49: The North Wind

The wolves' tracks crossed the path at the noon of the second day of the return.

Heizi saw them first as a small specific change in the small thin line of the snow ahead of him — a small specific scuffing across the path, in a small specific pattern of paws he did not, at first, recognize. He stopped at six paces. He came up to the crossing slowly. He knelt at the small specific scuffing.

The paws were larger than a fox's. They were, by the small specific reading of the small thin set of the heel and the small spread of the toe, the paws of a wolf — not the large wolves of the far north that the village's old men had spoken of as the kind that came down in famine years and took the village's small dogs, but the smaller upper-hills wolves, of the kind Heizi had not, in his life, seen but had heard of from the eastern-pine hermit's small careful word at the third moon. They were perhaps four animals. They were running together, by the small specific way the prints overlapped at the small spread of the four — three larger and one smaller, perhaps a small pack of three adults and a young one. They had crossed the path at a steady pace, perhaps an hour ago — the small thin frost at the rim of the prints was — by Heizi's accumulating eye for snow — about an hour old.

They had been moving east.

The path Heizi was on ran — at this place — north and slightly west. The wolves had been moving across his path. They were not, by the small specific reading of the print direction, hunting him. They were not, by the small specific look of their pace, running from anything. They were on a small specific business of their own, in the small specific way of upper-hills wolves at the start of a winter.

He stood up.

He looked east.

He could not — at the small thin grey light of the noon — see them. The brush at the eastern edge of the path was thicker than it had been on the path itself. The wolves had — by the small specific way of upper-hills wolves — disappeared into the brush.

He thought.

He thought slowly.

He thought: *they are not hunting me. They have crossed and gone east. They will not, by the small specific reading of upper-hills wolves at this hour, double back. The small specific risk of a wolf-pack in winter is the risk of a man who walks past a fresh kill or a fresh den; I am — at this path — not at either. I will go on north.*

He filed it.

He took the small bow off his shoulder. He unwrapped the small bowstring from its cloth. He did not, on the path, string the bow — the small specific knowledge of a stringed bow's small specific cost in cold weather was a thing the old man with the lame mule had explained at the dawn of departure: *do not string the bow until you need it; the cold takes the small specific give of an old bowstring at the bend, and a strung bow in cold weather will, by the second hour of the carrying, be a bow that cannot, when you need it, take the proper draw.* He had filed it. He wrapped the bowstring back in its cloth. He laid the unstrung bow at his side, in the small specific reach of his right hand.

He went on.

He went on at a small specific increased attention — for the rest of the second day, and for the third — to the small specific shape of the country's edges. He listened for small specific sounds. He watched, at every quarter hour, the small specific brush at the lower edge of the path for any small specific change in the small accumulating layer of snow at its base. He saw, in the rest of the second day and in the third, no further sign of the wolves.

He saw — at the noon of the third day, two *li* north of the cold-spring camp's old country — a small specific other sign.

It was a single small fresh footprint of a man's straw sandal, in the small thin layer of snow at the side of a small frozen spring. It was perhaps two days old. It was the print of a man who had stopped at the spring to drink and had — by the small specific direction of the heel — gone on south.

The print was — by the small specific look of the sandal — not the sandal of a country peddler. It was a thinner, lighter sandal, more characteristic of a man on a road in a hurry. The man had walked past the spring and on south, perhaps toward the four-house hamlet, perhaps further.

Heizi looked at the print for a long beat.

He thought: *another walker. South. Two days ago. Not a peddler — a single thin sandal, in a hurry. Possibly a runaway. Possibly a peddler in a small specific hurry of his own. Possibly something else.*

He filed it.

He went on.

By the dusk of the third day, he was at the lip of the small flat hollow at the foot of the bear-back.

He stood at the lip in the dim grey of the late evening.

He looked.

