Dahe never slept for long on the big rock. Cold and damp set his injured leg aching so badly that he could scarcely bear it, and whether he dozed too long or the evening wind blew too hard, the pain would wake him. His ribs, broken once before, still gave him a dull ache as well.
By the time he awoke, dusk had usually fallen and the lamps along the downhill path were lit. He would pack up, straighten the altar, clear away offerings that had spoiled or gone past their time, wipe down the mountain god’s statue, and sweep the fallen leaves from the little shrine’s roof. Only then would he follow the stone-paved path down the mountain.
He took his evening meal at Third Uncle’s house. Sometimes Third Aunt cooked, but more often Dahe did. His two younger siblings were elsewhere, one in the county town and the other in the provincial capital. Third Aunt was growing old, and Third Uncle frequently suffered from pain in his back and legs. So Dahe came every day to help with the meals, housework, and whatever farm work needed doing.
After that he went home, fitted a knee covering he had stitched from cotton over his bad leg to ward off the cold, and wove bamboo trinkets for the next day’s stall while the television played. He liked choral singing and traditional opera, the same sounds that had reached him through the radio when he was little. News, television dramas, films, and everything else beyond the mountains held no interest for him. More than a decade spent outside had not changed him. He was still the plain, old-fashioned boy of the mountains, living one simple day and then another. The clean air, the sweet water, the happiness and hurt of being alive: he took it all in with his entire body and spirit. He had no time left over for pursuits that meant nothing to him.
The mountain god visited him in his dreams on the big rock every day. At first he was the very picture of gentle propriety, smiling, stroking Dahe’s hair, and comforting him through his pain. But when the wayward immortal saw Dahe gradually emerge from his grief and return to something like his old self, he promptly reverted to being his usual lazy, utterly undignified self.
“Don’t forget to burn me a pack of cigarettes tomorrow,” he said. He had just finished a braised chicken leg that came sealed in a plastic bag. Now he copied the tourists he had watched earlier that day, crossing his long legs beneath his robe, picking his teeth, and leaning back against the rock with all the swagger of a self-important old master.
“But… smoking is bad for your health.” Dahe did his best to persuade him. He had often heard Third Aunt urging the aging Third Uncle to give up smoking. Dahe had never taken it up himself. For one thing, it made him choke; for another, it cost money.
“Hey!” The mountain god floated over in an instant and tugged at Dahe’s cheeks, which had filled out a little lately. “Silly boy. I’m an immortal. How could smoking make me unhealthy?”
Then, with an exaggerated show of threats and cajolery, he delivered his instructions in perfect seriousness. “Get the one called Yunyun. The other brands taste too strong. I can’t get used to them.”
Imagine that. He even had a preferred brand.
Dahe didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. As always, however, he was powerless to refuse the god anything. “All right,” he agreed with a nod, then added, “The watermelons in Third Uncle’s field should be ripe. I’ll go and check tonight.”
“Half a watermelon will do. More than that and I won’t finish it.” The mountain god said this feeling rather pleased with himself for being so considerate, even helping Dahe avoid wasting food.
Dahe gave him a guileless grin. “All right.”
“Goodness, Dahe! Why are you sleeping here again?” A woman’s voice drifted faintly through a thin veil of mist.
“I have to wake up now,” Dahe said with the same familiar, guileless smile.
The mountain god waved a hand, perfectly unconcerned, as though to say, Go on then. See you tomorrow.
But instead of leaving at once, Dahe suddenly leaned in, slipped an arm around his shoulders, and kissed the injured half of his face with a smile. His broad lips were warm. The kiss made a soft little smack.
“See you tomorrow.”
The mountain god froze. Even when the illusory dream had faded, he remained standing in the bamboo grove, listening to the leaves rustle softly around him. It was only when he saw Dahe’s limping figure heading downhill with the stall frame on his back that he shuddered and raised a hand to the side of his face. Then, as though he had suddenly felt the warmth left there, he snatched his hand away as if burned.
His face still wore its usual distant expression. He watched until Dahe had disappeared, and then he let out a quiet sigh. “…Silly boy.”
Without even noticing, he smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting with a sweetness tinged by loneliness.
Word of Mount Dahan was slowly spreading. It was no celebrated mountain range, but the beauty of its scenery and its distinctive charm drew visitors from all directions. The first to come were mostly people from nearby cities looking for a quiet getaway. Later, travelers even flew in from the north and the east expressly to spend their holidays there.
