〃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。