The grove of twelve pines stood on the small terrace at the foot of the bear-back's western face in the small accumulating cluster Heizi remembered. The small thin column of smoke that had been rising at the foot of his outbound on the fifth evening had — at this dusk of the third day of the return — also been visible at the noon of his passing through, six days earlier. He had not, at the noon, gone up. He had laid the *四 人* paper at the small flat stone at the foot of the path and had walked on.

The small thin column of smoke was — at this dusk — not visible.

Heizi looked.

He looked for a long beat.

The small thin column of smoke was — by the small specific reading of two months of upper-hills smoke-watching — not, on this dusk, in the small specific way of a hut whose man had gone away. The grove was — by the small specific look of the small dark cluster of pine on the terrace — quiet. The smoke would, by the small specific way of an old man at a banked fire, have been visible at the noon and at the dusk and at the dawn; the smoke at the third moon's outbound had been at all three. The smoke now — at this dusk — was not.

Heizi understood, slowly, that the small thin column had — at some point in the past six days — stopped.

He thought.

He thought: *the old scholar may, by the small specific way of the country at this winter, have gone elsewhere. He may be at his banked fire and his small low coal and the smoke is, on this evening, only at the small dim grey not visible from this distance. He may have died.*

He thought of the eastern-pine hermit.

He thought of the three other old men still alive — Cao Ergou, Wei Lao-han, Lu Wen-han, whom Lu Wen-han had — on the morning of departure two days ago — counted at the small specific small ledger as four-out-of-five.

He thought of the small specific possibility that the small specific ledger was now, with the silent column at the grove of twelve pines, at three.

He thought of the small folded *四 人* paper he had laid at the foot of the path six days ago.

He thought: *if the old scholar has died, the paper is still at the small flat stone. The country, with the past six days' snow, may have laid down a small thin layer over it; it may still be visible.*

He came down off the lip of the small flat hollow.

He came across the small flat to the foot of the small old herder's path.

The small flat stone at the foot of the path was — at this dim grey of the dusk — covered by a small thin layer of fresh snow. He brushed the snow off with his sleeve.

Under the snow, the small folded paper was still there. The small flat pebble he had used to weight it was beside it. The paper had not, in six days, been touched.

The old scholar had not, in the past six days, come down to read it.

Heizi knelt at the stone.

He thought, for one beat, about going up the path.

He thought about the storm. He thought about the small specific reading of the wind at the dawn — the small specific dryness, the small accumulating cool, the small specific gathering at the north. He thought about the heavier bundle on his back. He thought about the lame brother at the camp with the smith's son still recovering and the boy still careful and the small specific need of the household for the millet and the salt-pork and the bow that he was carrying.

He thought about going up the path to find the old scholar — to bury him, if he had died, against the small specific wish the eastern-pine hermit had made; or to receive him, if he was alive but had not been, in the past six days, at the door.

He thought.

He thought slowly.

He decided.

He decided not to go up.

He decided not to go up because the household was — by the small specific arithmetic of the past six days — at the small specific edge of needing him back, and the storm was — by the small specific reading — at the small specific edge of coming. He decided not to go up because the old scholar had, three months ago, made his own small specific choice not to come down at the *北* paper Heizi had laid here, and that small specific choice had been the old scholar's.

He decided to honor it one more time.

He decided to leave a third small specific paper.

He had not, on this trip, brought a third paper. He had not — at the morning of departure — anticipated needing one. He took a small thin scrap of pine bark from the small inside of his coat — the lame boy had pressed it into his coat at the dawn of the morning, *for any need of writing on the road, big brother* — and he took out the small thin sliver of charcoal from his inner pocket.

He thought about the character.

He had — by the small specific accumulating teaching of the past month — perhaps eighty characters.

He chose one.

He inscribed it slowly, in the small thin charcoal, on the small thin scrap of pine bark.

The character was *問.*

*To ask. The third option. Wei Lao-han's word.*

He laid the small new folded scrap on top of the small old *四 人* paper, with the small flat pebble weighting both. He bowed once toward the grove of twelve pines.

