灵山---英文版-第3部分

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　　I　ask　him　for　a　demonstration。　Without　hesitation；　he　instantly　gets　to　his　feet　and　proceeds　to　dance　and　sing。　His　voice　is　low　and　rich；　he’s　got　a　good　voice。　I’m　sure　he’s　Qiang　even　if　the　police　in　charge　of　the　population　register　insist　that　he　isn’t。　They　think　anyone　claiming　to　be　Tibetan　or　Qiang　is　trying　to　evade　birth　restrictions　and　have　more　children。　
　　He　sings　song　after　song。　He　says　he’s　a　fun…loving　person；　I　believe　him。　When　he　finished　up　as　village　head；　he　went　back　to　being　one　of　the　mountain　people；　an　old　mountain　man　who　likes　good　fun；　unfortunately　he　is　past　the　age　for　romance。　
　　He　also　knows　incantations；　the　kind　hunters　use　when　they　go　into　the　mountains。　They　are　called　mountain　black…magic　or　hexes　and　he　has　no　qualms　about　using　them。　He　really　believes　they　can　drive　wild　animals　into　pits　or　get　them　to　step　into　snares。　They　aren’t　used　only　on　animals；　they’re　also　used　against　other　humans　beings　for　revenge。　A　victim　of　mountain　black…magic　won’t　be　able　to　find　his　way　out　of　the　mountains。　They　are　like　the　〃demon　walls〃　I　heard　about　as　a　child：　when　someone　has　been　travelling　for　some　time　at　night　in　the　mountains；　a　wall；　a　cliff　or　a　deep　river　appears　right　in　front　of　him；　so　that　he　can’t　go　any　further。　If　the　spell　isn’t　broken　the　person’s　feet　don’t　move　forward　and　even　if　he　keeps　walking；　he　stays　exactly　where　he　started　off。　Only　at　daybreak　does　he　discover　that　he　has　been　going　around　in　circles。　That’s　not　so　bad；　the　worst　is　when　a　person　is　led　into　a　blind…alley：　that　means　death。　
　　He　intones　strings　of　incantations。　It’s　not　slow　and　relaxed　like　when　he　is　singing；　but　just　nan…nan…na…na　to　a　quick　beat。　I　can’t　understand　it　at　all　but　I　can　feel　the　mystical　pull　of　the　words；　a　demonic　awesome　atmosphere　instantly　permeates　the　room；　the　inside　of　which　is　black　from　smoke。　The　glow　of　the　flames　licking　the　iron　pot　of　mutton　stew　make　his　eyes　glint。　This　is　all　starkly　real。　
　　While　you　search　for　the　route　to　Lingshan；　I　wander　along　the　Yangtze　River　looking　for　this　sort　of　reality。　I　had　just　gone　through　a　crisis　and　then；　on　top　of　that；　a　doctor　wrongly　diagnosed　me　with　lung　cancer。　Death　was　playing　a　joke　on　me　but　now　that　I’ve　escaped　the　demon　wall；　I　am　secretly　rejoicing。　Life　for　me　once　again　has　a　wonderful　freshness。　I　should　have　left　those　contaminated　surroundings　long　ago　and　returned　to　nature　to　look　for　this　authentic　life。　
　　In　those　contaminated　surroundings　I　was　taught　that　life　was　the　source　of　literature；　that　literature　had　to　be　faithful　to　life；　faithful　to　real　life。　My　mistake　was　that　I　had　alienated　myself　from　life　and　ended　up　turning　my　back　on　real　life。　However；　real　life　is　not　the　same　as　manifestations　of　life。　Real　life；　or　in　other　words　the　basic　substance　of　life；　should　be　the　former　and　not　the　latter。　I　had　gone　against　real　life　because　I　was　simply　stringing　together　life’s　manifestations；　so　of　course　I　wasn’t　able　to　accurately　portray　life　and　in　the　end　only　succeeded　in　distorting　reality。　
