Homecoming

I defied the piercing cold to return to my hometown, a place over two thousand miles away and separated from me by more than twenty years.

It was the heart of winter, and as I drew near to my hometown, the skies turned gloomy. A cold wind howled through the cabin of my boat, and through a gap in the canopy, I gazed out at a desolate landscape under the sallow sky. A few scattered villages lay lifeless in the distance, devoid of any vitality. My heart was overcome with a profound sense of melancholy.

Could this be the same hometown that I have held dear in my heart for the past two decades?

The hometown I remember was far more vibrant. Yet, when I attempt to recall its beauty and articulate its charms, I find myself at a loss for words and images. It seems to be just as it is now. Thus, I reasoned with myself: perhaps my hometown has always been this way, and the desolation I feel is not a reflection of the town itself, but rather a shift in my own emotions. After all, I did not return this time with a light heart.

I had come back this time with a specific purpose—to bid a final farewell. Our ancestral home, where our family had lived together for generations, had been sold to another family. The deadline for vacating the house was within this year, so I had to ensure that I left before the first day of the lunar new year. I would be leaving behind not just the familiar old house but also the cherished hometown, moving to a place far away where I now seek my livelihood.

Early the next morning, I arrived at the doorstep of my family home. The ridges of the roof tiles were adorned with the broken stems of withered grass, swaying in the wind, a silent testament to the inevitable change of ownership. It was very quiet, suggesting that the other branches of our family had already moved out. As I stood outside my own room, my mother came out to greet me, followed by my eight-year-old nephew, Hong’er.

My mother was overjoyed to see me but couldn’t hide the sadness in her eyes. She urged me to sit down, rest, and have some tea, and we refrained from discussing the move for a while. Hong’er, who had never met me before, stood at a distance, watching me intently.

However, the topic of moving eventually came up. I informed her that I had already rented a place outside and had purchased some furniture. In addition, we would need to sell all the wooden furniture in the house and then acquire more. My mother agreed, and she mentioned that the luggage was mostly packed. The wooden items that were difficult to transport had been partially sold off, but the money had not yet been collected.

“You rest for a day or two, and then go to visit our relatives and family once, and then we can leave,” my mother said.

“Yes.”

“There’s also Runtu. Whenever he comes to our house, he always asks about you and expresses his wish to see you. I have already informed him of the approximate date of your arrival, and he might be coming soon.”

At that moment, a vivid image from my childhood flashed through my mind: a deep blue sky with a golden full moon hanging in it, and below, the sandy beach by the sea, all planted with endless green watermelons. Among them, there was a young boy of eleven or twelve, wearing a silver collar and clutching a steel fork, trying with all his might to stab a wild boar. But the wild boar twisted its body and escaped from under his crotch.

This boy was Runtu. When I first met him, I was just a little older than ten, and it has been almost thirty years since then. At that time, my father was still alive, and our family was well-off, and I was a young master. That year, our family was in charge of a major ancestral worship ceremony. This ceremony, which occurs only once every thirty years, was a very solemn event. During the first month of the lunar calendar, we would offer ancestor portraits and numerous offerings, and the ritual required careful attention to detail, including safeguarding the ritual vessels from theft. Our family had only one busy month worker (in our area, there are three types of workers: those who work for a specific family all year round are called long-term workers; those who work by the day are called short-term workers; and those who also farm their own land but work for a specific family during festivals and rent collection times are called busy month workers), and he was overwhelmed with the task. He suggested to my father that he could bring his son, Runtu, to help manage the ritual vessels.

My father agreed, and I was delighted because I had long heard of Runtu and knew that he was born in the Run month, during which the element of earth was lacking according to the Five Elements theory, hence his name. He was known for his ability to set traps and catch small birds.

I eagerly awaited the New Year, and with it, the arrival of Runtu. Finally, at the end of the year, my mother told me that Runtu had come, and I ran to see him. He was in the kitchen, with a round, purple face, wearing a small felt hat, and a bright silver collar around his neck, a sign of his father’s deep love and concern for his well-being. He was very shy when meeting new people, but he was not afraid of me. When we were alone, he would talk to me, and within half a day, we became close friends.