He stood up.

He turned.

He went back across the small flat hollow, north, by the small old herders' path that led up out of it.

He did not — at the foot of the small flat hollow — look back at the grove.

That night he camped two *li* north of the small flat hollow, at a small dry place at the foot of an old pine, in the dim grey of the late evening that, by the small specific reading of the wind, had — at this dusk — taken on a small specific shape Heizi had not seen on any evening of the road yet.

The wind was — by the small specific reading of the lame boy's saying at the dusk seven days ago — at the small specific dryness that came before the storm.

The dryness was — at this dusk — much more pronounced than it had been seven days ago.

The accumulating cool was a small specific accumulating cool that was no longer a small accumulating cool but a small specific present cold, with a small specific edge in the back of the throat at every breath that Heizi had not, in any night of the past three months, felt.

The storm was no longer two weeks off.

It was perhaps two days off. Perhaps less.

Heizi laid a small banked fire at the small dry place's foot. He cooked a small portion of the millet and a small slice of the salt-pork. He ate.

He took the first watch.

He did not, on this watch, sleep at the second hour. He kept the small banked fire lower than usual; the smaller fire, by the small specific arithmetic of an upper-hills body in the deepest cold, asked a small specific cost. He held himself — by the small accumulating discipline of the past nine months — at the small specific careful attention of the road.

He listened.

The shape of the silence on this watch was — for the first time in the upper hills — a shape that was not, in the small honest reading, the country's small unhurried shape. It was a shape with a small specific weight in it. The weight was the weight of a winter that had — somewhere to the north and northeast — gathered itself into a small specific approach.

He listened.

In the small dim grey of the second hour of the watch, the wind shifted.

It shifted from the small specific dryness at the north to a small specific cool, with a small new fall of small thin flakes at its leading edge. The flakes came down at first as small specific scattered points — perhaps one in every quarter breath. By the third hour, perhaps three in every quarter. By the late watch, perhaps a small steady fall.

Heizi watched the small fall come down on his small banked fire.

He understood — slowly, by the small specific reading of the wind and the small specific pace of the fall — that the storm was perhaps a day off. Perhaps less.

He thought.

He thought: *I am four days from the camp. I will not, in four days, outrun the storm. The storm — by the small specific shape of its leading edge — is perhaps a day off. I will be — by tomorrow's noon — caught in it.*

He thought: *I have, on this road, three places I can shelter — the small old shrine in the narrow draw, the eastern-pine hermit's hut (empty but standing), and — and the grove of twelve pines.*

He thought: *the small old shrine is a half-day south of where I am. I would, by going to it, lose a half-day on the return. The eastern-pine hermit's hut is a day south. I would lose a full day. The grove of twelve pines is a half-day south of where I am, and is — by the small specific reading of the silent column at this evening — perhaps abandoned, perhaps not.*

He thought: *the closest roof on this road is not south. The closest roof is, by the small specific way I have been thinking about it, the grove of twelve pines.*

He thought: *the old scholar may not be there. The old scholar may be there but may not receive me. The grove may be — by the small specific way of an old hut at a winter — abandoned.*

He thought, finally: *but the grove is the closest. The grove is — by the small specific reading of the wind — the only roof I will reach before the storm hits. The household has — at this evening — sent me with the small specific instruction to bring it back. I will, by the small specific way of three voices at the head of a household, try.*

He banked the small fire.

He laid down the small bundle.

He decided to walk — through the night, in the small thin fall of snow, through the dim grey — back south, the half-day to the foot of the small flat hollow at the bear-back, in the small specific way of a young man on a winter road who had — by the small specific reading at the dim grey of the second hour — understood that the closest roof was south and not north.

He filed it.

He shouldered the bundle.

He set off in the small thin fall of snow.

He walked through the third hour of the watch.

He walked through the late watch.

