A Single Swallow

by Ling Zhang

  “Your home? Where do you live?” I asked.

  There was hesitation on her face, like when I’d asked her name. Then she said, “Wu Ao.”

  Wu Ao was the village I’d been going to visit that day, where the herbalist lived. I had found her very near it, so I couldn’t tell whether she’d told me the truth or not. I wanted to say her name, but I couldn’t call her Sanmei. That wasn’t really her, and it wasn’t really me.

  “Stella. Can I call you Stella? While you’re here, at least?” I said suddenly.

  She looked at me, puzzled.

  “Stella means ‘star,’” I explained. “When you go out alone in the dark, you can look at the stars, and you won’t be afraid. You will always find your way home.”

  A light flashed across her face, and the teenage girl suddenly rushed back into her eyes. But it was short-lived, disappearing in an instant. Perhaps my words prompted another thought in her. She was silent for a moment, then said, “Pastor Billy, I want to go home.”

  I sighed and said, “Not now, child. You’re too weak. You need to eat and rest. When you have recovered, I’ll take you home.”

  I got the chicken stew my cook had made that morning. She finished it, but didn’t put down the bowl. With lowered eyelids, she asked, “Pastor Billy, do you have any rice? Half a bowl will do.”

  I remembered that she’d only had fluids for the past two days. She must have been famished. I went to the kitchen and found leftover rice, soaked it in boiling water, and added some pickled radishes. She ate very quickly. As soon as her chopsticks touched the bottom of the bowl, she started to feel embarrassed. Her mind was weighed down by an immense mountain, but her stomach was brazen. Her mind now cursed the brazenness of her belly.

  Young. She was still so young. A young life flows like a river, and even cut by ten thousand blades, it can always close the cuts over seamlessly.

  “There’s more in the kitchen.” Taking her empty bowl, I got her more rice.

  In this way, Stella, that little star, came to live with me. When she could walk on her own, I let her help in the kitchen, washing vegetables and picking beans, or mend some old clothes, mostly because I was afraid she would be bored. Her activities were confined to her room, the kitchen, and the backyard. I kept my eye on her and never allowed her to set foot beyond the garden, because I was afraid she would provoke the villagers’ curiosity and they would start asking about her.

  She was diligent in her work. The cook was satisfied with her, though she rarely spoke to the cook. Even with me, her conversation was limited to polite daily greetings. When she spoke to me, she hung her head down and rarely looked at me, as if there were something hiding inside the tip of her shoe or her sleeve. I knew there was a fragile secret between us, and that the slightest hint of indifference would shatter that secret, and she would fall into a deep abyss, shattering herself. For this reason, I always observed that invisible boundary and stepped with great care.

  One day, Stella saw me copying hymns. She walked in, her first time coming into my room on her own initiative. I was not proficient in Chinese calligraphy and was clumsy with the brush and paper. She stood quietly behind me for a while, then asked shyly, “Pastor Billy, can I copy it for you?”

  Surprised, I asked, “You went to school?”

  She said, “I went for a little, then my brother taught me.”

  I asked, “Is your brother named Hu or something like that?”

  It was her turn to be surprised. She said, “How do you know?”

  I said, “You called for him when you had a fever.”

  She blushed all the way to her neck. That blush changed her face, as if moisture had suddenly come to a dry land. In that moment, Stella was beautiful. I stared at her blankly and felt a tug inside me. God, you finally let me see the face she should have.

  “Your brother, where is he now?”

  As soon as I asked, I knew I’d been too blunt. I had crossed a dangerous line, yet again ruining the possibility for real conversation. It seemed that every time I should retreat, I took a devastating step forward instead. Sure enough, the blush faded, just as suddenly as it had come. In its place was a film of pale sadness.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Saying nothing more, I gave her my seat. From her posture, I could see she wasn’t used to using a brush, but her wrist was stable and strong. She clearly didn’t know all the words, and I could tell which ones were new by her hesitation and how she kept checking the original as she followed the shape of each stroke. As Stella wrote, she seemed to become a different person. She put all her concentration into her brush, so that even her breathing became dignified. In that moment, there was no war, no death, no pain. At that moment, she wasn’t even in the world.

