97: Chapter 97 The Roots of the Wall

Three days after Master Sun left, Eric came to Xinfeng Town again. It wasn't to look at the letters, but to look at the foot of the wall.

He crouched at the very bottom of the wall, looking at the yellowed letter papers. His letter was at the very bottom; the paper had turned yellow, its edges curled and stuck to the wooden board. Beneath it was a layer of white wood shavings, white, soft, and carrying the scent of wood.

He looked for a long time, then reached out and gently touched the edge of the paper. The paper was very brittle, crumbling at the slightest touch. A small piece landed in his palm, thin, yellow, and curled at the edge. He held that piece in his palm, looked at it for a long time, then stood up and went to find George.

George was picking mushrooms on the farm. Eric stood beside him and handed him the scrap of paper. George took it and placed it in his palm. The paper was very small, a bit larger than a fingernail. On it was half of a character, crooked and illegible. But he knew it was written by Eric. Half of the character "I". He looked at it for a long time, then put the piece of paper into his pocket, placing it together with the dried mushroom.

"Keep it," he said.

Eric looked at him. "How much longer can it be kept?"

George thought for a moment. "I don't know. But it's here. At the foot of the wall, beside those wood shavings. As long as it doesn't fall, it won't move. If it crumbles, then it crumbles. Even if it crumbles, it's still here."

The news reached Greenfield. Martha was playing the guitar when someone ran over to tell her that Eric had gone to Xinfeng Town to look at the foot of the wall, that his letter had crumbled, a piece had broken off, and George was keeping it.

Martha put down the guitar and stood up. She arrived at Xinfeng Town in the afternoon. The church door was open, and sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall. She walked to her own letter and crouched down.

The paper had yellowed, its edges curled and stuck to the wooden board. She reached out and touched it gently. The paper was brittle but hadn't crumbled. She let out a sigh of relief. She crouched there looking at it for a long time, then stood up, turned around, and left.

Walking to the door, she looked back once. The letter was still there. Then she smiled.

That night, George came to the church. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the earliest letters. Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's. The paper had yellowed, the edges curled, and in some places, it had crumbled. He crouched down and looked at the foot of the wall. Those wood shavings were still white, soft, and carried the scent of wood. He looked for a long time, then stood up and walked to the door.

The bicycle was still there, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. He looked for a long time, then walked back, took the scrap of paper out of his pocket, and placed it at the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. The paper was very small, yellow, and curled at the edge. It was together with the wood shavings, white, yellow, and soft.

"Keep it," he said.

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open. There was an extra scrap of paper at the foot of the wall, yellow and curled at the edge. He crouched down and picked it up to look. On it was half a character, crooked and illegible. But he knew who had written it. Eric. He placed the paper back at the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. Then he stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the letters. Those earliest letters were still there; the paper had yellowed, the characters had blurred, and some parts had crumbled. But they were still there. On the wall, in those yellowed papers, in those crumbled scraps of paper. He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed the door open to walk into the morning light.

The news that the letter had crumbled reached Millfield. Sarah ran over to find Eric and told him his letter had crumbled, and George had placed the fragment at the foot of the wall. Eric was watering plants; he put down the hose and crouched in front of the shelf. He recalled when he wrote his first letter: the paper was white, the characters were black, it was pinned to the wall, and the thumbtack was new. Now the paper had yellowed, the characters had blurred, and it had crumbled. But the fragment was still there. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go see that scrap of paper." He arrived at Xinfeng Town in the evening.

The setting sun shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall. He crouched at the foot of the wall and found the scrap of paper. Yellow, curled at the edge, with half a character on it. He looked for a long time, then reached out and touched it gently. The paper was very brittle, crumbling at a touch. He didn't touch it. He pulled his hand back and crouched there looking at it. It was very small, a bit larger than a fingernail. But it was there, at the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. He crouched for a long time, then stood up, turned around, and left. Walking to the door, he looked back once. The scrap of paper was still there. He smiled.

That night, Lin Feng crouched under the old pagoda tree. Margaret walked over carrying a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.

"Lin Feng, Eric's letter has crumbled."

Lin Feng nodded. Margaret asked if it pained his heart. Lin Feng thought for a moment. "It doesn't pain me."

Margaret looked at him. Lin Feng pointed in the direction of the church. "Letters are the same as mushrooms. They grow and grow old, and when they are old, they crumble. Even when they crumble, they are still there. At the foot of the wall, beside those wood shavings. In the eyes of those who look at them." Margaret looked at him for a long time, then smiled.

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters again. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open. The scrap of paper at the foot of the wall was still there, yellow and curled at the edge. He crouched down to look, then stood up and walked to the front of the wall. Those earliest letters were still there. Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's. The paper had yellowed, the characters had blurred, and some parts had crumbled. But they were still there. He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed the door open to walk into the morning light.