　　I　don’t　know　whether　I’m　now　on　the　right　track　but　in　any　case　I’ve　extricated　myself　from　the　bustling　literary　world　and　also　escaped　from　my　smoke…filled　room。　The　books　piled　everywhere　in　that　room　were　oppressive　and　stifling。　They　expounded　all　sorts　of　truths；　historical　truths　to　truths　on　how　to　be　human。　I　couldn’t　see　the　point　of　so　many　truths　but　still　got　enmeshed　in　the　net　of　those　truths　and　was　struggling　hopelessly；　like　an　insect　caught　in　a　spider’s　web。　Fortunately；　the　doctor　who　gave　the　wrong　diagnosis　saved　my　life。　He　was　quite　frank　and　got　me　to　pare　the　two　chest　X…rays　taken　on　two　separate　occasions：　a　blurry　shadow　on　the　left　lobe　of　the　lung　had　spread　along　the　second　rib　to　the　wall　of　the　windpipe。　It　wouldn’t　help　even　to　have　the　whole　of　the　left　lobe　removed。　The　oute　was　obvious。　My　father　had　died　of　lung　cancer。　He　died　within　three　months　of　it　being　discovered　and　it　was　this　doctor　who　had　correctly　diagnosed　it。　I　had　faith　in　his　medical　expertise　and　he　had　faith　in　science。　The　chest　X…rays　taken　at　two　different　hospitals　were　identical；　there　was　no　possibility　of　a　technical　mistake。　He　also　wrote　an　authorization　for　a　sectional　X…ray；　the　appointment　was　in　half　a　month’s　time。　This　was　nothing　to　get　worried　about；　it　was　just　to　determine　the　extent　of　the　tumour。　My　father　had　this　done　before　he　died。　The　oute　would　be　the　same　whether　or　not　I　had　the　X…ray；　it　was　nothing　special。　That　I　in　fact　would　slip　through　the　fingers　of　Death　can　only　be　put　down　to　good　luck。　I　believe　in　science　but　I　also　believe　in　fate。　
　　I　once　saw　a　four…inch　length　of　wood　which　had　been　collected　in　the　Qiang　region　by　an　anthropologist　during　the　1930s。　It　was　a　carved　statue　of　a　person　doing　a　handstand。　The　head　had　ink　markings　for　the　eyes；　nose　and　mouth；　and　the　word　〃longevity〃　was　written　on　the　body。　It　was　called　〃Wuchang　Upside　Down〃　and　there　was　something　oddly　mischievous　about　it。　I　ask　the　retired　village　head　whether　such　talismans　are　still　around。　He　tells　me　these　are　called　〃old　root〃。　This　wooden　idol　has　to　acpany　the　newborn　from　birth　to　death。　At　death　it　acpanies　the　corpse　from　the　house　and　after　the　burial　it　is　placed　in　the　wilderness　to　allow　the　spirit　to　return　to　nature。　I　ask　him　if　he　can　get　me　one　so　that　I　can　carry　it　on　me。　He　laughs　and　says　these　are　what　hunters　tuck　into　their　shirts　to　ward　off　evil　spirits；　they　wouldn’t　be　of　any　use　to　someone　like　me。　
　　〃Is　there　an　old　hunter　who　knows　about　this　sort　of　magic　and　can　take　me　hunting　with　him？〃　I　ask。　
　　〃Grandpa　Stone　would　be　the　best；〃　he　says　after　thinking　about　it。　
　　〃How　can　I　find　him？〃　I　ask　right　away。　
　　〃He’s　in　Grandpa　Stone’s　Hut。〃　
　　〃Where’s　this　Grandpa　Stone’s　Hut。〃　
　　〃Go　another　twenty　li　on　to　Silver　Mine　Gully　then　follow　the　creek　right　up　to　the　end。　There　you’ll　find　a　stone　hut。〃　
　　〃Is　that　the　name　of　the　place　or　do　you　mean　the　hut　of　Grandpa　Stone？〃　
　　He　says　it’s　the　name　of　the　place；　that　there’s　in　fact　a　stone　hut；　and　that　Grandpa　Stone　lives　there。　
　　〃Can　you　take　me　to　him？〃　I　go　on　to　ask。　
　　〃He’s　dead。　He　lay　down　on　his　bed　and　died　in　his　sleep。　He　was　too　old；　he　lived　to　well　over　ninety；　some　even　say　well　over　a　hundred。　In　any　case；　nobody’s　sure　about　his　age。〃　
　　〃Are　any　of　his　descendants　still　alive？〃　I　can’t　help　asking。　
　　〃In　my　grandfather’s　generation　and　for　as　long　as　I　can　remember；　he　was　always　on　his　own。〃　
