Zhang Dongxiao: A Distant Home (Prose)

It should be because it rained just yesterday. The sky was particularly bright this morning. Leaning against the railing and staring into the distance, the peaks, large and small, are clearly visible. The peaks are filled with rich petrified green, and they outline a perfect curve, just like sleeping beauty. With the movement of sight, these mountains are also moving, undulating and winding to the distance and the place where the sun rises.

In the mountains, it is a huge Beijing city.

Suddenly, we realized that I actually lived in the valley. I never thought I would live in the mountains. I am more used to and miss the vast plains in southeastern Henan.

I once joked with my friends that even if I drive all day in my hometown, I may not meet a mountain. In fact, standing in every corner of that land and looking around, it is vast. The trees are already very high, and the villages under the shade, like many black spots on landscape paintings, will not hurt the line of sight. Especially this season, the corn has just been harvested, the wheat has not been planted, and the field is even more empty. Generally, except for tombs like steamed bread, nothing can stop eyes and thoughts.

Those graves, though not scenery, are concerned about the distance, but also the roots of hometown. I once thought, why do you make the grave into steamed bread? Now that I think about it, it is probably the most nutritious steamed bread. They were born here and buried here, and they have been guarding this land where steamed bread can be planted all their lives. Compared with them, I am more like a traitor in the village-I want to escape from this place where I raised myself wholeheartedly.

The canal seems to have been bred by mountains. At the end of the line of sight, at the edge of the canopy, the river rolled and flowed from the mountains to the world. This scene is like the head of a market on a holiday country road. They gathered in the market from villages in all directions and criss-crossing buildings, and finally formed a happy Wang Yang. At the Expo, "Liu Zhonghe" has stepped onto the stage, and the sound of "I am the king's golden palace, watch carefully" means thunderous applause and tears. Happiness at that time was worth 50 cents, and a pack of "Beijing brand" instant noodles. It's just strange that when I really came to this place called Beijing, I could never taste that smell again. Maybe Beijing is changing so fast that I can't even think of it. The leaves are yellow and the road is flooded.

Although some fortune-tellers said that I would go to Beijing to beg for food sooner or later, I never thought that I could really live in this city. Rather than facing such a big river, I prefer to guard the small river ditch outside my hometown gate.

At this time, the crucian carp in the small river ditch should grow to the size of the palm of your hand or even the size of your shoes. From the bamboo forest, cut off a slender bamboo pole, pinch the head to the tail, and then cut off the bamboo branches, which is a fishing pole that has occupied all its hands. Ask your parents for a dime and twenty cents, and you can buy some hooks in the canteen. As for the fishing line, don't be picky. Mother can sew and mend cotton thread. All this is ready, pick up a shovel and dig a few times by the well, which is an inexhaustible earthworm. There is a kind of black and yellow earthworm, whose little finger is thick and looks like a small snake. This kind of earthworm has a unique fishy smell, and crucian carp will definitely not eat it, but it is the favorite of rotor (note: snakehead) and catfish.

But for people who are bent on catching carp, earthworms can't be used. They should use sweet potato paste, some of which are like mixed bait used by fishermen now. Recently, the village discovered this secret surplus, which was not only kept secret, but also exchanged it for the children's money. Well, that's probably how I got cheated. But fortunately, he is a "fish head", and the fish I secretly caught from his fish pond has reached the account of "exclusive secret recipe". Now I can only keep silent about this river. Of course, I dare not fish. At most, I squatted by the water and sprinkled a handful of steamed bread residue. When the fish come, it will be a comfort to scare them and watch them flee in panic.

Today, the water in the canal seems particularly clear, and the waves and eddies on the water surface are clearly visible. The Woods on both sides of the river are lush and green, and they are reflected in the water, just like two forests growing in two directions. Their roots met in the water and they all reached the bottom of the river. I don't know why, when I noticed this, my heart was a little sour, and even my eyes suddenly lost the power to imprison tears.

