he be looking for a peaceful and stable existence； find a not…too…demanding sort of a job； stay in a mediocre position； bee a husband and a father； set up a fortable home； put money in the bank and add to it every month so there’ll be something for old age and a little left over for the next generation？
Chapter Two
It is in the Qiang region halfway up Qionglai Mountain； in the border areas of the Qinghai…Tibetan highlands and the Sichuan basin； that I witness a vestige of early human civilization； the worship of fire。 Fire； the bringer of civilization； has been worshipped by the early ancestors of humans beings everywhere。 It is sacred。 He is sitting in front of the fire drinking liquor from a bowl。 Before each sip he puts a finger into it and flicks some on the charcoals which splutter noisily and send out blue sparks。 It is only then that I perceive that I too am real。
〃That’s for the God of the Cooking Stove； it’s thanks to him that we can eat and drink；〃 he says。
The dancing light of the fire shines on his thin cheeks； the high bridge of his nose； and his cheekbones。 He tells me he is of the Qiang nationality and that he’s from Gengda village down the mountain。 I can’t ask straight out about demons and spirits； so I tell him I’m here to do some research on the folk…songs of the mountain。 Do traditional song masters and dancers still exist here？ He says he’s one of them。 The men and women all used to form a circle around the fire and dance right through to daybreak； but later on it was banned。
〃Why？〃 I know quite well but I ask。 I’m being dishonest again。
〃It was the Cultural Revolution。 They said the songs were dirty so we changed to singing Sayings of Mao Zedong songs instead。〃
〃And what about after that？〃 I persist in asking。 This is being a habit。
〃No…one sings those anymore。 People are doing the dances again but not many of the young people can do them； I’m teaching the dances to some of them。〃
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？