The Farewell Poem

> *This page is stained at the foot, the ink blurred across a patch, and what remains legible records that stretch of road beyond the city. According to an appendix of the Changshan county gazetteer, after Zhang died, a villager claimed to have seen him "riding past the market by daylight, the horse's hooves making no sound"; the gazetteer does not record the year. Someone has added a line in the margin: Zhang's two parting verses were long recited in the county, but no one could explain the phrase "night self-lit."*

I walked out through the office gate, and it was a long time before I knew I had taken the wrong direction.

The road was still that earthen road, level, leading west. But after some two quarters of an hour I felt something amiss — when I had come, the road was straight, running to the horizon without end; now, as I walked, it bent. Not much, but it bent. I stopped and stood in the road, looking ahead and behind. Ahead was still earthen road, gray; behind, the same. No markers, no forks, nothing at all.

I stood there, undecided, when someone called me from behind.

"Sir Song."

The voice was low, steady. I turned. Zhang Sheng stood at the end of the road, in a dark blue gown, holding nothing. I did not know when he had followed me out. When he came nearer I saw a thin film of sweat on his forehead, as if he had hurried a long way.

"How did you come here," I said.

"To see you off," he said. "The road is long. Walking it alone is dull."

I did not ask how he knew I was on this road. He fell into step beside me, saying nothing, and so we walked. Two men on the earthen road, neither of our shoes making a sound.

After a while he said: "I saw that leave-paper just now."

"How could you see it."

"I can hear what happens in the hall," he said. "You drew the leave; I drew the duty. One in, one out. Just so."

I did not answer. The land by the road was still the same — gray, indistinct, as if seen through a film of water. But walking this stretch, I made out one thing: not far off stood a low wall, and at its foot sat a figure, head bowed, unmoving. I looked a second time. The figure had no head — or rather, its head hung so low, buried between its knees, that none was visible. Zhang Sheng followed my gaze, then looked away. "Don't stare. Walk on."

"Who is that."

"One who walks this road," he said. "He walked till he was tired, and sat down to rest. He sat too long, and became like that. Don't look at him, or you'll find you can't walk on."

I turned my eyes away and followed him.

"Nine years," he said. "Not short."

"No."

"Enough for you to finish one thing."

I asked him what thing. He did not answer; walked a few steps, then said suddenly: "Sir Song, in your whole life, how many things have you done that your conscience can own?"

I thought a while. "One and a half."

"One and a half." He repeated it, and laughed. "I don't own even half of one."

"Those two lines on your examination paper," I said, "were very well written."

"Which lines."

"'With flowers and wine, spring is always present; without candle or lamp, the night lights itself.'"

He heard this and did not answer. We walked a stretch, and only then he said: "That was written for someone else."

"For whom."

"For a man," he said. "You will meet him someday."

I did not press him. He walked on a little, then stopped suddenly, pointing ahead: "We've reached the outskirts."

I looked up. The road had ended. Ahead was an open stretch of ground, gray and hazy, and beyond it the indistinct borderland. Here the road gave out — the outskirts of the underworld, likewise without sun.

But on the open ground stood a horse.

A white-faced horse.

It stood with head lowered, tail hanging, as if it had waited a long while. I knew it — it was the horse that had carried me here. Seeing me, it raised its head; its eye was mild, and it looked at me as if it knew its master.

I went to it and put out my hand. It leaned its forehead into my palm and rubbed. The mane was cold, as if steeped in night dew.

Zhang Sheng stood at the road's end, watching us. "It knows you," he said.

"Yes."

"It brought you here. Ride it home." He said, "The road back is easier than the road here. Past that boundary mark, the hooves will make sound."

"What mark?"

He smiled, and did not answer.

I took the reins and stood a while. He came before me, and suddenly brought his hands together and made a formal bow.

"Sir Song."

"Brother Zhang."

"My name is Zhang, of Changshan," he said. "My home is east of Changshan town, beneath the third locust tree, a white-walled house. If you need to find me, send word there."

"Changshan is sixty li from here."

"Yes. Sixty li," he said. "Not far."

He straightened after the bow, looked at me, and suddenly recited two lines —

"With flowers and wine, spring is always present; without candle or lamp, the night lights itself."

Hearing these two lines, something moved in me. These were the very lines on his paper. Now he spoke them aloud, his voice low and level, as if saying an ordinary thing.

"These two lines," I said, "are from your paper."

"Yes."

"Then let me ask you one word," I said. "That 'night self-lit' — how is a night self-lit? Without candle or lamp, where does the light come from?"

He looked at me, smiling, and did not answer.

I waited. He opened his mouth, then closed it — as if something had turned once on the tip of his tongue and been swallowed back. At last he said:

"Sir Song, the road you walk is longer than mine."

I looked at him.

"A man with a short road has many words," he said. "A man with a long road has few. Your nine years are long enough for you to work it out slowly. And if you cannot — that is all right too."

"...And the two lines of verse?"

"The verse was written for someone else." He said it once more. "When the time comes for you to understand, you will understand it yourself."

"What do you mean, the time comes."

He thought a moment, and said: "It means — one night you light your lamp, and the lamp does not light, yet the room is still bright."

It was a headless answer. I waited for him to explain; he did not, but bent and brushed the dust from his boot, straightened up, as if he had brushed away that sentence along with the dust.

He stepped back, and stepped back again, standing on the open ground at the outskirts, his dark blue gown lifted by the wind and settling again. He waved to me:

"Go back. Your mother is waiting."

I swung onto the horse. It stood steady, no whinny. From the saddle I looked down at him.

"Brother Zhang."

"Yes?"

"A moment ago you said the man with a short road has many words," I said. "Is there anything you haven't said yet?"

He looked up at me, and smiled. The smile was very light, as if afraid of rousing something.

"Nothing," he said. "All that should be said, is written in the verse."

I sat on the horse, looking at that smile, and something in my chest sank. He stood on the open ground at the outskirts, and behind him was the gray borderland — no sun, no wind, his gown's hem hanging still, unmoving.

He spoke again suddenly: "Sir Song."

"Yes?"

"When you go back, watch a certain matter for me," he said. "East of Changshan town, beneath the third locust tree, the white-walled house. There is a stone mortar before my door, and the mortar holds water. When you pass by — if that water in the mortar is full —"

"Full, then what?"

"Full means it is time to send word," he said. "I will not write letters, and you need not come. The water full is the letter."

From the saddle I memorized that stone mortar. He said no more. I gathered the reins; the horse stepped forward.

After a few steps I looked back. He still stood there, far off, hands raised in farewell. I went on a little further and looked back again — he was still standing, like a stake of dark blue cloth set in the gray ground.

The horse trod the earthen road; the hooves made no sound.