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墨書 Inktalez
The more time I spent at Garden Middle School, the closer my classmates became, especially those who ranked at the top of our grade. They formed a small group, often gathering together despite being in three or four different classes, studying and playing as one.
Long Yunshi, the school's recognized top student, was not in my class, but we were inseparable friends. His home was nestled deep in the mountains at the border of Dongkou and Suining counties. Since my house was merely at the foot of a small hill, I longed to see the mountains he spoke of and suggested we find an opportunity to visit his home together.
One Saturday afternoon, school let out a bit early. After explaining to my father, I followed Yunshi deeper into the mountains.
In my imagination, Paulownia had always seemed somewhat mysterious. To my surprise, after walking just two or three hundred meters down Garden Street, the towering Lujia Mountain loomed before us. Watching Yunshi stride ahead with determination made me wonder if we were really going to climb over Lujia Mountain directly.
At the foot of the mountain, Yunshi's actions dispelled my doubts. He deftly turned right at a fork near a military outpost and entered a narrow path between two mountains.
As I gazed down the seemingly endless path flanked by steep cliffs, stepping on the small stones and occasional shale protruding from the cliffs, I felt both curious and excited. Having grown accustomed to walking on dirt paths in paddy fields, this rocky trail was a new adventure for me.
I chatted occasionally with Yunshi and other classmates as we walked. When we passed a mountain stream, I playfully dipped my feet clad in plastic sandals into the water to wash off the dust and enjoy its refreshing coolness.
The path continued to stretch ahead of us. Gradually, the small stones underfoot diminished while shale increased; the road became rougher and more uneven. The number of streams multiplied, their waters swelling until in many places we had to wade through them. The narrow path seemed to have crumbled from the mountain walls, twisting and turning intermittently.
In some steeper sections, we had to use our hands and feet to navigate carefully, gripping onto weeds and trees growing from the rock face while cautiously moving our feet. Occasionally, loose stones would tumble down from above.
I couldn't imagine how my classmates living in Paulownia managed to traverse this path every week; even more so when I thought about Deng Huayu, who appeared gentle yet reportedly lived three or four miles farther than Yunshi.
As we cautiously made our way along, a small courtyard built against the mountain wall suddenly came into view. A few sparse houses were nestled among lush green leaves, with beams of sunlight filtering through from the mountaintop across the way, casting glimmers on the gray-black rooftops. Excitedly, I asked, "Is this your home?"
"No," Yunshi replied with a chuckle. "We've only come halfway; we haven't even reached Paulownia yet—our home is still quite far!"
Having rarely walked such mountain paths before, I felt a bit disheartened: Why was it so far?
However, two intriguing objects that appeared beside the courtyard immediately caught my attention and lifted my spirits.
I spotted an old waterwheel that looked nothing like those back home that were set up in paddy fields to lift water from low to high places. This one featured a massive circular frame—like an enlarged version of my grandmother's spinning wheel—about three or four meters in diameter. The outer edge was slanted with dozens of bamboo tubes tied to it; each tube was as thick as a ladle used for scooping water.
The waterwheel turned slowly; near where it dipped into the stream, I could hear bubbling sounds as it "drank" water from the stream below. When it reached higher up, there were splashing sounds as it "spit" out what it had taken in through a split bamboo pipe that directed the water into a small canal above.
Having never seen such a waterwheel before, I stood nearby observing it for several minutes. Noticing my fascination, some other classmates paused too. Yunshi remarked, "There used to be many of these waterwheels along this route; now there's only this one left. It's not very useful anymore; it'll probably break down soon."
Hearing this made me shift my gaze away with regret as I prepared to continue on our journey when something else caught my eye: dozens of bamboo sticks standing upright on the ground like chopsticks. The upper two-thirds were coated with circles of gray dust while their lower ends were stuck into the ground. Each cluster resembled blooming flowers; lined up together they looked like countless twinkling stars scattered across a small patch of sky.
"What is this? Can you eat it?" I asked curiously.
"Haha! These are incense sticks," Yunshi explained. "Every household here makes them using fragrant soil from nearby mountains mixed with some other ingredients that stick onto bamboo skewers. Once dried, they can be sold on the street during festivals like New Year or Qingming when people pay respects to their ancestors. When lit, they emit a lovely fragrance and can burn for over half an hour."
