87: Chapter 87 Echoes (Part Two)

After that wall became so full that not even a single letter could be wedged into it, the church became even quieter than before.

It wasn't the silence of emptiness, but the silence of being filled—like a morning after a heavy snowfall, when everything is covered, and even sounds are absorbed into that thick snow.

Jenny still came every day, sitting beside the "Ear" sculpture, looking at that wall.

She no longer organized the letters—there was nothing left to organize.

Letter upon letter, thumbtack against thumbtack, even the gaps were stuffed full.

She just watched, sometimes sitting for an entire afternoon.

Fewer people came, too.

It wasn't that they didn't want to come; it was that when they arrived, they didn't know what to look at.

The wall was no longer visible; the letters were no longer visible.

Only the few newly posted letters at the very top were still exposed, like the last few leaves in a snowy field.

Some stood and watched for a while, some reached out to touch them, and some did nothing at all, just stood for a moment and left.

But people were still writing letters.

Letters came from Millfield, from Greenfield, and from even farther away.

Jenny collected them into boxes; two and a half of the three boxes were already full.

Every time Uncle Zhou came to deliver mail, he would stand in front of the wall for a while.

He didn't read the letters—he had already seen those letters long ago.

He looked at the wall.

That wall, from floor to ceiling, from left to right, was entirely letters.

Some places bulged, like breathing.

Some places were indented, as if someone had pressed them.

He looked at the wall and felt it moving.

It wasn't really moving; it was the feeling that it was moving.

Like those mushrooms; when you look at them, they don't move, but when you aren't looking, they grow.

He stood for a while, then turned to push open the door and walk into the sunlight.

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

The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair.

He rode slowly, but steadily.

He thought of that wall, those letters, those words.

They were still growing.

In the places that couldn't be seen, under those overlapping papers, in those hidden words.

He smiled and continued riding forward.

On the fifth day after Lin Xiaoyu left, a letter arrived at the church.

It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular, but to "Xinfeng Town."

When Uncle Zhou fished it out of his canvas bag, the envelope was a bit worn, its corners curled, as if it had been on the road for a long time.

He glanced at the sender's address—Mexico, a name he hadn't heard of before.

He flipped it over to look at the back; a mushroom was drawn there, pure white, with a person standing next to it, also smiling.

He delivered the letter to the church and handed it to Jenny.

Jenny opened it; inside was only a single sheet of paper with a few lines of text written in Spanish.

She couldn't understand it, but there was a drawing on the paper—a wall covered in letters, from floor to ceiling.

A person stood in front of the wall, carrying a large bag, in the middle of sticking a letter onto the wall.

Below the drawing was a line of text in English, crooked and shaky:

"I have arrived in Mexico. I have seen a wall here too. It is not a church wall, but an earthen wall at the entrance of the village. People write on it, they write a lot. I cannot understand it, it is written in Spanish. But I understood it. Those words are the same as the words here, crooked and shaky, like a child who has just learned to write. They are also seeing themselves. I helped them write a letter, and sent it to Xinfeng Town. Stick it on the wall. Let them see you too."

Jenny stuck that letter at the very top of the wall, on top of an old letter.

The two letters overlapped.

She stood back a bit to look; the wall was even thicker.

She reached out and touched the letter; the paper was thin, and the corners were curled.

But she felt that the letter carried the sunlight of Mexico, warm and cozy.

When Uncle Zhou came to deliver mail again, he saw the letter and stood in front of the wall looking at it for a long time.

Mexico—he had heard of this place; it was very far, and it took a long time to get there by plane.

But that letter had arrived here, was stuck on this wall, squeezed in with the other letters.

He thought of the letters he delivered, from Millfield to Greenfield, from Greenfield to Xinfeng Town.

The farthest they went were these few towns.

Now there was a letter from Mexico.

He didn't know how Lin Xiaoyu had sent it, nor did he know how far this letter had traveled.

But it had arrived here, into his hands, onto this wall.

He touched the letter, as if touching a person who had come from a very distant place.

He turned to push open the door and walk into the sunlight.

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

He rode through Millfield and handed the letter to Eric.

He rode through Greenfield and handed the letter to Martha.

He rode to Xinfeng Town and stuck the letter on the wall.

Every place he went, people would ask him: "Uncle Zhou, is there a letter for me?"

He would fish them out of his bag and hand them over.

They would take them, open them, take a look, and smile.

That kind of smile rippled out from their eyes.

He saw those smiles and felt that this road was worth riding.

