Liu Sanyang

For twenty years, the bronze bell of Qingquan Station had rung in the wind; for twenty years, Liu Sanyang's "Aye, aye" greeting at the door had been prompt; for twenty years, the variegated relay horses from Chang'an, spotted, plump, tall, short, had been led in and cared for by him; for twenty years, the sun had risen. The proud and diligent post riders of Qingquan Station didn't remember his name or face beyond Old Liu, it was as if he was born a grumbling, hapless old handyman. Old Liu, as the only person at Qingquan Station who wasn't a post rider, not of soldier stock, an ordinary man who didn't have to travel, his greatest skill was making himself disappear. He could always find the most inconspicuous spot when everyone gathered at night to eat and chat, when the post riders laughed and shouted "One station after another, the post horses like shooting stars!" while hugging people and forcing drinks, loudly boasting of their travels and dangers, letting the shadows perfectly cover his hunched back. The day Chen Zhong rang the bell of Qingquan Station and entered to announce he was the newly appointed station master, this old man, ordinary as a grain of sand, gnawing on a pancake, opened the door for the bell-ringer as usual. Old Liu was content with his day-in, day-out work. The horses were constant, the bronze bell was constant, the sand was constant. Being an inconspicuous grain of sand in the desert put him at ease, days unchanging like the sun put him at ease. But Brother Chen, that is, Chen Zhong, never wanted him at ease. Chen Zhong wasn't just a good man, he was a retired veteran of the Anxi Army. How could a man's back be so straight? The wind would break it. His sword was frightening too, a sword needed to see blood. And the aspirations, the drive that Brother Chen muttered about, they were as dangerous as his sword. Others couldn't see him, but Chen Zhong could see him. His skill of disappearing didn't work with Chen Zhong. This serious old soldier would always pull him from the shadows, bring him food, teach him to hold a sword, teach him martial arts, ask him what he wanted to do in the future. He knew Brother Chen meant well, but he also knew he wasn't cut out for anything. He didn't even dare hide from Brother Chen. He feared Chen Zhong would ruin him. And Chen Zhong did ruin him. Later, the bell rang less often, and the horses needing his care dwindled. The nightly gatherings, the post riders at the gatherings, the rations and copper coins in their pockets, the songs and poems floating in the night sky, all grew fewer. Old Liu numbly repeated his tasks. He always felt the sun overhead was also less. But he was just a grain of sand, destined to stick to someone's sole and be carried away. One day, the bronze bell at the door rang again. He went to answer as usual, and upon opening the door, the sun set. A young Tang soldier stood at the door, holding a heavy hemp sack and a dripping, bloody sword, eyes wide with fury, like a rock waiting to be shattered. Before he could scream, a gust of wind blew, and the Tang soldier dissolved into the sand. He didn't dare listen to how Brother Chen and the others argued. He only knew that day, Qingquan Station disbanded. In the end, only Brother Chen and a reckless young tough called Da Luozi remained. He was a commoner, not a soldier, but Brother Chen insisted he was a soldier, counted him to fill out a squad, and took him on the road. He didn't want to go, but Brother Chen promised to write him a transfer order after delivering this Burlap Sack to Chang'an, letting him stay in Chang'an with the sack, never having to leave home again. Go home. Go home. Go home... The road home was hard. The cart was lost. The horses were lost. Money, rations, and water were lost. Da Luozi lost his life. The seeds in the sack were lost until only less than half remained. Later still, Brother Chen was lost too. No one watched him anymore, urged him to gather strength. He could disappear again, like sand vanishing in the desert. Liu Sanyang took a step and kicked a Burlap Sack. The sack stood alone between heaven and earth, with no direction to go in all four quarters. "No one wants you either?" The sack, made of burlap, lowered its head in grievance, sagging in the sand. So, he shouldered the burlap sack. He was going home. A person is a grain of sand in the desert, blowing wherever the wind goes. But when the wind blows east, he'll strive to lift himself a bit higher, to float a little farther.