  My observations were affirmed repeatedly in the following days. Although there were countless places in our conversations that were off limits and I could stumble into an abyss at any time, there was also a place that was always safe, without rifts or barriers. No matter how far I traveled in that region, I would never violate any boundaries. That safe place was her thirst for knowledge.

  One day she copied Psalm 23:

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;

  he leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul;

  he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil, for thou art with me;

  thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;

  thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life;

  and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

  When she had copied it, she asked me to read it to her. After I read it, I asked, “Do you understand?”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “It says for people to be courageous?”

  “You know God?” I asked in surprise.

  She nodded and said, “He’s the Western bodhisattva.”

  “God is not a bodhisattva,” I said. “There are many bodhisattvas, but only one God.”

  She replied, “I understand. Your God is bigger than the bodhisattvas, so he controls them.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “God and the bodhisattvas are useless,” she said. “They only control good people, not bad people.”

  A small dagger pricked my heart. I wanted to tell her, That’s exactly what I thought when I saw you lying in the grass that day.

  “Stella, sometimes I can’t understand God either.” I sighed. “God doesn’t protect you from being harmed, and he doesn’t cure all diseases, and he doesn’t guarantee you a peaceful life.”

  Her eyes widened and, confused, she asked, “Then why do you believe in him?”

  “He may not bring peace into the entire world, but he can bring peace into your heart, if you believe in him,” I said.

  For a long time, she sat silently staring at the psalm she had copied.

  “Pastor Billy, can I borrow this piece of paper that gives people courage?” she whispered.

  “You can have it. When you are afraid, read it, and you’ll feel safe,” I said.

  She blew the paper to dry the still-wet ink, then carefully rolled it up and put it inside her cloak at her bosom. She didn’t, neither then nor later, truly convert to Christ, but I always felt she was closer to God than I was. She had heavenly eyes, capable of leaping over the barriers of text and ideas and entering into the heart of faith.

  She had finally accepted my role as doctor and no longer resisted my examining her. Her wounds had healed well. By this time, her only complaint was that the wound was itchy, and she had some intermittent pain on the right side of her lower back. The itchiness was a sign of healing, s
o I wasn’t worried about it, but I couldn’t find the cause for the pain in her lower back. I asked her to give me a detailed description of the feeling.

  “It’s like someone is grabbing my flesh with their fingers, and no matter what, they won’t let go,” she said.

  I suddenly remembered the moment Stella’s mother had asked me for help. As if struck by lightning, it hit me. She had held on to her daughter with an iron will, so tight she lost three of her fingers. She had imparted some of her own life to her daughter. This was the last memory she had given her daughter. I didn’t tell Stella the truth.

  “It’s nothing. It will be fine in a few days,” I said.

  She stayed with me for about a month. One morning I saw her standing in the yard. It had rained the night before, darkening the rattan on the stone. It was still early, and the sun had the thick greasiness of oil paint. The jasmine was in bloom, filling the air with its delicate scent. Stella stood on a rock, her hands cupped to catch water dripping from the eaves. When she had collected a handful, she tossed it into the air, filling the sky with golden beads. I noticed she was getting plumper, and the lower portion of her blouse had begun to show the faint contours of her body. Everything would eventually pass. I gave thanks secretly in my heart. She would soon be a young woman, and when she thought back on this time, she would say, “Oh, that was just a nightmare.” Perhaps she wouldn’t think of this experience at all. She would pluck it out like a weed, completely removing the experience from her memory. At breakfast that morning, I asked if she wanted to go home. She was startled. She had asked several times to go home, but I had refused until she was fully recovered. Now that the time had come, I saw her hesitation.