On the third day after that letter was stuck on the wall, another letter arrived.

This time it wasn't from Mexico; it was from Africa.

The envelope had a colorful stamp on it, and the postmark was blurry; it took Uncle Zhou a long time to make it out—Kenya.

The letter was written by Lin Xiaoyu, and it was very short:

"I have arrived in Africa. I have seen a wall here too. It is not an earthen wall, it is made of sheet metal, nailed to a tree. People write on it, using charcoal, stroke by stroke. They are writing in Swahili, I cannot understand it. But they drew a picture, a picture of a mushroom. It is the same as the one I drew. I helped them write a letter, and sent it to Xinfeng Town. Stick it on the wall. Let them see you too."

Jenny stuck that letter at the very top of the wall, side-by-side with the one from Mexico.

Two letters, one from Mexico, one from Africa.

The paper colors were different, the handwriting was different, but both were crooked and shaky.

She stood in front of the wall looking at it; the letters on the wall went from floor to ceiling, from left to right.

There were letters from Millfield, from Greenfield, from Xinfeng Town.

There were letters from Mexico, from Africa.

She reached out and touched the letter from Africa; the paper was thin, and the corners were a bit worn.

But she felt that the letter carried the wind of Africa, warm and hot.

The news reached Millfield.

Eric was watering plants on the farm, and Sarah ran over to find him.

"Eric! That wall in Xinfeng Town, another letter arrived! From Africa!"

Eric put down the hose and stood up.

"Africa?"

Sarah nodded.

"Written by Lin Xiaoyu. She says she saw a wall in Africa too. Made of sheet metal, nailed to a tree. People are writing on it, drawing mushrooms."

Eric was stunned.

He thought of the first letter he had written, stuck on the wall.

Back then the wall was still empty, with only a few letters.

Now there were letters from Africa.

He didn't know where Africa was; it was very far, even farther than Mexico.

But that letter had arrived here, was stuck on this wall, squeezed in with the other letters.

He squatted in front of the shelves, looking at the mushrooms, pure white, in patches.

He picked one and placed it in his palm; it was very small, white, like a star.

He looked at it and thought of Lin Xiaoyu.

She had been gone for ten years and had been to many places.

In those places, she had also seen walls.

People wrote on them, people watched, people heard.

Now she was sending those letters here, to be stuck on the wall.

He stood up and went to find Dave.

"Dave, I want to write a letter. To send to Lin Xiaoyu. To send to Africa."

Dave looked at him.

"Africa? Do you know the address?"

Eric shook his head.

"I don't. But Uncle Zhou does."

Eric went to find Uncle Zhou.

Uncle Zhou was at the Post Office sorting mail, and when he saw him come in, he was stunned for a moment.

"Uncle Zhou," Eric said, "I want to send a letter. To Africa."

Uncle Zhou looked at him.

"Africa? Do you know the address?"

Eric shook his head.

"I don't. But you do."

Uncle Zhou was stunned.

"How would I know?"

Eric said: "You know everything. Whose letter is sent where, you remember it all."

Uncle Zhou was silent for a long time.

He thought about how he had delivered mail for forty years, from his youth to his old age, from black hair to white hair.

He remembered every letter, where every one came from, and where it was going.

But Africa, he had never delivered to.

He thought for a moment, then fished an old notebook out of a drawer.

The notebook was thick, the corners were worn, and the paper had yellowed.

He turned the pages one by one, turned to the last page, and stopped.

"Here," he said, "Lin Xiaoyu's letter. Sent from Mexico. The address is on it."

Eric took it and looked; it was a string of Spanish, which he couldn't understand.

"This is for Mexico, not Africa."

Uncle Zhou said: "Send it to Mexico, she will receive it. She has someone there."

Eric looked at him.

"How do you know?"

Uncle Zhou said: "She wrote it in her letter. She met someone there who helps her receive mail."

Eric stared at Uncle Zhou for a long time.

This man, sixty-seven years old, had delivered mail for forty years.

He remembered every letter, remembered every address, remembered the name of every recipient.

He could even find Africa.

"Uncle Zhou," Eric said, "you know everything."

Uncle Zhou shook his head.

"I don't know. I just remember."

Eric wrote a letter.

He sat at the entrance of the farm, with paper and pen spread out in front of him.

He wrote very slowly, having to think for a long time for every word:

"Hello, Lin Xiaoyu. My name is Eric. I grow mushrooms in Millfield. I saw the letters you wrote. The ones from Mexico, the ones from Africa. The walls you saw, those words, those drawings, I saw them too. In your letters, in those words. Thank you for letting us see. I have written one too. To send to you. To send to Africa. Let you see us too."