I spoke to my parents on the phone yesterday. My dad said that the crops were flooded this year, and there were not many seeds left, so there was no money to buy fertilizer. There were fewer people in the village who were willing to farm, so there were even fewer. Father said that even if they are old, the land will be barren. Father is a tree on the shore and I am his shadow in the river. Our roots are all in the village. But for the sake of the village, I became an illusory person. My situation and the news from the village only exist in my father's story. Its happiness, its sadness, has something to do with me, not with me, so that now, I can only watch it disappear gradually.

Maybe one day, it will suddenly disappear from the world, leaving only a pile of abandoned brick walls and a deserted field. If only memories are left, if only memories can be found, how sad should life be? Just like this river, how lonely would it be if there were only water, no fish, no flowers and trees on the shore? A person's road can only be called wandering. This is how a swallow flew past my eyes. His eyes flitted across the sky, melancholy and confused. This should be the case in the village at the moment. The water in some fields hasn't completely receded, and pieces of puddles have turned vilen into a swamp, which also makes growing wheat a problem. In a few days, it will be the first frost and it will snow. How does it resist the cold? I watched the swallow disappear and hung up my heart that I had just put down.

The canal is very long and dragon boats come and go. This kind of life makes people very kind. I am also used to enjoying such kindness in a foreign land. Mother stubbornly believes that this is the hidden virtue accumulated by the older generation of our Zhang family, and it is also the blessing of her pious kowtowing and praying all day long.

Mother is a superstitious person. Not only she but also every woman in the village believes these fake things. Perhaps for them, this should not be called "vanity", but "expectation". So on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, my mother always goes to the small temple in the village to burn incense and kowtow, and then follows others to burn incense in the kiln in the neighboring village. The small temple in the village is close to my home. I have been there. This is a temple, but it is actually a narrow red brick tile house with a clay statue of the land Lord; On both sides of this statue, there are some other gods, such as Guanyin and rich boys. They are big and small, solemn and solemn, with different expressions. Surrounded by gods, in the center of the temple, there is a ceramic incense burner that burns incense all the year round. The fragrance is diffuse, which is the joys and sorrows of the village and the life and death of the village. It is said that the gods enshrined in the kiln in the neighboring village are so effective that people from ten miles and eight townships and even the county town flock to make wishes and pray for nothing else. This is just an abandoned brick kiln factory, but it has become the "Lama Temple" in the village. Are the spiritual sustenance of people alive. I don't think "Yonghe Palace" is necessarily more noble than "broken kiln factory", just as I don't think people who dance square dance in Beijing are necessarily more noble than those who chat in front of a small temple. Everyone lives in this world and is doomed to die. They all have their own bodies and souls to rest in.

Rivers are of special significance to villagers because they are places where clothes of the dead are consumed. In rural areas, if you see discarded clothes in a small dry river ditch, it must be that someone in the nearby village has just passed away. Perhaps it is because the word "death" is too straightforward and lacks respect for the deceased. The village often uses "old" instead. "Someone is old" means "someone is dead". For the old people, everything related to them has come to an abrupt end in this world. Come clean, go clean, so we should not only bury them in the ground, but also throw away their clothes and throw them into the river ditch, waiting for time to erode and digest bit by bit, just like the sadness of relatives, it takes time to fade away slowly until they are forgotten.

Someone once said that a person's real death will never be mentioned again in this world. When the village is completely forgotten, he will really "grow old" from the village. When I was a child, I dared not go to the river ditch outside the village alone. I'm afraid to see those dirty clothes thrown away in the blink of an eye, and I'm even more afraid that they will follow the darkness into my dream. In fact, I am very skeptical about this practice. Since it is not clean, why throw it into the river ditch? Wouldn't it be clean if you burned it? Throw it into the river ditch, then melt into the ground, and then pull it out of the well to continue cooking porridge ... such a terrible association, I have never mentioned it to anyone, even my parents. I'm afraid that once I say it, I'll be beaten up by fat.