The heat came early that year. More than a year had passed since Dahe returned to live in the mountains, and at last he was beginning to regain some of his spirit. On certain days he spent most of the daylight hours helping Third Uncle in the fields, only going up the mountain to set out his stall in the afternoon. Strength gradually returned to his gaunt frame, and although the sun darkened his skin, it gave him a healthier glow. With his dark complexion he might almost have been a black panther, except for his lame leg and the way he kept his head down all day, quietly weaving bamboo. A large black water buffalo was a better comparison: lumbering, placid, and happily absorbed in its own affairs.
When there were few tourists about, he would rock his head from side to side like a water buffalo and hum snatches of a tune he had only just learned. The melody was hopelessly off, but his voice was strong and he could sing several lines at a stretch without needing to catch his breath.
One day, just as he was holding his breath and giving a particularly hearty string of “ah-ah-ya-ya,” a tiny head popped up in front of his stall. He was so startled he nearly choked.
It belonged to a little girl of three or four, with short hair and an enormous flower-shaped clip. If Qiuqiu were still alive, she would have been about the same age. The child bobbed her head along with him for a moment, then blinked and urged him in an accent from beyond the mountains, “Uncle, sing!”
Dahe found he could not sing another note. He just gave her a helpless, foolish grin. After a moment of not knowing what to do, he ducked his head and picked up a little bamboo rabbit he had made as a display sample, then held it out to her.
The little girl rose on her toes and reached with both plump arms. She needed two hands to cradle the rabbit, which she hugged against her chest like a doll.
Her mother was coming up the mountain slowly with several other visitors. From a distance she called out, “Tiantian! Don’t take things that belong to other people!”
“Uncle gave it to me!” the little girl protested, her piping voice full of grievance.
Her mother approached, a little embarrassed, and asked Dahe the price of the rabbit. He smiled and shook his head. “I gave it to her. She doesn’t have to pay.”
“Then you must thank Uncle,” her mother instructed.
“Thank you, Uncle!” The child’s voice rang out loud and clear.
Finding Dahe honest and guileless, without a trace of ill intent, the mother gave him a friendly smile and thanked him for the present. She led her daughter a short distance away, read her the story of the mountain god, paid respects at the little shrine, and sat down with the others to rest on a long wooden bench nearby.
It was not long before the child came pattering back. Her round face appeared from beneath the stall. “Uncle!”
Dahe handed her a bamboo cricket this time. It was a small one, and when she reached for it, her soft, plump hand rested in his broad, thick palm. The great, mountain-like man gave a slight shudder. All at once his eyes grew hot.
“Tiantian!” Her mother had glanced over from a distance and assumed her daughter was begging for more things. She could not help calling out a reproach.
“Thank you, Uncle!” the little girl immediately called back, before explaining herself to her mother. “I already thanked him!”
Her mother was at a loss and returned to chatting with her friends. Dahe laughed, finding the child so lively and dear that he could not resist patting her head.
The girl showed no fear of strangers. She ducked beneath the stall, climbed out beside Dahe, and stood on tiptoe to touch the other little trinkets. When he tried to give her a butterfly as well, she hurriedly shook her head. “No more, Uncle! There are too many. I can’t carry them!”
She set her own bamboo cricket beside the others on the stall and played for a while, murmuring an unfamiliar nursery rhyme. Then she suddenly looked up. “Uncle, can I ask you something?”
“Mm,” Dahe said.
Pointing toward the mountain god’s shrine, she asked, “Is there really an immortal in that little temple? Really?”
Dahe lifted his head toward the small shrine, his gaze warm and tender. “There is. If you believe in him, there is.”
The girl blinked at him, then at the shrine, and suddenly gave a little cry of wonder. “Oh!”
Dahe followed her gaze. Beside the temple, a single bamboo leaf drifted down above the great rock, floating gently in circles until it landed on the smooth stone.
All at once he remembered an afternoon more than twenty years ago, just as warm and sunlit, when he had tilted his face up and asked his grandfather whether the mountain god really existed.
If you believe in him, he exists, Grandpa had said.
And then his god truly had appeared.
If you believe in him, he exists. He is here. He has always been here.
Dahe smiled, his eyes growing warm, and looked into the empty space alongside the little girl. “…Is the immortal good-looking?” he asked.
She nodded with all her might, staring so intently she seemed unwilling even to blink. “Mm!”
Smiling, Dahe stroked her soft hair and said, his eyes brimming with warmth, “Mm… He’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. The very best.”