After finishing, he put the letter into an envelope, and wrote on the envelope: Mexico, to Lin Xiaoyu.

He handed the letter to Uncle Zhou.

Uncle Zhou took it and glanced at it.

"Mexico?"

Eric nodded.

"You said she has someone there."

Uncle Zhou put the letter into his canvas bag.

"Okay."

After that letter was sent out, a long time passed.

One month, two months.

No reply.

Eric went to the town entrance every day to wait for Uncle Zhou, and every time Uncle Zhou came, he shook his head.

No. No letter.

Sarah asked him: "Eric, are you afraid she won't receive it?"

Eric thought for a moment and said: "No."

Sarah asked: "Why?"

Eric said: "If it is written, someone will read it."

Sarah looked at him.

"How do you know?"

Eric pointed to the letters on the wall.

"Those, someone has read them all."

On a Friday three months later, Uncle Zhou arrived.

He parked his bike at the town entrance, fished a letter out of his bag, and handed it to Eric.

The envelope had a colorful stamp on it, and the postmark was blurry.

Eric took it and opened it; inside was only a single sheet of paper with a few lines of text.

The handwriting was crooked and shaky, like a child who had just learned to write:

"Hello, Eric. I received your letter. In Africa. The person I met here forwarded the letter to me. She said a child wrote a letter from Xinfeng Town. I read it for a long time. The mushrooms you wrote about, I saw them. The walls you saw, I saw them too. Thank you for letting me see. I am writing letters too. Sending them to Xinfeng Town. Stick them on the wall. Let you see me too."

Eric stared at those lines of text for a long time.

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket; there were already several letters in that pocket.

Mark's, Yuki's, George's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, Tony's.

And Uncle Zhou's. And Lin Xiaoyu's.

He touched them, and the corners of his mouth curled up.

He stood up and walked into the farm, squatting in front of the shelves.

The mushrooms were still growing, pure white, in patches.

He picked one and placed it in his palm; it was very small, white, like a star.

He looked at it and remembered what Lin Xiaoyu said— "The mushrooms you wrote about, I saw them."

He smiled.

He put the mushroom back on the shelf and continued watering.

Uncle Zhou delivered Lin Xiaoyu's letter to Xinfeng Town and stuck it on the wall.

Stuck next to the one from Mexico, next to the one from Africa.

Three letters, side-by-side.

One from Mexico, one from Africa, one back from Africa.

He stood back a bit to look; the wall was even thicker.

Sunlight shone in through the stained-glass window, landing on the letters, white and bright, like the light of mushrooms.

He thought of the letter he had delivered, from Millfield to Mexico, from Mexico to Africa, from Africa back to Millfield, from Millfield to Xinfeng Town.

It traveled for three months, a very long journey.

But it had arrived here, was stuck on this wall, squeezed in with the other letters.

He reached out and touched the one written by Lin Xiaoyu; the paper was thin, the corners curled, the handwriting a bit blurry.

But he felt that the letter carried the wind of Africa, warm and hot.

He smiled, turned to push open the door, and walked into the sunset.

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

The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew, messing up his hair.

He rode slowly, but steadily.

He rode through Millfield and handed the letter to Eric.

Eric took it, opened it, glanced at it, and smiled.

"Written by Lin Xiaoyu. She says she received my letter. In Africa."

Uncle Zhou nodded.

He got on his bike and continued forward.

He rode through Greenfield and handed the letter to Martha.

He rode to Xinfeng Town and stuck the letter on the wall.

He rode to even farther places, handing letters to people he knew and people he didn't know.

Every place he went, people would ask him: "Uncle Zhou, is there a letter for me?"

He would fish them out of his bag and hand them over.

They would take them, open them, take a look, and smile.

That kind of smile rippled out from their eyes.

He saw those smiles and felt that this road was worth riding.

He rode to the church entrance, stopped, pushed the door open, and stood in front of the wall.

There were a few more letters on the wall.

He looked at them, then turned to push open the door and walk into the moonlight.

The bicycle creaked, going farther and farther along the winding road.

But he knew he wasn't the only one walking this road.

People were in those letters, people were in those words.

They were all watching him.

He touched the letter in his pocket; it was still there.

He smiled and continued riding forward.

The road wound off into the distance.

In the distance, there were also people writing letters, people reading, and people waiting.

He rode slowly, but steadily.

[Chapter 87 End]