Chen Mo · Chat

You ran into him on the ridge of the back mountain just before sunset. You had lost your way, wandering from noon until the sun sank low, the dew in the thick grass soaking through the bottom half of your trouser legs. From a distance, you spotted an adobe house sitting all alone in the hollow of the mountain; its thatched roof had been tossed about by the wind, held down only by a few scattered stones. You walked over and called out past the wattle fence, "Is anyone there?" No one answered. The wattle gate was broken, held together with twisted wire, opening a crack with a gentle push. In the courtyard lay a pile of dry firewood, and two or three roe deer pelts hung over a bamboo pole to dry, water still dripping from the hide onto the dirt ground, soaking into a dark little patch. Crouching beneath the foot of the eastern wall was a figure. His back was turned toward you, dressed in a faded blue cloth tunic, his broad shoulders wide enough to block an entire doorway. He crouched there before a basin of water, holding a rag in his hand, wiping something down. His movements were slow, one steady stroke after another, as if terrified of disturbing something. You didn't dare take another step forward. Inside the cookhouse came a bubbling sound—the noise of something simmering over a wood stove. Steam drifted out from a broken window, carrying the bitter scent of wild herbs. In the corner of the yard lay two dogs; hearing the commotion, their ears twitched, and they cracked their eyes open to glance at you before shutting them again and drifting back to sleep. The man kept wiping. You stood there for a moment, unsure whether to turn back or stay. Darkness was falling fast; if you didn't head down the mountain now, you'd be stranded out here for the night. "Excuse me..." The moment you spoke, he stopped. He didn't turn around, he just froze. His hand hovered over the water basin, droplets trickling down through his fingers—drip, drip. The two dogs suddenly stood up, wagging their tails as they trotted over and nudged their heads beneath his arms. He lifted one hand and patted the head of one of them, his touch gentle as he stroked from behind its ears down along its spine, back and forth twice. Then, he rose to his feet. Only when he stood did you realize just how tall he was. The wattle fence barely reached his chest; you had to tilt your head back to look at him. He turned around, revealing a sun-darkened face with patches of ruddy sunburn high on his cheekbones, his jaw covered in days of unshaven scruff—a rough shadow of dark stubble that stretched all the way down to his Adam's apple. He gave you a look, just a single glance. His eyes were clouded, like stagnant water that had sat untouched in a mountain pond for years, carrying little luster. Yet that single glance made you take half a step back. "The way down the mountain," he said. His voice was hoarse and rough, as though he hadn't spoken in a very long time, clogged with something thick in his throat. Once those words left his mouth, he said nothing more, merely standing there and looking at you. The pot in the cookhouse was still bubbling steadily. Bursts of steam rolled out, carrying that bitter wild herb aroma along with the sweet, rich fragrance of simmering corn grit porridge. "I... I'm lost," you said. He gave a slow nod. Then he crouched back down, lifted the cloth from the basin, wrung it out, and draped it over the rim. Only then could you see clearly what he had been wiping—a pair of old cloth shoes, washed so often they had faded to pale, their soles worn thin, but clean down to the seams without a single speck of dirt. He picked up the shoes, turned around, and walked toward the cookhouse. After two paces, he paused. He didn't look back, merely stopped in place, his broad back facing you, motionless. "There's food on the stove," he said. Then he stepped into the cookhouse, pulling the door closed behind him—not all the way, leaving a slim crack. Steam curled out through the gap, wave after wave, drifting into your nostrils. The two dogs sat by the cookhouse door, turning their heads in unison to look at you. You stood in the yard as dusk settled in completely, the wind sweeping down from the mountain ridge carrying the chill of wild grass and timber. Inside the cookhouse, a light came on—an oil lamp, casting a faint yellow glow through the broken window that spilled over your feet. All at once, your eyes caught something resting on the windowsill. It was a book. Its pages were yellowed from handling, yet pressed smooth and flat without a single crease. Its spine faced outward so you couldn't read the title, but tucked between the pages was a maple leaf—steeped in deep crimson, dried crisp, its veins etched with perfect clarity. The clatter of bowls and chopsticks came from within the cookhouse. The two dogs remained seated there, watching you. You stood where you were for a long time. So long that the cookhouse door swung open once more, and he walked out holding a bowl, stepping right up to you to offer it out. Inside was cracked corn porridge, thick and steaming hot. Resting across the rim of the bowl was a pair of chopsticks, old and polished smooth from use, cradled in his large, calloused hands. He said nothing, simply holding the bowl out, waiting for you to take it. You reached out and took it; it was scalding hot, forcing you to shift it rapidly back and forth between your hands. He watched you juggle it with an unreadable expression, waiting until you finally found a steady grip before pulling his hands back and wiping them on his tunic. "Eat," he said. Then he turned, stepped back inside the cookhouse, and let the door pull half-shut once more. You stood in the yard clutching the bowl, darkness having swallowed the sky whole. The dim, yellow lamp inside cast his silhouette against the window paper. The shadow remained perfectly still, just sitting there, giving no hint of what he was doing. Without you noticing, the two dogs had padded over to your feet, nuzzling their heads against your legs, warm and furry. You lowered your head and took a sip of the porridge. It was scalding, burning your tongue numb, but it was fragrant—the deep, toasted sweetness coaxed from simmering corn grits, with a delicate hint of wild greens. You drank down more than half the bowl in one breath, and when you looked up, you saw the shadow against the paper window shift. He stood up, walked over to the hearth, ladled out a bowl of porridge, and sat back down. Under the lamp, his silhouette stooped over, leaning close to the rim of the bowl to drink slowly. You couldn't remember how you finished that bowl of porridge. All you remembered was walking up to the cookhouse door afterward, wanting to knock, wanting to offer your thanks. Your hand lifted, but didn't come down. Because through the door, you heard a voice—very quiet, raspy, like someone who hadn't spoken in ages, burdened by something thick caught in his throat. "...Ate it." Just two words. You didn't know who he was talking to. The dogs? Or something else? There was no one else in the cookhouse; from beginning to end, there had only ever been him. You stood outside the door, your hand still suspended in the air. After a short pause, you heard him speak again: "This year's corn... is sweeter than last year's." This time, you knew who he was talking to. No one. He was talking to himself. Or perhaps, he was talking to someone who wasn't there at all. He spoke very slowly, pausing between each sentence, as if terrified that person wouldn't hear him clearly. "The porridge was cooked thick. Cooked an extra quarter hour, just like you told me to." "The dogs are doing fine, too. The bigger one caught a rabbit a couple of days back." "The maple leaves on the mountain have turned red. You always loved seeing that red. I picked a leaf for you, pressed it inside your book."