The finest mountain god of all was lying bonelessly on the great rock, complaining in a feeble voice, “I’ve run out of cigarettes…”
“Uncle Gen says Yunyun is sold out. He won’t be able to fetch more stock until the day after tomorrow,” Dahe told him. He sat beside the god, gazing down at him with the same innocent grin on his face.
“…You should smoke less. You’re turning into a real smoke fiend,” he persisted.
Third Aunt was forever calling Third Uncle an old smoke fiend. Dahe had thought it over quite earnestly and decided to leave out the word old.
“I’m an immortal! What do you mean, fiend?” The mountain god waved this away. A bunch of purple grapes appeared in his hand, freshly chilled in the mountain spring by Dahe that afternoon.
Dahe peeled the grapes for him. The god reclined on his side, too lazy to do anything but wait, one hand propping up his head and the other held out to receive each grape. Reddish juice glistened on his pale fingertips. When the last grape was gone, he was about to conjure a piece of red cloth to wipe his hands. Then, suddenly, he felt warmth against his fingers.
Dahe had taken his hand and lowered his head to kiss those fingertips, drawing away the lingering juice with his lips.
Then he looked up, as though he had just done the most ordinary thing in the world, and asked with his guileless smile, “Was it sweet? Shall I bring some more tomorrow?”
“…”
After a moment, the mountain god replied with perfect composure, “Bring me a packet of dragon’s beard candy tomorrow.”
By the time the moon rose above the treetops, the mountains were quiet again. Only a faint, indistinct sound could be heard near the mountain spring.
Under the pale, bright moonlight, the immortal sat alone on the shrine roof in a daze. In one hand he held a packet of spicy dried tofu. It had been so hot that he had put it down after only a couple of bites.
He felt that all the sweet potatoes and candy Dahe fed him were making him more delicate with every passing year. He vaguely recalled a time a century or two ago when the mountain people had nothing else to offer and had presented him with dried chilies. Back then he could pick them up between two fingers and eat them one after another. The memory filled the mountain god with a wistful sigh.
The tingling sensation still lingering on his fingertips might have been the burn of something spicy. Or perhaps it was the memory of warm lips touching them that afternoon.
He stared into the depths of the mountains, quite unaware that his normally smooth, aloof brows had drawn together in a faint frown.
With a soft sigh, he reflected that there were things even he could not begin to understand.
A sleeping bird startled out of the woods behind him, breaking his reverie. Turning around, he finally noticed faint, rhythmic smacking sounds coming from behind the big rock beside the shrine.
His emerald-green robes stirred in the breeze as the mountain spirit drifted over the rock. Then the hand holding the packet of spicy tofu gave a sudden jerk.
That black-furred big rabbit, which had been missing for several months, was currently squatting there, pressing down on a juvenile wildcat of similar size with mottled markings—pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…
The little wildcat let out weak cries, its claws digging into the ground, making it impossible to tell whether it was enjoying itself immensely or miserable beyond belief.
The mountain god raised a hand to his forehead. That was a wildcat, you little beast! Once grown, it would be ten times your size, and it ate rabbits! Yet here you were, pinning it down and bullying it!
Before the immortal’s bellyful of internal complaints could even be voiced, the rabbit had had its fill of pleasure and hopped off the wildcat, only to be pressed down in turn by the wildcat—pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…
A male wildcat, at that.
The mountain god threw away the dried tofu and clasped his forehead in both hands.
Where the heart led, desire followed. This, too, was part of the mountain’s way.
In the hundreds of years he had spent in these mountains, he’d seen plenty of such things: males with males, dogs with chickens, wolves with pangolins… When mating season came, every creature followed its own inclinations, and everything became outrageously unruly. At first he could hardly bear to look or listen. Eventually he could calmly peel his sweet potato while the commotion went on right before him.
Rules of propriety and conventional morality were shackles that humans had placed upon themselves.
The mountain god sat on the big rock and went back to staring into space. Before long, the wildcat slipped soundlessly past, took an apple from the altar, and carried it away without eating it, its head bobbing rather proudly. A little later, the rabbit came bounding over, kicked the wildcat, snatched the apple, and took it back to its burrow. Then it emerged again, seized the wildcat by the scruff of its neck, and dragged it into the burrow too.
One day in midsummer, a group of female university students from another province came up the mountain path. They studied at an art school in Jiangnan and had come to Mount Dahan with their classmates and friends to gather inspiration over the summer holidays. Every one of them had a long-lensed camera. They were all aspiring photographers.