I don’t remember what we talked about at the time, but I recall that Runtu was very excited. He said that after going to the city, he had seen many things he had never seen before.

The next day, I asked him to catch birds for me. He replied:

“We can’t do that now. We must wait for a heavy snowfall. In our sandy land, after the snow has fallen, I sweep a patch clean, prop up a large bamboo sign with a short stick, scatter some millet, and when the birds come to eat, I pull the rope tied to the stick from afar, and the birds are caught under the bamboo sign. There are all kinds: pheasants, horned pheasants, partridges, blue-backed…”

So, I looked forward to the snowfall with great anticipation.

Runtu also told me:

“Since it’s too cold now, you should come here in the summer. During the day, we can go to the seaside to pick up shells of various colors, red and green, including the ‘ghost-seeing fear’ and ‘Guanyin’s hand.’ In the evening, my father and I take care of the watermelons, and you can join us.”

“Guard against thieves?”

“No. It’s not considered stealing if passersby, who are thirsty, pick a melon to eat. What we need to guard against are wild boars, hedgehogs, and badgers. Under the moonlight, you’ll hear a buzzing sound; that’s the badger biting into the melons. You hold a pitchfork and approach quietly…”

At that time, I didn’t know what this creature called a badger was—I still don’t know to this day—but I felt it was like a small dog but very fierce.

“Does it bite people?”

“Don’t worry, we have a pitchfork. When you get there and spot the badger, you stab it. These animals are very clever; they will charge towards you and try to escape from under your crotch. Their fur is as slippery as oil…”

I had never known that there were so many novel things in the world: the colorful shells by the seaside, the perilous experiences of watermelons (I had only known them from the fruit store), and the jumping fish in the sandy land during the tide, which had frog-like legs…

Ah! Runtu’s heart held an endless array of fascinating things, all unknown to my usual friends. They were unaware of these things, and when Runtu was at the seaside, they, like me, could only see the four-cornered sky above the high walls in the courtyard.

Unfortunately, the first month passed, and Runtu had to return home. I was so anxious that I cried, and he hid in the kitchen, crying and refusing to leave. But eventually, he was taken away by his father. Later, he sent me a package of shells and several beautiful bird feathers through his father, and I also sent him a few things, but we never met again.

Now, as my mother mentioned him, all my childhood memories suddenly came back to life, and it seemed as if I could see my beautiful hometown again. I responded eagerly:

“This is great! How is he?…”

“He?… He is also very unfortunate…” My mother said, then she looked outside the room, “These people are here again. They claim to be buying wooden furniture, but they just take it without asking. I need to go and have a look.”

My mother stood up and went out. There were a few women’s voices outside, so I beckoned Hong’er to come closer and chatted with him: I asked if he could write and if he would like to go out.

“Are we taking the train?”

“We are taking the train.”

“And the boat?”

“First, we take the boat…”

“Ha! Look at this! Your beard has grown so long!” A sharp, strange voice suddenly exclaimed.

I was startled and quickly looked up, but saw a woman in her fifties standing in front of me, with prominent cheekbones, thin lips, her hands on her hips, not wearing a skirt, and her legs spread apart, resembling a delicate compass from a drawing instrument.

I was taken aback.

“Do you not recognize me? I have even held you in my arms!”

I was even more taken aback. Fortunately, my mother also came in and said from the side:

“He has been away for many years and has forgotten everything. You should remember,” she said to me, “This is the Yang Er’s wife from the diagonally opposite door, the one who runs the tofu shop.”

