99: Chapter 99 The Sprout of the Wall

After Lin Xiaohe stuck that letter, torn from her notebook, onto the wall, she herself became a part of that wall.

Every day after school, before she even put down her backpack, she would run to the church entrance and push open the heavy wooden door.

Sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling on her face, on that wall, and on the piece of paper she had stuck there yesterday.

She stood in front of the wall, looking at her own letter, at others' letters, at the yellowed paper, and at the curled corners.

She didn't know how to read, but she recognized those crooked, wobbly strokes.

Some looked like tree branches, some like blades of grass, and some like the marks her mother left on the cutting board when chopping vegetables.

One day, she squatted at the base of the wall and, pointing to that scrap of paper, asked Jenny: "Is this still readable?"

The piece of paper was too small—barely larger than her fingernail—yellowed, with curled edges, and only half of a stroke on it.

Jenny also squatted down and looked at it for a long time. "It is readable. What do you see?"

Lin Xiaohe leaned in closer, her nose almost touching the edge of the paper. "A character. I only see half of it. But I know it's the character for 'I'."

Jenny was taken aback. "How do you know?"

Lin Xiaohe stood up, stood on tiptoes, and pointed to Eric's letter on the wall. The letter was stuck very high, and she couldn't reach it, but she could see the character for "I" clearly.

At the very top of the letter, crooked and wobbly, it looked like a person standing up. She pointed to that character and said: "This one is the same as the half I saw."

When the news reached Millfield, Eric was watering his mushrooms.

Sarah ran in, her shoe soles covered in mud, her voice so shrill it made the mushrooms on the shelf tremble: "Eric! Lin Xiaohe recognized that scrap of paper! It's half of the character for 'I'! She's only seven, she can't read, but she recognized it!"

The hose in Eric's hand tilted, spraying water onto the aisle. He squatted down, straightened the hose, and looked at the mushrooms.

When he wrote his first letter, the very first character was "I". That character had stood on the wall for years, from white to yellow, from smooth to curled, and now it lay in pieces at the base of the wall.

A seven-year-old child went to see it every day after school and recognized it. She didn't know it was the character for "I", but she knew it was him.

He stood up and went to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go see that child."

He arrived in Xinfeng Town in the afternoon. The church door was open, and sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling on the wall.

Lin Xiaohe was squatting at the base of the wall, her two small braids dangling down, almost touching the ground.

He walked over and squatted beside her. She looked up, glanced at him, and then lowered her head to look at the scrap of paper again.

After a while, she suddenly said: "You are Eric." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He nodded.

She pointed to the scrap of paper and said: "This character was written by you." He nodded again. She smiled, revealing teeth that were halfway through being replaced. "I come to see it every day."

He looked at her. Seven years old, eyes bright, just like the mushrooms he grew when they first sprouted—pure white and glistening with water droplets.

He was twenty-four when he wrote that letter, not knowing what he could do. Now he knew.

He grew mushrooms, wrote letters, waited for letters, and read letters. Someone had come to see his letter.

A seven-year-old child, from Xinfeng Town, came every day after school. She saw his character—half of the "I".

He squatted there, watching her tidy the wood shavings around the scrap of paper, as if she were mounding soil for a little flower.

He watched for a long time, then stood up, turned, and left. When he reached the door, he looked back. She was still squatting there, her braids dangling to the ground. He smiled.

That evening, George came to the church. Lin Xiaohe had already gone home, but where she had been squatting, there were two shallow footprints.

He squatted down and pressed his palm against them. The footprints were much smaller than his palm, the five toes clearly visible, like five small pebbles embedded in the wooden floor.

He looked for a long time, then stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind, having faded to a white where its original color was no longer discernible.

He stood there watching for a while, then walked back, took a piece of paper from his pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The paper was crumpled; he had written it several times before getting it right.

"My name is George. I am seventy-three. Today I saw a child. Her name is Lin Xiaohe. She is seven. She comes to see the wall every day. She recognized the character on that scrap of paper. It is half of the character for 'I'. She saw it. Among those torn scraps of paper, in those unseen places, someone has also seen."

After sticking it up, he stood back a little to look. The letter was squeezed in with the others; the paper was white, the characters black and crooked, just like those the children wrote.

The day after that letter was posted, Lin Xiaohe brought a boy. His name was Wang Xiaoshan, also seven years old, and a classmate of hers.

The two of them stood in front of the wall, and Lin Xiaohe pointed out the letters, the scrap of paper, and the dried mushroom for him to see.

Wang Xiaoshan squatted down, bringing his face very close, his nose almost touching the paper. "What is this?" he asked. Lin Xiaohe said: "A letter. A piece of it is broken." "Who wrote it?" "Eric. The one who grows mushrooms."

Wang Xiaoshan looked at the scrap of paper again, then stood up, took a piece of notebook paper from his pocket, and stuck it on the wall. He wrote very slowly, thinking about each character for a long time. When he made a mistake, he used his finger to erase it; he couldn't erase it clean, and the paper began to fray.

"My name is Wang Xiaoshan. Seven years old. I live in Xinfeng Town. Today I saw a scrap of paper. Very small, very old. But I saw it. I also want to leave something behind."

After that letter was posted, there was one more child coming to see the wall. It wasn't Lin Xiaohe who brought her, but Wang Xiaoshan. It was his desk mate, named Li Xiaole.

Li Xiaole stood in front of the wall for a while, then also tore a piece of paper from her notebook and stuck it on the wall.