The sky seems a little dark, and the Grand Canal, which was just on, suddenly became a little gloomy, and the Woods on both sides became deep. The distant mountains began to blur and disappeared in a blink of an eye, replaced by gray clouds. After a while, it began to rain.

Thin rain, like mother's hair, soft and thick; The rain all over the sky, like father's wrinkles, is deep and lonely. I stood outside in the rain, as if I had been under the protection of my parents. When it rains, the village will be quiet, at least in front of the small temple. There is a clearing in front of the small temple, where crops are dried during busy farming and chess is played during slack farming. Strictly speaking, this is not "chess". Because there are not only chessboards, but also chess pieces. This kind of "chess" is called "six oblique". Looking for a stick or brick in the open space, a picture of "six vertical and six horizontal" is a chessboard; Pick up some branches and break them into small pieces, which are chess pieces; To distinguish, you use branches and I use tukela. Although a little crude, it can still be killed in the dark. Life in the village has always been so "humble", with porridge and steamed bread in the morning, noodles at noon and steamed bread porridge at night, day after day, year after year, from generation to generation. The same is true of the attitude towards rain. Play cards when it rains the next day, frown when it rains the next two days, and curse God if it rains for three consecutive days. Mom and dad are not used to city life, which is also related to the complexity of city life. In her mother's words, "not only do you have to turn around, but also have a drink of water." In the village, she can pick the head of her owner's pumpkin, pinch western sweet potatoes, cook noodles in the north and shoot cucumbers in the south. Everything is so free, just like the clouds in the sky. We can go wherever we want, and it will rain whenever we want. We don't have to worry about whether it will be windy or rainy tomorrow.

It is raining harder and harder outside the window. Mother is most afraid of rain.

1975 during the flood, she saved her life by hiding in the rice jar, but her heart was also branded. When it rains heavily, especially at night, she dare not close her eyes, for fear that a terrible flood will come as soon as she closes her eyes. At that time, the house at home was also broken and the roof leaked. It often rains heavily outside and lightly at home, and the house seems to fall down at any time. I often wonder how that shabby house has withstood so many years of wind and rain. Now that I think about it, the old house is like a father, seemingly short and fragile, but it carries our world. In this way, my mother won't dare to fall asleep. She wants to catch rainwater with her father and take care of us at the same time. Life is like the sewing thread my mother left on my clothes. Compared with my mother's fear of rain, my feelings about rain are different. If you encounter such rain in autumn, it will be even more joyful. Follow dad, pick up the fishing rod, hold the umbrella, the cat is under the tree, the wind and rain are rustling, it is a fish. This kind of comfortable life is not experienced on weekdays. I still like the rain. Leaves are falling, drizzling, a person, an umbrella, walking between raindrops, shuttling through the streets, with the footsteps of "Tata", just like returning to childhood, back to that simple, carefree and educated place.

Raindrops are getting bigger and bigger, hitting the glass with the wind and making a "snapping" sound. My sight was finally drowned by the rain. The mountains in the distance and the canals under the eyes were also submerged. Only the Woods on both sides of the strait are still tall and straight, resisting the erosion of the years. It is the years that have given them great bodies, and it is also the years that have gradually withered them. Can these be covered by a word "affection" or "ruthlessness"? Just like I did to the village. I haven't been back to the village for four years. Listening to my father, the wires in the village have been re-erected, the roads have been widened, the river ditches have been filled, and the bamboo forests outside the walls have been cut down ... String these intermittent messages together and put them in my memory, which should be what the village looks like at the moment. Will this really be my haunted village? I'm not sure. I set my sights on my hometown as much as possible. At the moment, a black spot flashed in the heavy rain. That black spot came at me like an arrow. When the black spot approached, I realized that it was a swallow. This Swift didn't seem to notice my existence at all, but disappeared in an instant at the air-conditioning hang-up. There is her home, and no matter how big the storm is, it can't stop her courage and determination to go home.

I finally couldn't stop crying. This Swift, really an arrow, has shot through my heart.