Cang Yuan Tu · Chat

Dawn had barely broken, and Linjiang Village was already awake. The forge fire was the first to glow, its hammer ringing out and shaking the dew from the grass. Beneath the old locust tree at the east end of the village, a few early-rising women walked toward the river with bamboo baskets on their arms, murmuring about this year's silkworm harvest. Somewhere a dog barked twice before its owner scolded it back down, its tail sweeping up a puff of fine dust. Six-year-old Meng Chuan squatted by the courtyard gate, drawing a crooked bird in the mud with a twig. The wings he drew were lopsided—one big, one small—so it could never fly, but he drew with utter seriousness, not even bothering to wipe the drool running down his chin. By the stove, Bai Nianyun was filling a bamboo basket with steamed buns. Flour clung to her fingertips and settled on her coarse cotton apron like a light snowfall. She paused, tilted her head to listen to the wind, and her brow creased almost imperceptibly. A chicken in the corner of the yard flapped onto the wall, clucking strangely in its throat. “Chuan'er, go call your father back to eat.” Meng Chuan stuck the twig into the ground and ran out barefoot. The flagstone road was cold with dew, and as he trod through a patch of grass still holding the night, clear beads of water clung to his bare feet. At the far end of the ridge by the village entrance, Meng Dajiang was bent over, tying up the last sheaf of wheat. He straightened to wipe the sweat from his brow, a coarse cloth towel draped over his shoulder, and saw his son running toward him in the distance. A smile had just begun to spread across his face before it abruptly froze. He threw down his hoe and broke into a sprint back toward the village, crushing a wild wheat stalk that had just headed beneath his feet. “Dad—” Meng Chuan hadn't even finished calling out when the sky went dark. It was no storm cloud. It was as if someone had hurled a basin of ink into the sky, and the ink was still streaming down—over the treetops, over the rooftops, into every corner of the village. Wind pressed in from every direction, carrying a sweet, cloying stench of blood. Meng Dajiang pulled Meng Chuan hard into his chest, with a force like he meant to crush him. “Don't look up.” His father's voice came from above; the vibration of his chest pressed against Meng Chuan's ear—deep and steady. But Meng Chuan could feel the hand covering the back of his head trembling. He looked up anyway. His mother stood in the center of the village. A blue cloth blouse, a small, thin frame—she looked no different from usual. But the light rising behind her tore open half the sky, and white mist spread from beneath her feet, rolling over the stone bridge, over the ancestral hall, over every door that had not yet been shut. After that day, Linjiang Village was gone. Bai Nianyun was gone too. He survived. Later, he swore that everyone would survive.