Chen Mo · Chat

Before the sun sank below the horizon, you ran into him on the ridge behind the mountain. You had gotten lost, wandering from midday until the sun began to slope westward, the dew in the thick grass soaking your pants halfway up your shins. From a distance, you spotted an adobe cottage standing solitary in the hollow of the mountain, its thatched roof disheveled by the wind and weighed down by a few stones. You walked over and called out over the wattle fence, "Anyone there?" No one answered. The fence gate was broken, held together with twisted wire; a gentle push cracked it open a sliver. In the yard lay piles of dry firewood, and two or three roe deer pelts hung drying over bamboo poles, water still dripping from the skins into the mud, seeping into small, dark stains. Squatting beneath the base of the eastern wall was a man. His back was turned to you, clad in a faded blue cloth tunic, his broad shoulders and back wide enough to block a doorway. He crouched there before a basin of water, holding a rag, wiping something down. His movements were slow, one stroke at a time, as though afraid of disturbing something. You didn't dare step any further. Bubbling sounds drifted from the kitchen—the unmistakable simmer of a wood-fired stove—steam venting through a broken window, carrying the bitter aroma of wild greens. In the corner of the yard lay two dogs; hearing the commotion, their ears twitched, opening their eyes to glance at you before shutting them again and drifting back to sleep. The man continued wiping. You stood there for a while, unsure whether to leave or stay. Night was falling fast; if you didn't head down the mountain now, you'd be stranded out here overnight. "Um..." As soon as you spoke, he froze. He didn't turn around, just froze. His hand hovered over the water basin, droplets trickling through his fingers—drip, drip. The two dogs suddenly stood up, wagged their tails, and trotted over, nuzzling their heads beneath his arms. He lifted a hand and stroked one on the head, his touch gentle, smoothing from behind its ears down along its back, stroking back and forth twice. Then he stood up. Only when he stood did you realize just how tall he was. The fence only came up to his chest; you had to tilt your head up to look at him. He turned around, revealing a dark, sun-tanned face with two sunburnt red patches across his cheekbones, and several days' worth of scruff darkening his jawline and extending down to his Adam's apple. He looked at you once—just one glance. His eyes were murky, like stagnant water pooled for years in a mountain hollow, devoid of luster. Yet that single glance made you take half a step back. "The way down the mountain," he said. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn't spoken in a very long time, choked with something caught in his throat. Having said those words, he spoke no more, simply standing there, looking at you. The pot in the kitchen kept bubbling. Waves of steam rolled out, carrying the bitter scent of wild herbs and the hearty fragrance of boiled corn grits. "I... I got lost," you said. He gave a nod. Then he crouched down again, fished the cloth from the basin, wrung it out, and draped it over the rim. Only then did you see clearly what he had been wiping: a pair of shoes—old cloth shoes, faded white, the soles worn thin, but clean and pristine, without a speck of mud. He picked up the pair of shoes, turned around, and walked toward the kitchen. After two steps, he paused. He didn't turn around, just stood there. His broad, thick back faced you, motionless. "There's food on the stove," he said. Then he walked into the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind him, leaving it slightly ajar. Plumes of steam drifted through the gap, curling straight into your nostrils. The two dogs sat by the kitchen doorway, both looking back at you. You stood in the yard as dusk deepened, the wind sweeping down from the mountain ridge with the cool chill of wild foliage. A light flickered on inside the kitchen—an oil lamp, its faint, dusky yellow glow filtering through the broken window, pooling near your feet. Suddenly, you noticed something resting on the windowsill. It was a book. The pages were yellowed from use, yet neat and flat, without a single crease. With its spine facing outward, you couldn't make out the title, only seeing a maple leaf pressed between the pages—deep red, completely dried, its veins sharply distinct. Sounds of bowls and utensils clinked from inside the kitchen. The two dogs were still sitting there, watching you. You stood where you were, lingering for a long time. So long that when the kitchen door suddenly opened, he stepped out holding a bowl, walked right up to you, and held it out. Inside was a thick, steaming bowl of corn grit porridge. A pair of chopsticks rested across the rim—old and worn smooth, held securely in his large, calloused hands. He said nothing, simply holding the bowl, waiting for you to take it. You took it; it was scalding hot, forcing you to juggle it between your hands. He watched you juggle it with an impassive face, only pulling his hands back and wiping them on his tunic once you had a steady hold. "Eat," he said. Then he turned on his heel, headed back into the kitchen, and pulled the door ajar once more. Cradling the bowl, you stood in the courtyard. Total darkness had fallen, and the dim, warm light of the kitchen cast his silhouette against the paper windowpane. The shadow remained motionless, just sitting there, leaving you to wonder what he was doing. At some point, the two dogs had wandered over to your feet, nuzzling your legs with their warm, furry heads. You looked down and took a sip of the porridge. It was scalding—hot enough to numb the tip of your tongue—yet delicious, carrying the rich, simmered aroma of corn grits and a hint of sweetness from the wild greens. You downed more than half the bowl in one go, then looked up to see the shadow against the paper window move. He stood up, walked to the stove, ladled himself a bowl of porridge, and sat back down. Under the lamplight, his silhouette hunched over, leaning close to the rim as he slowly drank. You don't remember how you finished that bowl of porridge. All you remember is that afterward, you walked up to the kitchen door, intending to knock and thank him. Your hand went up, but you didn't knock. Because through the door, you heard a voice—very soft, raspy, as if unused for a long time, choked with something caught in his throat. "...Ate it." Just two words. You had no idea whom he was speaking to. The dogs? Or something else? There was no one else in the kitchen; from start to finish, it had only ever been him. You stood outside the door, hand still raised. After a moment, you heard him speak again: "This year's corn... is sweeter than last year's." This time, you realized whom he was talking to. No one. He was talking to himself. Or rather, he was speaking to someone who wasn't there. He spoke very slowly, pausing between each sentence, as if afraid the person might not hear clearly. "The porridge turned out thick. Cooked it just the way you told me, kept it on the stove an extra quarter of an hour." "The dogs are doing fine, too. The bigger one caught a rabbit a few days back." "The maple leaves on the mountain have turned red. You always loved that color. I picked one for you and pressed it inside the book."