By the dim grey of false dawn, with the small thin fall now accumulating into a small specific second-night layer of perhaps half a hand's-depth on the path, he was — by the small accumulating reading of his own walking pace — about a *li* and a half from the foot of the small flat hollow.

He walked on.

The small thin fall — at the second hour of the dawn watch — became a thicker fall. The flakes were larger. The wind, at the small specific edge, came in long slow rolls off the long low ridges to the north. The shape of the country, at the dim grey first light, was — by the small specific accumulating change — a country no longer on the small unhurried timer of an upper-hills winter. It was a country at the small specific opening of a winter storm.

He walked.

By the second cock — the small far call of an upper-hills cock perhaps three *li* west, in some unfound household Heizi had never been to — he was, by the small specific accumulating arithmetic of his pace, perhaps a third of a *li* short of the foot of the small flat hollow.

The wind, at the second cock, shifted to a small specific harder northwest, with the small specific accumulating drive of a true winter storm.

The thicker fall became a heavier fall.

The path under his sandals, by the third hour of the dawn watch, was — by the small specific accumulating layer of new snow — no longer visible.

He walked at the small specific way of a young man who had memorized the country.

He went down off the small old herders' path, at the small specific point his small accumulating eye told him was the descent into the small flat hollow — going by the small specific feel of the slope under his feet, by the small specific angle of the wind, by the small specific change in the brush against his small thin coat — and came down off the slope.

The small flat hollow was — at the third hour of the dawn watch, in the small specific accumulating heavier fall — a small bowl of swirling snow.

He came across it.

He came up to the foot of the small old herder's path.

He stopped at the small flat stone.

The small folded papers — *四 人* and *問* — were no longer at the stone.

The stone was — by the small specific accumulating new layer of snow — clean.

In their place, weighted by the same small flat pebble, lay a single small new folded scrap of pine bark.

Heizi knelt.

He brushed the small thin layer of snow off with his sleeve.

He lifted the small new scrap.

He unfolded it.

There was, on the small new scrap of pine bark, in the small specific careful even strokes of a hand that had, by the small specific reading of the small clear ink — *ink, not charcoal; the old scholar had ink* — been laid down with the small specific patience of a long-practiced calligrapher, a single character.

The character was — by the small accumulating recognition of his past month with An Ashi at the slab — one of the eighty he could read.

It was the character *上*.

*Up.*

The old scholar had, in the past six days, come down to the foot of the path. He had read the small *四 人* paper. He had read the small *問* paper. He had taken both. He had laid in their place, in his own small specific ink, the small instruction *上*.

*Come up.*

Heizi looked up at the path.

The path — by the small accumulating heavier fall, by the small specific accumulating cold of the wind — was beginning to be no longer a path. The brush at its edges was — by the small accumulating snow — no longer a clear edge. The slope above was lost in the small thin grey swirling fall.

The grove of twelve pines, three hundred paces above him on the terrace, was no longer visible.

The old scholar's instruction was clear.

Heizi stood up.

He folded the small scrap of pine bark with the *上* character into his inner pocket against his ribs. He laid the small flat pebble carefully back on the stone — not against any small new note he was leaving; only against the small specific habit of returning the small old marker to its small old place.

He set off up the path.

The storm — by the small specific reading of the wind at this hour — was no longer at the small specific opening.

It was — by the small accumulating reading of the small darker grey at the upper sky and the small specific harder edge in the wind — at the small specific second hour of its true beginning.

Heizi walked up the slope into it.

The path narrowed under his feet. The brush at its edges leaned in. The wind, at his face, was at the small specific accumulating force he had not — in any winter of his life so far — been on a slope in.

He walked.

He had — at the small flat stone in the dim grey of the dawn — been given an instruction.

He honored it.

He walked up.

The grove of twelve pines was somewhere above him in the swirling fall.

The old scholar — by the small specific reading of the small new folded scrap of bark with the small clear character in the small clear ink — was, in his hut, waiting.