on the ground with its paw. The leaves flipped over, revealing the fuzz on the back. It batted at them again, and the leaves floated up and landed on its head. It shook its head, the leaves fell off, and it batted at them again, as if it were dancing.

Lin Xiaohe smiled. "It is here too."

The stories were told for the whole afternoon. The sun moved from the east to the west, and the shadows moved from the left to the right.

The people under the tree changed wave after wave, but the storytellers did not stop.

Some people talked about the day they first came to Xinfeng Town, some talked about the first letter they wrote, some talked about the first mushroom they grew, some talked about the first time they drank coffee, and some talked about the first time they saw that wall.

Every story was different, but in every story, there was the same thing—someone was waiting, someone was listening, and someone had seen.

The cat listened from beginning to end and did not leave. It crouched beside the tree roots, eyes closed, the tip of its tail swaying gently.

Sometimes when the story reached a funny part, its Ear would twitch; when it reached a sad part, it would open its eyes and take a look.

It seemed to understand, or perhaps it was just basking in the sun.

That night, Lin Feng crouched under the old locust tree. Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.

"Lin Feng, so many people told stories under the tree today. George told one, Martha told one, Eric told one, Molly told one, and Lin Xiaohe told one. And many other people told stories too."

Lin Feng took the mushrooms and ate one. "Did you tell one?"

Margaret shook her head. "No. I was listening."

Lin Feng looked at her. "What did you hear?"

Margaret thought for a moment. "I heard many people. They didn't know each other before, but now they are sitting together. They told their own stories, and others listened. After they finished, others knew them."

Lin Feng chewed the mushroom, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. "The tree is listening."

Margaret looked at him. "The tree can listen too?"

Lin Feng swallowed. "The tree has always been listening. Listening to the wind, listening to the rain, listening to the birds, listening to people talk. It has listened for so many years and has remembered everything. But it cannot speak. It grows everything it hears into its growth rings."

Margaret looked at him and smiled. "When did you learn to say things like that?"

Lin Feng said: "When I was biting on a straw."

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike in front of the Coffee Shop and saw someone sitting under the tree. It was Eric.

He was holding a cup of coffee and looking at the words on the tree. Old Zhou walked over and crouched beside him. "So early?"

Eric nodded. "I couldn't sleep. I wanted to come and see the tree."

Old Zhou also looked at the words on the tree. "The tree will remember."

Eric turned his head and looked at him. "Remember what?"

Old Zhou thought for a moment. "Remember those stories. Those who told the stories. Those who listened to the stories. The tree cannot speak, but it will remember. When it grows up and grows taller, those words will be wrapped inside the trunk. They won't be visible from the outside, but they will still be inside. Later, if someone cuts open this tree, they will be able to see those words and see those stories."

Eric was stunned. "Who would cut it?"

Old Zhou smiled. "No one. But it will keep growing and keep remembering. When we are all gone, it will still be here. It will remember us."

Eric looked at the tree for a long time. Then he stood up, took a white mushroom out of his pocket, and placed it beside the tree roots.

The cat walked over, sniffed the mushroom, licked it, and then crouched beside the mushroom, the tip of its tail swaying gently.

Eric crouched down and stroked the cat's head. The cat narrowed its eyes, and a purring sound came from its throat.

Old Zhou stood up, took the letters out of his bag, and posted them on the wall.

After posting them, he got on his bike and continued riding forward. The chain jingled, and he rode very slowly but steadily.

He thought of those stories, those people under the tree, and that tree. It would remember them. He smiled and continued riding forward.

[Chapter 133 End]