  “I’ll go with you and find a good way to explain it to your family,” I said after a moment.

  In fact, I had no idea what explanation I could come up with. A young girl away from home for a month, then escorted back by a foreigner. Without whitewashing or explanation, it was a matter that would require a lifetime to clarify.

  Her face suddenly changed, and she shook her head. “No,” she said, “whatever you do, you can’t do that.”

  “All right,” I said, “then I’ll accompany you to the entrance to your village.”

  She didn’t refuse. She knew that in this time of turbulence, she couldn’t go alone, especially now, with what she had been through.

  Stella was amazed by the bicycle. She sat behind me, and as soon as I started, she screamed and grabbed my waist tightly. I had never heard her so expressive, and it brought a faint joy to my heart. I saw the taut nerves gradually relax. Unfortunately, this didn’t last long. Stella immediately realized that she was being silly and, embarrassed, restrained herself. I began to feel her weight on the back, and we fell silent, lost in our own thoughts. I could guess what was on her mind, but she didn’t know what was in mine. I owed her the truth about her mother. All this time, I’d been wondering how to tell her. The truth was a knife. I couldn’t bear to see her suffer a sudden shock the moment she got home, so I had to help her skin grow thicker along the way. Halfway there, I said I was thirsty and stopped the bicycle. As I poured myself some water, she suddenly fell to her knees before me, pressing her head to the ground as she kowtowed three times.

  “Pastor Billy, you are my lifesaving bodhisattva. I should not lie to you. I don’t live in Wu Ao. My home is separated from Wu Ao by the river. I have to take a sampan across.”

  I hurried to pull her up, but she refused as strongly as if her life depended on it. “And, my name is not Sanmei. That’s my mother’s name. My name is Ah Yan—like the swallow that flies in the sky.”

  I sighed softly.

  “No matter what you’re called at home, you’re Stella with me,” I said.

  She stood up, as if she had put down a heavy burden. But I knew she had another burden—the one I was about to give her. I drank slowly, weighing the words carefully. The truth was very heavy, and I had to slowly clear a path for it.

  “Stella, that day, did you see how the Japanese treated . . . your mother?” I asked, testing the ground.

  She shook her head. “She was holding on to me tightly. I didn’t see, but I heard her screaming. Then they kicked her into a ditch.”

  “Do you know what happened after that?”

  She raised her head and glanced at me. The corner of her mouth twitched.

  “She died,” she said evenly.

  I was shocked.

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “You told me my mother had been sent home, but later, you asked me where my home was. I knew you had lied to me.”

  My God. A lie I fabricated couldn’t even withstand the casual glance of a young girl.

  “You . . . miss her?”

  I asked it coldly, even callously. Secretly, I wanted her to cry on my shoulder. Tears wouldn’t comfort her, but they would comfort me. But she didn’t weep. After the first day, I never saw her shed a single tear.

  “When I was small, my mother told me that every star in the sky was once a person on the ground. When a person dies, they are transported from the ground to the sky. You called me Stella and said it meant ‘star.’ I knew that this was a message from my mother.”

  I fought my own tears. This girl’s bravery broke my heart. Much later, I realized that, besides the fact that it was God’s gift to her, there was another reason for Stella’s courage. She had a pillar in her heart, and even if the sky fell and crushed the earth to dust, as long as that pillar remained, Stella would survive. That pillar was Liu Zhaohu. Stella’s real collapse came when she learned that that pillar had toppled.

  I took her little hand in mine. “Stella, let’s make an oath before God. From today onward, we will tell each other the truth, OK?”

  She nodded.

  We continued our journey, the bicycle sending up a trail of flying dust. Neither of us knew, while we were racking our brains to come up with an explanation for her long absence, that news of what had happened had long ago reached Sishiyi Bu. There had been two other women visiting a grave near them when the Japanese arrived that day. They hid behind a large tree, not daring to move, and saw everything. Only after the Japanese left did they dare come down the mountain to get men from the village to come to the women’s rescue. When the rescuers arrived, they only found Stella’s mother’s body, because I had already rescued Stella. The tragedy of that day, with all its details, had become a public secret, known to every household in the village, once the women’s whispers had made their rounds.