These young photographers had grown up surrounded by pavilions, fine carved railings, and ornate buildings, so the newly restored little shrine did not initially impress them much. But when they read the story of the mountain god on the stone tablet, they sighed over it in sympathy and gathered around to take one photograph after another.
“How moving! Someone could write a novel about this!” they exclaimed.
“Look, what an adorable butterfly!” A rosy, round-faced girl ran over to Dahe’s stall and pointed to a little bright-green butterfly. “How much is this, Uncle?”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when she lifted her head and looked at Dahe. Her eyes widened. “Oh! I’m sorry, big brother!”
Dahe had been mistaken for a middle-aged man more than once. Years of labor had left his skin dark and the skin of his hands coarse, and he was always looking downward. He merely smiled gently and waved away the mistake. “Five yuan. The bigger ones are seven.”
The girl blinked and, without any sign of embarrassment, asked, “And how much is that rabbit?”
She lingered long enough to buy a butterfly, then skipped back to her friends. The mountain god was stretching lazily on the shrine roof when he overheard the girls huddled together, whispering, “Hey, the fellow at that stall is really handsome! Look carefully. He really is! Go on, look!”
The immortal had been holed up in the mountains for hundreds of years. He yawned, still entirely unaware that anything might be amiss. He was merely puzzled by the word handsome. Did they mean an imposing commander’s air? He could see nothing of the sort.
The girls kept stealing glances at Dahe. One with a ponytail murmured, “Don’t you think he looks a little slow? Kind of foolish…”
The others promptly swatted down that opinion. “What do you know? That’s the authentic, all-natural mountain look!” “Exactly! Out in the world he’d be nothing special, but look at the rest of the people around here. Someone who looks like that is already handsome!” “Look at these butterflies he wove! Aren’t they pretty? And those rabbits are adorable!” “I want a picture with him!” “Come on, take some photos! Post them on the Goupu forum!”
The conversation went further and further beyond anything the mountain god understood, and somewhere along the way the girls seemed to insult the appearance of his descendants as a group. Then, with a great deal of lively chatter, they all flocked to Dahe’s stall.
The mountain spirit sat upright, eyes wide, and watched the girls, bright and lively as little golden orioles, crowd around his honest, simple mountain boy until there was scarcely room to move.
“Big brother, how much is this mantis?” “This is adorable! How did you make it?” “Can everyone in your village weave these? Is it a local specialty?” “I’d like two rabbits. Could you make another one?” “If I buy a rabbit, can I take a photo with you, big brother?”
Dahe had never been in the middle of so many girls before. His little bamboo stall was pushed askew, and he was jostled this way and that, with nowhere to retreat. His ears turned red with embarrassment and his mind could not keep pace. “Ah… ah? The mantis is five yuan. The rabbits are twenty each… Huh? A picture? What picture?”
It never occurred to him to shield himself from the commotion. The girls chattered around him, and before he quite knew what was happening, they had taken several close-up photographs: Dahe with the bamboo butterflies, Dahe with the bamboo rabbits, Dahe with the girls. Then came a sudden “Whoosh!”
A gust swept through the bamboo grove. The girl pressing the shutter jolted, and her photograph came out blurred.
“Oh, it’s blurry! Again!” She checked the result and waved the others back into place.
But strong gusts kept stirring the grove. In broad daylight, a tiny black cloud drifted overhead, an extraordinarily delicate little patch of darkness.
Then a fine rain began to patter down.
The girls were caught completely off guard. They cried out as the rain spattered over their hair and clothes, hastily protecting their cameras and lenses and stuffing them into their bags. But the shower was light, so they were more amused than alarmed, laughing and jostling one another.
Dahe hurried to fetch the large parasol he kept folded beside the stall. He opened it and invited the girls beneath it to shelter. Mountain summers often brought showers or blazing sunshine, so he kept the parasol there to protect his wares.
Somehow the weather only grew worse. The drizzle had been slight at first, but when the girls began laughing and talking to Dahe again beneath the umbrella, it seemed to come down just a little harder.
“Big brother, how long have you been running this stall?” one of the girls asked.
“More than a year.” As Dahe replied, he kept glancing toward the mountain god’s shrine, feeling vaguely uneasy without knowing why.
Noticing him staring at the little temple, they asked, “Is the story about the mountain god really true?”
“It’s true,” Dahe answered.
The girls sighed over the story again, talking about how moving and pitiful it was that a scholar had given his life to save others.
“He’s not pitiful,” Dahe said, shaking his head in earnest. The mountain god was not someone to be pitied. He was someone to be revered.
“If we go climbing after the rain stops, will he watch over us?”