Oh, I remember. When I was a child, there was indeed a Yang Er’s wife sitting in the tofu shop across the street all day, and people called her “Tofu West Scherer.” But she was wearing white powder, her cheekbones were not so high, her lips were not so thin, and she was always sitting, so I had never seen her in this compass-like posture. At that time, people said: because of her, the tofu shop’s business was very good. But this was probably due to my age, and I was not influenced at all, so I completely forgot. However, the compass seemed very dissatisfied and showed a contemptuous look, as if mocking the French for not knowing Napoleon, the Americans for not knowing Washington, and sneered:

“Forgotten? This is truly the arrogance of the rich…”

“There is no such thing… I…” I stood up in fear and said.

“So, I will tell you. Xun Ge’er, you are rich now, and you are moving heavy things. Do you still need these broken wooden furniture? Let me take them. We small households can use them.”

“I am not rich. I need to sell these and then…”

“Ah, you have become a Taoist official, and you still say you are not rich? Now you have three concubines; when you go out, it is an eight-pole sedan chair, and you still say you are not rich? Hush, nothing can hide from me.”

I knew there was nothing more to say, so I closed my mouth and stood silently.

“Ah, Ah, the richer you are, the more you are unwilling to relax, and the more you are unwilling to relax, the richer you become…” The compass turned around angrily, chattering, and walked out slowly, taking my mother’s pair of gloves and putting them in her waistband as she went out.

After that, some relatives and family members from nearby came to visit me. I was busy entertaining them and took the opportunity to pack some luggage, passing three or four days like this.

One day, in the afternoon when it was very cold, I had lunch and sat down to drink tea, feeling that someone had come in, so I turned my head to look. When I saw, I couldn’t help but be very surprised, stood up in a hurry, and went to meet them.

The one who came was Runtu. Although I knew it was Runtu as soon as I saw him, he was not the Runtu in my memory. He had grown much taller and stouter; his once purple, round face had turned gray and yellow, and it was etched with deep wrinkles. His eyes, swollen and red around, were similar to his father’s, a common trait among those who work the land by the sea, constantly exposed to the salty sea breeze. He wore a tattered felt hat and a thin cotton coat that did little to protect him from the cold, shivering as he stood before me. In his hand, he carried a paper package and a long pipe, and his hands, once remembered as smooth and sturdy, were now rough, clumsy, and cracked, resembling the bark of a pine tree.

I was very excited at that moment but didn’t know how to express myself. I simply said:

“Ah! Brother Runtu, you’ve come?”

I wanted to say so much more—about horned pheasants, jumping fish, shells, and wild boars—but the words felt blocked, swirling in my mind but failing to emerge.

He stood still, his face a mix of joy and sorrow. He moved his lips as if to speak but no sound came out. Eventually, his demeanor became respectful, and he clearly addressed me as:

“Master…”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. I knew that a lamentable barrier had grown between us, and I was left speechless.

He turned and said to a child hiding behind him, “Shui Sheng, bow to Master.” The child was pulled forward, a younger version of Runtu from twenty years ago, albeit thinner and without the silver collar around his neck. “This is my fifth child, not used to meeting new people, hence his shyness…”

My mother and Hong’er came downstairs, likely having heard the commotion.

“Old lady, I received the letter long ago. I was overjoyed to know that Master has returned…” Runtu said.

“Ah, you’ve become so formal. You both used to address each other as brothers. Let’s keep it that way: Xun Ge’er,” my mother said with a smile.

“Ah, old lady, you’re too kind… That was when we were children, and we didn’t understand the ways of the world…” Runtu replied, then he asked Shui Sheng to come forward and greet us. The child, however, was too shy and clung to his father’s back.

“Is this Shui Sheng? The fifth child? It’s natural for him to be shy around strangers. Perhaps Hong’er should take him for a walk,” my mother suggested.

Upon hearing this, Hong’er approached Shui Sheng, who then went out with him quite readily. My mother invited Runtu to sit down, and after some hesitation, he did so. He leaned his long pipe against the table and handed over the paper package, saying:

“There’s not much to offer in winter. These dried green beans are something I’ve dried myself, please accept them, Master…”

I inquired about his situation, but he only shook his head.

