Spittoon Presents: Pay Your Respects

This work of fiction is provided by our content partners Spittoon Collective. You can read more content just like this from Beijing's creative literary minds via their website here. You can also find the original article here.

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It is a frigid morning. The kind of morning that makes you retreat back into the comfort of your blanket and try in vain to leap into that warm dream you just left. Daquan feels an unnatural shiver that starts at his hairy toes, bouncing off his bony abs, and orbits his bald scalp like a cold moon. The thick blanket propped up by nails guarding the entrance of his hut feebly flaps, allowing slithers of wind to snake their way inside. He rolls on his floor mat a few times to see if there is a chance to take a dip back into the tranquility of the otherworld, but feebly rises once he realizes it’s impossible. Each fall morning is like this. On these days his old bones ache and his limbs take longer to stretch and open. He isn’t getting any younger yet the world, this world, is still evolving and changing every day. That doesn’t change what his mission is today, like every day. He slips into a thick robe, leather shoes, grabs his oak cane that was carved by his wife, and the satchel he packed the night before filled with the instruments that he needs. Peeking through the blanket he is astonished to find Lushan Mountain caked in white frosting and the brittle branches all coated with a thick layer of ice. He has never witnessed snow coming so early! An unnatural shiver clings to Daquan: a shiver that is from far beyond this place. The path up the mountain is going to be treacherous, he thinks to himself, but it’s something I must do. 

The rock path is uneven. He can feel the cracked icy earth beneath the soles of his shoes. Ducking below the stone-circled entrance he touches the symbols and is immediately bit with its cold teeth. The huge oak doors to the temple are sealed shut and there is no movement from the courtyard. The monk who lives at the base of the mountain is usually rummaging through the garden or praying in the shrine, but there are no candles lit. A stagnant silence lingers among the open space while a fog taps among the paved floor. Daquan thinks about shouting the monk’s name, wanting to make sure everything is ok, but thinks better of it. Don’t shout in a graveyard, his mother would say, because you never know who is listening . . .

Uphill is slippery. Shards of ice crack off the branches in a collective chorus each time a heavy wind whacks into them: a chattering symphony. The bamboo droops downward due to the icy casts, blocking the tight rocky path forward. Daquan needs to bend and twist his body to get by. His limbs already ache and he can feel the slippery ground trying to trip him. A steady stream trickles through the boulders below. The water is so clear this morning. Daquan bends and cups some of it into his wrinkly palms, brings his thin lips in, and drinks it quietly. It invigorates him. He peers back at the stream and tries to spot his reflection, but can only see the crowded white sky. It is mumbling something, but he doesn’t speak its language.

The path becomes increasingly difficult the higher he climbs. He clings to the branches along the path to make sure he doesn’t slip, dropping to his hands and knees, crawling like a newborn child in order to get past the iced fingers of the bamboo extending outwards. He then carefully hops onto the boulders not wanting to step into the icy water. He has never sweated this much before. The cold is not subsiding and the wind continues to rattle the atmosphere with a musty breath. Daquan is ecstatic about his ability to overcome these obstacles. Not so old huh, he huffs treading with a new determined stature. If only his wife could see his vigor, she would surely appreciate the energy that is being expelled from his dusty bones. This train of enlightened youthfulness is quickly derailed by an excess of bamboo resting upon a critical bend in the path like a sleepy ox. Daquan steps towards it and tries to lift the branches, but they’re much too heavy. He peers off the edge where the river has expanded and is spilling over ochre rocks that are encased with ice. There is no other way to the shrine. Daquan leans onto his cane, props his chin onto his palm, and thinks. This is what he does when faced with an obstacle. His wife would always chide him since he wouldn’t move from the spot till he solved the problem. After collecting the vegetables from their harvest, she would find him still mulling over a problem in the same position as when she left. There were many times when she would sigh and solve the problem in one smooth motion. That was how she did it, she kept moving, and always assumed a solution would present itself. He would then nod and kiss her on the forehead.

A panting from behind Daquan startles him out of the thought. It is a foreign couple. The man is lanky, with curly hair, a messy beard, and kind brown eyes. The woman has brown curly hair with huge clear-morning-sky eyes, and skin as white as fresh snow. They smile at Daquan. He smiles back. Not many foreigners come to this mountain. The lanky man reaches his long arms beneath the bamboo and wearily lifts them just enough to squeeze by. Daquan is first, after much urging by the woman, then the woman, and then the man. Daquan folds his hands and bows, but they wave it off, not wanting any praise for such a simple task. Daquan lets them continue forward alone. He watches their heads swivel left and right, as they take in the tranquil beauty of the mountain, his mountain. He spots their hands quietly reaching out to one another as if through darkness. They even pause and fall into each other playfully, never looking back. He and his wife would take walks up the mountain path daily. It kept them strong, forging the path through the thorn bushes and sharp rocks. They came to understand the power and beauty of it together. The biggest treat was making it to the very top and witnessing the sun blazing the vast fields and homes below. It was a tough climb and as they got older it became increasingly difficult to make it all the way. When his wife got ill, she would insist that he make the climb alone, for the both of them. He pretended to go up the mountain every morning when in reality he would walk all the way to the nearest town to find any doctor who would come and have a look at his wife. The hospitals he found were always swarming with other ill patients. He waited in line with them to be put in another line and then another line until finally a doctor talked to him just to tell him to bring his wife to the hospital so they can see her or telling him to give her hot water to drink. He kept insisting that she go to the hospital, but she refused. He couldn’t understand why, but didn’t want to push her, so he watched over her day after day as she slowly faded into the sunlight that collapsed onto her from the open window near the bed. He wrapped the blanket that she had died in and hoisted her up the mountain with the help of the monk and buried her in a tranquil spot near the stream. She loved the sound the stream made, like children giggling over a fart joke, she would say. They could never have children of their own no matter how hard they tried. All they had was their farm, their mountain, and each other. That’s all they ever needed.

The foreign couple reach a fork in the path. The man leans in and whispers something to the woman. She holds her hand to her face, laughing, and she pecks him on the lips. They embrace, completely enamored with one another. A smile breaks across Daquan’s face. He hopes their love lasts as long as the mountain has.

The shrine comes into view. The babbling stream is the only thing that can be heard. Daquan plops onto the black marble bench out of exhaustion and immediately hops off as if he’d just been nipped in the butt by a dog. Rubbing his behind, Daquan approaches the old statue of Guanshiyin, The Goddess of Mercy, who sits with one hand resting on her leg as if she has been waiting for him all day. He falls to his knees, sets the incense, lights them one at a time, takes out a bell and the beads his wife gave him, and folds his hands in prayer. Deep in meditation, he’s encompassed by the ebb and flow of the mountain, its icy breath and its freezing body. His wife exists among the mountain’s thriving life, right beside him, he can feel it. Once the ceremony is done, he pulls the sling of the bag over his head, and turns towards the path that leads him back to their home. Inhaling all the energy radiating from the atmosphere, he lets out a long joyous shout that echoes along the spine of the mountain. It reverberates through every branch and leaf, and spider-walks the sheer cliffs until it reaches the very peak expelling into the fresh morning air and spilling back downwards in the form of snowflakes that will melt and become absorbed by the land once again.

Like this and want more? Click here to read Spittoon's last fiction piece The Shambling Horror.

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