Dahe nodded. “He will.” After a moment he added with a simple smile, “He’s very kind. He doesn’t hold grudges.”
The tiny dark cloud above the bamboo grove… silently moved away.
The drizzle stopped before long. The girls packed their belongings and continued up the mountain, ordering one more bamboo rabbit to collect from Dahe on their way down that evening.
When the sun set, Dahe saw them off, put away his bamboo stall, and curled up to sleep on the great rock.
He opened his eyes into a hazy dream and found the mountain god pinning him against the rock, a cigarette held arrogantly between his lips. The god pulled his cheeks apart with both hands like a street ruffian. “And just what am I supposed to be holding a grudge about, hmm?”
Dahe grinned, his face stretched into a broad, round pancake that only made him look more guileless. Without resisting or arguing, he slipped his arms around the god’s waist and drew him down.
The mountain god’s wide sleeves and robes spilled over Dahe like water. His long black hair streamed down like water from a mountain spring, brushing against Dahe’s ear.
“Too much smoking isn’t good for you.” Smiling, Dahe awkwardly took the cigarette from the god’s pale lips, pinched it out, and tossed it away.
“Silly boy!” The immortal braced himself on his elbows to keep from falling fully into Dahe’s arms. “I’m asking you a question! What grudge?”
Dahe smiled and offered a stammering explanation, as earnestly as ever. “I… I didn’t know they’d… be like that. Next time I’ll keep far away from them.”
“…”
The mountain god went quiet for quite some time. A faint blush crept over his pale cheeks. Then he furrowed his brow and tugged fiercely at Dahe’s face. “You little fool! You’ve learned bad habits out in the world!”
His head was full of crafty little tricks, yet he still pretended to be innocent. Since when had the mountain god ever said he resented those girls for getting too close to Dahe?
“Mm.” Dahe was still grinning, answering a different question entirely. One sweet, heart-tugging promise followed another. “I won’t go out into the world again. I won’t leave anymore. I’ll stay here with you…”
Shyness colored his dark cheeks. He raised himself slightly and tightened his arms around the god’s shoulders, drawing him all the way into his embrace until their noses touched. His voice trembled as he confessed in a low murmur, “I’ll never leave you again…”
The mountain god’s long lashes quivered. His deep, dark eyes seemed wet as he gazed at Dahe for a moment, then slowly closed them.
Taking that as permission, Dahe lifted his head and gently kissed the burned half of his face, his warm, slightly rough lips passing over the uneven scars. His eyes burned and his arms trembled as he remembered how much the god must have suffered when he was injured, how the entire mountain had shaken as though the heavens and earth were collapsing. Tears spilled out before he could stop them, and he kept kissing those scars as carefully as if they were precious.
Hearing Dahe’s stifled, trembling sobs, the mountain god closed his eyes and sighed. His cool fingers followed Dahe’s cheek into his hair and softly stroked the back of his head, just as they had when Dahe was a child.
What was there to resent? the immortal wondered with a sigh. He himself could not explain what had been in his heart when he summoned that fine rain to drive the girls away that afternoon. Back when he believed Dahe and Xiuxiu had even had a child together, his feelings had held not only loneliness and sorrow but also a greater measure of comfort that Dahe had made a home and a life for himself.
At the time he had thought: The silly boy is grown up. Of course he must leave someday. If leaving this mountain truly is better for him, if the bright, bustling world outside can give him a happy and fulfilled life, then may he never need to come back. May he have a gentle, wise wife and a lively, lovely daughter.
“It wasn’t like that.” Dahe shook his head, choking on his tears, as though he knew exactly what his god had been thinking. He kissed the small crease between the god’s brows and repeated, “It wasn’t. Xiuxiu and I… nothing ever happened between us. It wasn’t like that…”
He clumsily wiped away the useless tears on his face. Looking up with eyes faintly bloodshot at the mountain god, who had gone momentarily still at those words, Dahe rose, clasped him tightly, and turned them over until he was the one above.
“Can I?” the plainhearted mountain boy asked nervously, hovering over him.
The immortal blinked. “What?”
“Kiss you here…” Dahe’s rough fingertip brushed across his cool, soft lips.
The immortal gave a soft sigh, closed his chilly arms around Dahe, and drew his head down.
“Mm…”
Do you like her?
What does it mean to like someone?
Well… are you happy when you see her?
Is she kind to you? Do you want to be kind to her?
Do you think she’s beautiful?
I think you’re beautiful.
Then isn’t that what it means to like someone?