“It’s been very difficult. Even with my sixth child helping, there’s never enough food… The world is not at peace… Money is needed everywhere, and there are no set rules… The harvests have been poor. What we grow, when we try to sell, we have to pay several taxes, which cuts into our profits; if we don’t sell, it all rots away…”

He continued to shake his head, his face, now deeply lined, remained expressionless, as if carved from stone. It seemed he felt nothing but hardship, yet he could not find the words to describe it. After a moment of silence, he picked up his pipe and began to smoke quietly.

My mother spoke to him, knowing that he was busy with his family affairs and had to return the next day. Since he hadn’t eaten lunch, she told him to help himself to some fried rice in the kitchen.

He left, and my mother and I lamented his situation: with many children, famine, oppressive taxes, bandits, and the pressures of officials and gentry, he had been worn down to a mere puppet.

My mother told me that we should give him anything that didn’t need to be moved and let him choose for himself.

In the afternoon, he selected a few items: two long tables, four chairs, a set of incense burners and candle stands, and a pole scale. He also wanted all the straw ash, which we use for cooking, as it could be used as fertilizer for sandy soil. He would come by boat to collect it when we departed.

That night, we talked about trivial matters, nothing of great importance. The next morning, he left with Shui Sheng.

Nine days later, on the day of our departure, Runtu arrived early, but Shui Sheng did not come with him. Instead, he brought a five-year-old girl to help manage the boat. We were busy all day and had no time to chat. There were many visitors, some to see us off, some to bring gifts, and some who did both. By the evening when we boarded the boat, all the old and worn items from the old house had been cleared out.

As our boat moved forward, the green mountains on both banks, shrouded in the twilight, receded towards the stern.

Hong’er and I leaned against the ship’s window, watching the blurred scenery outside. He suddenly asked:

“Uncle, when will we come back?”

“Back? Why do you want to come back when you haven’t even left yet?”

“But Shui Sheng has invited me to play at his house…”

He opened his big black eyes and stared blankly, lost in thought.

My mother and I also felt a sense of loss, so we brought up Runtu again. Mother said that Yang Er’s wife, who ran the tofu shop, had been coming by every day since we started packing. The day before, she found more than a dozen bowls and plates in the ash heap. After some discussion, she concluded that Runtu must have buried them, intending to take them home when he transported the ash. Yang Er’s wife was very proud of her discovery and quickly ran off with a dog-killing device (a tool used for feeding chickens, consisting of a wooden tray with a fence on top, filled with food, allowing chickens to eat while preventing dogs from reaching the food), despite her small, high-heeled feet, she ran astonishingly fast.

The old house and the landscape of my hometown were drifting further away from me, yet I felt no strong attachment. Instead, I felt as if invisible walls surrounded me, isolating me and causing me to feel suffocated. The image of the young hero with a silver collar on the watermelon field, which had been so clear in my mind, suddenly became blurry, filling me with immense sadness.

Mother and Hong’er were asleep.

As I lay there, listening to the gentle flow of water beneath the boat, I pondered my journey and thought about the distance that had grown between Runtu and me. However, our children still share a bond, as Hong’er is already missing Shui Sheng. I hope that they will not experience the same estrangement I have, nor will they lead lives filled with the same hardships and struggles. I do not wish for them to endure the same hardships as I have, nor to become numb and insensitive like Runtu, nor to live a life of indulgence and excess like others. They deserve a new life, one that we have never known.

When I thought of hope, I suddenly felt a sense of fear. I had secretly laughed at Runtu when he asked for the incense burner and candle stand, thinking that he still worshipped idols and never forgot his superstitions. But now, isn’t the hope I speak of also an idol of my own making? The only difference is that his desires are immediate, while mine are distant.

As I drifted into a daze, I envisioned a vast, verdant sandy beach by the sea, under a deep blue sky adorned with a golden, full moon. It occurred to me that hope exists neither as a certainty nor as an impossibility. It is much like the paths on the earth; initially, there are no paths at all. But as more people walk upon them, they gradually form a way.

(January 1921.)