Gull Between Heaven and Earth by Boey Kim Cheng

Author:Boey Kim Cheng [Cheng, Boey Kim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-981-47-8525-9
Published: 2019-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

He snuffed out the candle and crept into bed, and lay awake, his eyes staring at the pane of moonlight across the room. It was as if at any moment a shadow might fill the space, a phantom from south of the Long River step into the room and read the poem that was lying on the table, its ink still wet like tears, the words trembling in the spectral light.

9

Even the Gibbons Wail

乾元二年 Second Year of Qianyuan Era (759 CE)

If Qinzhou was a mistake, Tonggu turned out to be sheer folly. He kicked himself for being gullible. Du Zhuo had said you could grow anything there, and that there was plenty of timber; and even his neighbours in West Branch Village spoke of it like it was the legendary Peach Blossom Village. Now he doubted if his nephew or his neighbours had even seen the place. The valley was hemmed in by rugged knolls backed by steep hills of spruce and fir, and across the river strewn with gigantic boulders, the Flying Dragon Gorge loomed dark and menacing, and to the south snow-capped peaks were visible, remote yet so clear and close that you could feel their chill breath. The mist was like the breaths of the mythical dragon that haunted these parts; it hung heavily on the valley, and in the afternoon the vapours would thicken and smother the hills from sight. It was breathtakingly remote, austere, beautiful even, but not a larder to feed a starving family.

They had tramped two hundred and fifty lis southwest of Qinzhou to this wilderness. At daybreak they had set out from Qinzhou and crossed the river. Zimei looked back at the city’s battlements; they looked so fragile, so lonely in harsh landscape, encircled by desert and mountains. He wondered if they would come back this way again, and if they did, how long it would be before it fell into Tibetan hands.

The road curled into the forested hills and climbed a series of ridges. They passed Iron Hall Gorge, the path hovering above tumbling rapids and the air freezing as the sheer granite walls on both sides shut out the sun. An oppressive gloom descended on them and the children sank into silent fear. Then the sky widened and the path climbed a series of switchbacks before descending and levelling out to Salt Well.

The men worked around the glistening mounds, closely guarded by soldiers with whips. Their faces were haggard, weather-beaten, their eyes sunken. Teams worked knee-deep in the brine, heaving buckets and transferring them to the pan, where the salt was collected. The men’s hands and legs were shrunken and misshapen, a leprous pallor eating into their flesh and bone. Another team shovelled the salt into sacks, which were heaved onto the backs of half-bent men, and carried to the waiting barge.

Zimei pitched camp close to the miners’ huts. The men waved the family over to eat with them. Over steaming bowls of coarse noodles, tossed with preserved vegetables and spiced oil, one of the men told Zimei of their plight.

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