He got on his bike and rode slowly forward. The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought of those earliest letters, the paper yellowed, the characters blurred, crumbled. But the fragments were still there. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who looked at them. He smiled slightly and continued riding forward.

The news that the letter had crumbled reached Greenfield. Martha was playing the guitar when someone ran over to tell her that the fragments of Eric's letter were still at the foot of the wall, and that George hadn't thrown them away. Martha put down the guitar and stood up. She arrived at Xinfeng Town in the afternoon. The church door was open, and sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall.

She crouched at the foot of the wall and found the scrap of paper. Yellow, curled at the edge, with half a character on it. She looked for a long time, then stood up and walked to her own letter. The paper had yellowed, the edges curled and stuck to the wooden board. She reached out and touched it gently. The paper was brittle but hadn't crumbled. She let out a sigh of relief. She stood there, looking at the letter for a long time. Then she turned and left. Walking to the door, she looked back once. The letter was still there. The scrap of paper was also there. She smiled.

That night, George came to the church. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the earliest letters. Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's. The paper had yellowed, the edges curled, and in some places, it had crumbled. He crouched down and looked at the foot of the wall. The scrap of paper was still there, yellow and curled at the edge. Those wood shavings were still there, white and soft. He looked for a long time, then stood up and walked to the door.

The bicycle was still there, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. He looked for a long time, then walked back, took that dried mushroom out of his pocket. It was the first one Eric had sent, and he had always kept it with him. He placed the dried mushroom at the foot of the wall, beside the scrap of paper. The mushroom was dried, wrinkled, but still stark white. It was together with the scrap of paper, white and yellow.

"Keep it," he said.

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open. There was an extra dried mushroom at the foot of the wall, white and wrinkled. He crouched down and picked it up to look. It was the first one Eric had sent, which George had always kept with him. He put the mushroom back, placing it beside the scrap of paper. Then he stood up, walked to the front of the wall, and looked at the letters. Those earliest letters were still there; the paper had yellowed, the characters had blurred, and some parts had crumbled. But the fragments were still there, the dried mushroom was still there. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed the door open to walk into the morning light.

He got on his bike and rode slowly forward. The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought of those earliest letters, the paper yellowed, the characters blurred, crumbled. But the fragments were still there, the dried mushroom was still there. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who looked at them. He smiled slightly and continued riding forward.

The news that the dried mushroom had been placed at the foot of the wall reached Millfield. Sarah ran over to find Eric and told him that George had placed the first mushroom he had sent at the foot of the wall, together with the scrap of paper. Eric was watering plants; he put down the hose and crouched in front of the shelf. He recalled the first mushroom he had grown, stark white, like a star. He had sent it to George, and George had always kept it with him. Now it was at the foot of the wall, together with the scrap of paper. He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go see that mushroom." He arrived at Xinfeng Town in the evening.

The setting sun shone in through the glass windows, falling onto that wall. He crouched at the foot of the wall and found the dried mushroom. White and wrinkled. Beside it was the scrap of paper, yellow and curled at the edge. He looked for a long time, then reached out and touched the mushroom gently. It was dry, hard, but still stark white. He crouched for a long time, then stood up, turned around, and left. Walking to the door, he looked back once. The mushroom was still there, the scrap of paper was still there. He smiled.

That night, Lin Feng crouched under the old pagoda tree. Margaret walked over carrying a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.

"Lin Feng, George has placed that dried mushroom at the foot of the wall."

Lin Feng nodded. Margaret asked why. Lin Feng thought for a moment. "Because letters are the same as mushrooms. They grow and grow old, and when they are old, they crumble. Even when they crumble, they are still there. At the foot of the wall, beside those wood shavings. In the eyes of those who look at them." Margaret looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "When did you learn to say things like that?" Lin Feng said, "When biting on a straw."

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open. The scrap of paper at the foot of the wall was still there, the dried mushroom was still there, those wood shavings were still there. White, yellow, and soft. He crouched down to look, then stood up and walked to the front of the wall. Those earliest letters were still there. Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's. The paper had yellowed, the characters had blurred, and some parts had crumbled. But they were still there. On the wall, in those yellowed papers, in those crumbled scraps of paper. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who look at them.

He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed the door open to walk into the morning light. 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 over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought of those earliest letters, those crumbled scraps of paper, that dried mushroom. They were still there. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who looked at them. He smiled slightly and continued riding forward. In the distance, there were also people writing letters, people reading them, and people waiting. And those earliest letters, the paper yellowed, the characters blurred, crumbled. But the fragments were still there. At the foot of the wall, beside the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who looked at them. He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

[Chapter 97 End]