  When we finally arrived at Wu Ao, I helped Stella into a sampan and watched her row to the opposite bank. She made her way up a long stone path. Halfway up, she turned and waved. I’ve cursed that day for the rest of my life. I wish it could be permanently torn from history. If I’d had a prophet’s eyes and foreseen what was going to happen, I never would’ve let Stella go.

  I can’t forgive myself, not even now.

  After Stella left, I went about as usual, preaching, practicing medicine, helping others, and doing things a rural pastor does. But when I was idle, I would think of Stella—of how she wrinkled her nose as she copied the hymnal, how she raised her hands to catch water from the eaves, or how she lowered her head in silence as she picked beans. Several times, I thought of visiting, but knowing the commotion that would arise in the village if a foreigner appeared at her door, I did not. One night I dreamed of her. She looked down at me with wide eyes, filled with unspeakable sadness. I reached out to take hold of her, only to find she had no hands. She had no hands, nor a body, nor even a head. It was just her eyes, floating alone in the air. I woke with a start, soaked in a cold sweat. I decided I would visit her just once, no matter what, even if just to catch a glimpse of her.

  The next day, I rode my bicycle to Wu Ao and crossed the river by sampan, reaching the long stone steps. Years on the mountain paths had strengthened my legs so that riding forty or fifty li was no trouble, but that was on flat ground. Carrying the heavy bicycle up t
hose forty-one steps was a completely different matter. When I reached the top, my bike and I were both in poor shape. I leaned it against a tree and sat to catch my breath, thinking of a way to find Stella’s home without calling attention to myself. I decided to wait for a child to pass, then give them a few pieces of candy or a copper coin and have them lead me some back way to the house. Perhaps I could even get the child to bring Stella to me and avoid people’s eyes altogether.

  Just then I saw a group of kids shouting, chasing a child a little older than they were. The pursued child ran like a frightened rabbit, his whole body trembling, his feet barely touching the ground. Unable to catch him, the group of children began to hurl stones at him. He dodged left, then feinted right, but still couldn’t escape. His back and shoulders were hit a few times, and the pain made him huddle into himself. His speed was noticeably reduced, but he didn’t stop. Covering his head, he continued to stumble along, but his steps were erratic. He tripped over a rock hidden in the grass. Losing a shoe, he fell heavily to the ground. The other children finally caught up. Jeering loudly, they surrounded him and took turns spitting on him. He sat on the ground, arms wrapped over his head, not moving or speaking. The chaos of their voices began to melt together, eventually forming a sort of chorus, shouting, “Pants! Pants! Pants!”

  One child started, then they all rushed forward and tore at the child’s clothes. I rushed to stop them. As soon as they saw me, they were struck dumb. It was probably because of my height—I was nearly six feet tall, practically a giant here—but also my appearance. Though I dressed like a local, I could only pass from a distance. Up close, my blue eyes betrayed me in an instant. The children in this village had likely never seen a foreigner before.

  I knelt down to the child on the ground. Like many boys in this area, his head was shaved, and the stubble formed a faint blue shimmer on his head. His forehead, the corners of his mouth, and the back of his hand were bleeding, and his face and body were covered with dust and saliva. His belt had been undone, and the front of his shirt was torn open, revealing a shoulder and half of a small, underdeveloped breast. God! It was a girl! I took out my handkerchief and wiped blood from her wounds. Seeing a crumpled piece of rice paper in her hand, I took it and unfolded it. It was torn, and the writing had been smeared by mud. I could vaguely make out the words, “The Lord . . . shepherd . . . fear no evil . . .” Shocked, I looked again and realized the girl was Stella. My heart clenched into a knot. I wasn’t sure I could control my voice.