After receiving an explanation, I lost interest in further inquiry and had no reason to linger any longer as we continued along the sometimes rugged and sometimes smooth path.
Finally, after two classmates left our group one after another, we arrived at Yunshi's family courtyard—the largest one I'd seen along our journey. Nestled near the foot of the mountain were more than ten wooden houses with green tiles stacked in layers forming three or four rows; Yunshi's home was located in the innermost row where its eaves nearly touched the mountain wall.
Yunshi's house resembled my old wooden house back home; its pillars were sturdy and robust while its main room was spacious and exceptionally bright due to lacking front walls. Inside, Yunshi's brother and father were weaving bamboo baskets; upon seeing us arrive they greeted us with smiles while continuing their work without pause. They mentioned they needed to hurry and make more baskets so that when Yunshi went back to school tomorrow he could sell them on Garden Street at the supply cooperative—each basket could earn over ten cents—and his school expenses were covered by what his father and brother earned during their spare time weaving baskets.
After the initial excitement wore off, I felt a bit bored until Yunshi told me some good news: there would be a movie screening in the courtyard of Chenjiawan tonight, and we should go watch it.
Hearing that there was a movie to see, I, who had just come from the era of Acrobatics, immediately became interested. After a hurried dinner, I urged Yunshi to head to Chenjiawan quickly, not even taking the time to savor the dishes his mother had specially prepared for me.
Unlike watching movies at my home, this time we didn't need to bring stools. Yunshi said we could borrow some at Chenjiawan. I thought to myself that this was truly a mountainous area with plenty of wood; every household had several stools. Plus, we still had to walk three or four miles, so not bringing stools made it easier.
Although it was getting dark and we had no lighting, the path from Paulownia to Chenjiawan turned out to be surprisingly easy to walk. With excitement and feeling light on our feet, we soon arrived at the large open space where the movie was being screened. Yunshi stood at the edge of the crowd for a moment before squeezing through a few stools and approaching a girl. He said, "Long Biao Song has come to watch the movie too; let's borrow a stool from your house."
With the faint light from the projector, I finally recognized that the girl in front of me was Deng Huayu, and I greeted her with a smile. She paused for a moment, then stood up and said, "Then you can sit here; I'll go get a stool and find another place to sit."
The movie soon began, and on the screen appeared seven shiny decorative characters—The Path Covered with Red Leaves!
Appendix: "The Path Covered with Red Leaves," produced by Emei Film Studio in 1983. Synopsis: In the autumn and winter of 1933, Tian Chuanmei, an instructor in the Women's Independent Regiment of the Red Fourth Front Army, leads female medic Lan Zi and female soldier Shui Xiang to Wangjiagou to assist the local county committee in relocation. Along the way, due to her husband’s "involvement," Tian Chuanmei is arrested by Chief Chu on charges of "conspiracy to rebel." In the deep autumn of Bashan, with layers of misty forests and winding mountain paths strewn with falling red leaves, Tian Chuanmei and her companions carry heavy burdens as they bravely tread along the rugged mountain trails.
Chief Chu escorts Tian Chuanmei's group back to the security bureau when they unexpectedly encounter enemies. Chief Chu's guard tragically sacrifices himself, and he himself is wounded by gunfire. Kind-hearted, honest, and simple Tian Chuanmei along with Lan Zi and Xiao Xiang continue to care for Chief Chu’s injuries with deep camaraderie and meticulous attention. Despite being pregnant and physically weak, Tian Chuanmei carries Chief Chu over mountains; Shui Xiang risks her life fishing in a river for nourishment for Chief Chu but is discovered by searching enemy soldiers and sacrifices herself; Lan Zi disregards danger by testing herbal medicine on herself in an attempt to treat Chief Chu’s illness but nearly poisons herself.
Moved by their dedication, Chief Chu resolutely holds back the enemy during battle and sacrifices himself heroically so that Tian Chuanmei, Lan Zi, and the newborn baby can safely relocate. Tears have dried up, blood has congealed; Chief Chu, Shui Xiang, and young soldiers bravely give their lives. Tian Chuanmei and Lan Zi still carry their pure hearts as they head towards the security bureau to "surrender." Amidst the cries of the baby, they silently embark on that winding path covered with red leaves...
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