She wrote: "My name is Li Xiaole. Seven years old. I live in Xinfeng Town. Today I saw a wall. There are many letters on the wall. In those letters, there are many people. I don't know them. But I saw them."

The next day, Li Xiaole brought her friend Zhang Xiaoduo. Zhang Xiaoduo brought Wang Xiaoxiao. Wang Xiaoxiao brought Zhao Xiaonian.

The children were like dandelion seeds, one bringing another, and when the wind blew, they filled the church.

They came every day after school, standing in front of the wall, looking at the letters, the scrap of paper, and the dried mushroom.

Some squatted to look, some stood, some looked once and left, some looked for a long time. Then someone would take a piece of paper from their pocket and stick it on the wall.

The paper was torn from notebooks; some had grids, some had horizontal lines, and some still had pencil marks from the previous page.

The characters were crooked and wobbly; some were written outside the grids, some were squeezed together, some were scattered, like a group of children who had just learned to walk.

There were more and more letters on the wall. They weren't from Millfield, not from Greenfield, not from California; they came from Xinfeng Town itself, from those children.

The earliest letters were still there; the paper had yellowed, the characters were blurred, and some parts were torn. The newly written letters were also there, white, black, crooked. Old, new, yellow, white, complete, torn—they were all there.

Jenny came to the church every day to stick those letters on the wall. Not by date, not by name, but by heart.

She knew at a glance where each letter belonged. She stuck Lin Xiaohe's letter next to Eric's, Wang Xiaoshan's next to Martha's, and Li Xiaole's next to George's.

She stuck them up very slowly, looking at each one for a long time, as if she were finding a home for them.

The letters on the wall grew from one end to the other, from the bottom to the top. The earliest letters were still there, the paper yellowed, the characters blurred, some parts torn. But the newly written letters were also there, white, black, crooked. Together, they were like a tree growing new leaves and old leaves at the same time—some green, some yellow, some just fallen, some just sprouting.

She stood in front of the wall for a long time, then turned and walked to the box. There was one letter left in the box, written by Molly, which had never been sent.

She took it out, walked to the wall, and stuck it next to Lin Xiaohe's. The letter was very short, only a few lines:

"My name is Molly. Twelve years old. I help out by serving dishes at the Coffee Shop. Today I saw many letters. They were written by those children. They are seven. The first letter they wrote is just like the one I wrote. Crooked, torn from a notebook. I saw them. Thank you for writing."

When the news reached the Coffee Shop, Molly was wiping cups. Someone ran in and said that the children had written a whole wall of letters, and Jenny had stuck her letter up too.

The cup in her hand paused in mid-air, the cloth for wiping the cup draped over the rim like a tiny flag.

She remembered when she wrote her first letter, it was also torn from a notebook, and it was also crooked.

She had written it, stuck it on the wall, next to Eric's. Now those children had written too. Seven years old, the same age as she was when she wrote her first letter.

She put down the cup, untied her apron, and ran to the church.

The evening sunset shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling on the letters. She stood in front of the wall, looking at them one by one.

Li Xiaole's, Zhang Xiaoduo's, Wang Xiaoxiao's, Zhao Xiaonian's, and those whose names she didn't know. The paper was white, the characters black, crooked, like footprints left by a child who had just learned to walk.

She looked for a long time, then squatted down, looking at the base of the wall. The scrap of paper was still there, the dried mushroom was still there.

She reached out her hand, not touching them, just hovering her hand above them, feeling the crispness of the paper, the hardness of the mushroom, the softness of the wood shavings.

She stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind, faded to a white that was almost invisible.

She stood there watching for a while, then walked back, took a letter from her pocket, and stuck it on the wall.

"My name is Molly. Twelve years old. I help out by serving dishes at the Coffee Shop. Today I saw many letters. They were written by those children. They are seven. The characters they wrote are just like the ones I wrote. Crooked, torn from a notebook. I saw them. Thank you for writing. Thank you for coming."

After sticking it up, she stood back a little to look. Her letter was squeezed in with the children's; the paper color was different, the handwriting was different, but they were all crooked. She smiled.

That evening, Lin Feng squatted under the old locust tree. Margaret walked over carrying a plate of mushrooms and squatted beside him.

"Lin Feng, those children have written a wall of letters." Lin Feng nodded. Margaret looked toward the church, where the lights were still on. "That wall will keep growing."

Lin Feng thought for a moment. "It will." Margaret asked: "How do you know?"

Lin Feng pointed to the wall. "Because there are still people writing. Seven-year-olds, twelve-year-olds, twenty-four-year-olds. If they write, someone will read. If someone reads, someone will continue to write. If the wall is full, they stick them on top. If they break, they put them at the base of the wall. Someone, in an unseen place, is also watching."

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church door and pushed the door open to go in. There was another wall full of letters, torn from notebooks, crooked, like children who had just learned to write.

He stood in front of it for a long time. He remembered when he wrote his first letter, he was that age too. Torn from a notebook, crooked. Who he wrote it to, he had forgotten. But he remembered that he had written it.

He stood for a long time, then turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the morning light.

The bicycle was still creaking at the door; 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 torn scraps of paper, that dried mushroom. And the letters the children wrote, white, black, crooked.

They would grow old too. They would yellow, they would break. But someone would also read them. Those children would grow up too. They would grow mushrooms, play the guitar, write letters. They would grow old, their hair would turn white, their hands would tremble.

But the characters they wrote would still be there. On the wall, in those yellowed papers, in those torn scraps of paper. In the eyes of those children. He smiled and continued riding forward. He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

[ Chapter 99 End ]