　　〃Without　a　wife？〃　
　　〃He　lived　on　his　own　in　Silver　Mine　Gully。　He　lived　high　up　the　gully；　in　the　solitary　hut；　alone。　Oh；　and　that　rifle　of　his　is　still　hanging　on　the　wall　of　the　hut。〃　
　　I　ask　him　what　he’s　trying　to　tell　me。　
　　He　says　Grandpa　Stone　was　a　fantastic　hunter；　a　hunter　who　was　an　expert　in　the　magical　arts。　There　are　no　hunters　like　that　nowadays。　Everyone　knows　that　his　rifle　is　hanging　in　the　hut；　that　it　never　misses　the　target；　but　nobody　dares　to　go　and　take　it。　
　　〃Why？〃　I’m　even　more　puzzled。　
　　〃The　route　into　Silver　Mine　Gully　is　cut。〃　
　　〃There’s　no　way　through？〃　
　　〃Not　anymore。　Earlier　on　people　used　to　mine　silver　there；　a　firm　from　Chengdu　hired　a　team　of　workers　and　they　began　mining。　Later　on；　after　the　mine　was　looted；　everyone　just　left。　The　plank　roads　they　laid　either　broke　up　or　rotted。〃　
　　〃When　did　all　this　happen。〃　
　　〃When　my　grandfather　was　still　alive；　more　than　fifty　years　ago。〃　
　　That　would　be　about　right；　after　all　he’s　already　retired　and　has　bee　history；　real　history。　
　　〃So　since　then　nobody’s　ever　gone　there？〃　I　bee　even　more　intrigued。　
　　〃Hard　to　say；　anyway　it’s　hard　to　get　there。〃　
　　〃And　the　hut　has　rotted？〃　
　　〃Stone　collapses；　how　can　it　rot？〃　
　　〃I　was　talking　about　the　ridgepole。〃　
　　〃Oh；　quite　right。〃　
　　He　doesn’t　want　to　take　me　there；　nor　does　he　want　to　find　a　hunter　for　me；　so　he’s　leading　me　on　like　this；　I　think。　
　　〃Then　how　do　you　know　the　rifle’s　still　hanging　on　the　wall？〃　I　ask；　regardless。　
　　〃That’s　what　everyone　says；　someone　must’ve　seen　it。　They　all　say　that　Grandpa　Stone　is　incredible；　his　corpse　hasn’t　rotted　and　wild　animals　don’t　dare　to　go　near。　He　just　lies　there　all　stiff　and　emaciated；　and　his　rifle　is　hanging　there　on　the　wall。〃　
　　〃Impossible。　With　the　high　humidity　up　here　in　the　mountain；　the　corpse　would　have　rotted　and　the　rifle　would　have　turned　into　a　pile　of　rust；〃　I　argue。　
　　〃I　don’t　know。　Anyway；　people　have　been　saying　this　for　years。〃　He　refuses　to　give　in　and　sticks　to　his　story。　The　light　of　the　fire　dances　in　his　eyes　and　I　seem　to　detect　a　cunningness　in　them。　
　　〃And　you’ve　never　seen　him？〃　I　won’t　let　him　off。　
　　〃People　who　have　seen　him　say　that　he　seems　to　be　asleep；　that　he’s　emaciated；　and　that　the　rifle　is　hanging　there　on　the　wall　above　his　head；〃　he　goes　on　unruffled。　〃He　knew　black…magic。　It’s　not　just　that　people　don’t　dare　go　there　to　steal　his　rifle；　even　animals　don’t　dare　to　go　near。〃　
　　The　hunter　is　already　myth。　To　talk　about　a　mixture　of　history　and　legend　is　how　folk　stories　are　born。　Reality　exists　only　through　experience；　and　it　must　be　personal　experience。　However；　once　related；　even　personal　experience　bees　a　narrative。　Reality　can’t　be　verified　and　doesn’t　need　to　be；　that　can　be　left　for　the　reality　of　life　experts　to　debate。　What　is　important　is　life。　Reality　is　simply　that　I　am　sitting　by　the　fire　in　this　room　which　is　black　with　grime　and　smoke　and　that　I　see　the　light　of　the　fire　dancing　in　his　eyes。　Reality　is　myself；　reality　is　only　the　perception　of　this　instant　and　it　can’t　be　related　to　another　person。　All　that　needs　to　be　said　is　that　outside；　a　mist　is　enclosing　the　green…blue　mountain　in　a　haze　and　your　heart　is　reverberating　with　the　rushing　water　of　a　swift…flowing　stream。