Luhua

To Luhua, spring was an invisible guest. "Mom, what does spring look like?" she asked, tilting her head. Her mother paused for a moment, then tossed a few handfuls of reed grass into the fire with hands reddened by the cold. The flames crackled and lit up her face as well. "When the ice melts," her mother said, "when the fish start jumping, the birds come back, and the reeds turn green, that's when spring comes." Birds were the things flying across the sky. Those she could see. Fish were the things flicking their tails under the water. Those she could see too. And the reeds were the ones that rippled in layer after layer when the wind blew. Those she could see as well. But what did spring itself look like? Her mother still hadn't said. So in Luhua's mind, spring was like a guest from far away, slipping in quietly when the weather turned warm. It came with fish, with birds, and with whole stretches of green reeds. It made her mother cough a little less, and it meant fewer days with an empty belly. "If only this guest could stay a little longer." Curled up by the fire, rubbing against the dog's messy fur, Luhua thought just that. Because winter was just too cold. It was the little cracks in her hands, split open like tiny mouths that bit when she moved. It was the pain in her fingers whenever they bent around an oar. It was her runny nose, the stiff frozen clothes, and the house that seemed to shiver along with her once night fell. When she said this to her mother, her mother would smile and tell her that the winters of her own childhood had been nothing but white mountains and black waters, colder than this, harder to endure. "But once you make it through, you'll be fine. When the ice melts, the river will bring spring with it." Only this year, winter seemed longer than usual. First the birds left. They rose from the water flock after flock, circled over the reeds a few times, then plunged into the gray-white sky in the distance. Luhua tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Mom, where are they going?" "Somewhere warm." Her mother kept looking at the sky, her gaze following them far off before it finally came back. "They'll return next spring." Then the people left too. Luhua watched the villagers go the same way as the birds, group after group, rowing away with their things on their backs. Sometimes someone passing the reeds would call out a few words from afar, and her mother would only shake her head. "Mom, where are they going?" Luhua asked. "Somewhere warm." It was the same answer as before, only now her mother's voice had grown hoarse. Later, the river froze over. Luhua lay by the riverbank and looked down, but all she could see beneath the ice was a dull gray blur. The fish were gone. Whenever she pulled up the net, it came back empty, with nothing in it but ice chips and frozen reed roots. "Did the fish go somewhere warm too?" This time, no one answered her. Only the wind rushed through the reeds. Her mother had gone out, and still hadn't come back. Crack. A split opened across the frozen river. Splash. Something seemed to leap out of the water, like a fish, and then it was gone again. Was spring back? Had that invisible guest come drifting in with the river? Had it brought her mother back too? Luhua didn't know. But she did know this: if you could just make it through winter, spring would come in the end.

When Luhua was little, she didn't live on a boat yet. She lived in the village with her mother. For a few years, the village was still fairly lively. Nets hung in rows by the river to dry, fish were laid out in the yards, and the children ran around in little groups chasing chickens. Then the adults would scoop them up and send them all in the same direction: to Elder Li's house. Elder Li was the only educated man in the village. "Educated" might be saying too much. In truth, he had only read half of the Book of Songs. But in a place like that, if you knew a few characters, people already counted you as learned. So once children were old enough, they were all sent to his house. Luhua's mother used to say that when Luhua came of age, she would go study there too. But before that day could come, the fighting grew worse again. The children went to Elder Li's house less and less, and to the riverbank more and more, digging for wild greens. Elder Li had a granddaughter named Xia, the same age as Luhua. They were the youngest children in the village, but every time they went out to gather greens, Xia would come back with a basket full to the brim. Luhua's basket would be full too. "Why did you pick all weeds... and mushrooms too? My mom told me not to gather these. They'll make you sick." "Grass is grass." Luhua pointed at Xia's basket, then at her own, and nodded as if she half understood. "No, no, they're different. Here, just follow me. I'll show you." So that night, Luhua had all kinds of tasty little greens in her dinner. After that, the riverbank often saw two small figures, one in front looking for vetch, the other following behind and picking whatever she found. "Picking vetch, picking vetch, the vetch has sprung up," Xia said, holding up a bunch she had found. "Homeward, homeward, and still the year runs on," Luhua replied, holding up a bunch of her own. "Once when I left, the willows swayed..." Luhua stopped and looked at Xia. "What's a willow?" Xia froze for a moment too. "A willow... Grandpa says it's a kind of tree with really, really long leaves. Longer than your braids, maybe. My mom said you and your mother came from somewhere else. Maybe you had them where you're from?" Luhua nodded and remembered that. That night, she went home and asked her mother. Her mother said there were no willows in her hometown. There were black mountains, white water, and great sweeping snow. Then she sang Luhua a song. Luhua couldn't remember the words, only the tune, so when she sang it to Xia, the words turned into the lines she could remember: "Picking vetch, picking vetch... Homeward, homeward... The willows swayed, and the snow fell thick..." When Xia heard it, she smiled. "Then our homes are the same. We both get great big snows." The river ran clear, the grown-ups in the village went about their work, and the two of them looked for vetch by the water and sang as they went. The song became their promise. "If you want to come find me to play, just sing 'Picking vetch, picking vetch,'" Xia said, tapping herself on the chest. "If I can come out, I'll answer with 'Once when I left,' and row over to find you." But then one day, Luhua's mother moved her out of the village, and Xia stopped coming too. On the first day, Luhua rowed out and sang, "Picking vetch, picking vetch..." Xia's window stayed shut. On the second day, Luhua rowed out and sang, "Homeward, homeward..." Xia threw out the reed doll and little pinwheel Luhua had given her. The third day... the tenth day... Luhua still rowed out as usual and sang, "Once when I left, the willows swayed..." This time Xia opened the window, but what she said was: "You... you're from the invaders' side. You don't get to sing my song!" Luhua didn't understand why Xia wouldn't let her sing that song anymore. She didn't understand why Xia no longer answered her singing, and she didn't understand why her mother had taken her out of the village. But she remembered clearly what Xia had once said: "Our homes are the same. We both get great big snows." It has snowed again this year. Mother, Elder Li, Xia... Will they come back?