Granddad was still holding on to the spiraling vine for dear life when it caught on a strong but yielding limb of an oak tree. As he hung in the canopy of the tree, he heard the crack of branches snapping. He fell into the crotch of a thick limb and sprang up into the air; again he hit the limb and again he bounced into the air. Finally he came to rest under the vibrating tree, just in time to see the two foxes, first one and then the other, as they thudded into the thick carpet of dead leaves. Like a pair of explosives, the two soft bodies sent rank mud and rotting leaves flying off in all directions. Two dull thuds rustled the dead leaves, the older ones fluttering down to blanket a pair of similarly dead foxes. Gazing down at the brilliantly colored foxes as they were being buried by red and yellow leaves, Granddad suddenly felt his chest expand with heat. A sweet taste filled his mouth, and a red flag slowly unfurled in his skull. Lights went on all around him, and his pain vanished into thin air. His heart overflowed with warm sentiments toward the foxes. The image of them descending gracefully into a bed of red and yellow leaves flowed in and out of his mind. Curtly I said, Granddad, you passed out.
The call of a bird awakened Granddad. The scorching noonday sun baked parts of his skin, streams of glorious golden light filtering through gaps between branches and leaves. Light green squirrels leaped nimbly about the tree as they plucked acorns and gnawed at the husks, exposing the white flesh underneath with its subtle bitter aroma. Granddad began to grow aware of his body. His internal organs were all right; his legs were all right. His foot ached, and there were black clots of blood and torn flesh where the female fox had bitten. His neck hurt where the male fox had buried his teeth. Unsure of where his arms were, he searched for them and found them raised high over his head, still grasping the vine that had saved his life. Experience told him that they were dislocated. He straightened up. Dizzy, he stopped looking down. Using his teeth, he pried his fingers off the vine. Then, with his legs and the tree trunk for support, he worked his arms back into their sockets. He heard the pop of bone and felt sweat ooze from his pores. A woodpecker was attacking a tree nearby. The pain in his neck returned with a vengeance, as if the woodpecker's pointy beak were tapping on one of his white nerves. The cries of birds in the forest could not drown out the sound of ocean waves, and he knew that the ocean was very close. The moment he lowered his head he felt dizzy, and that was the greatest peril in climbing down from the tree. But it would be suicide to stay where he was. His guts were tied in knots, his throat was parched.
Straining to get his nearly useless arms working, he put his legs and belly to work as he began his descent from the tree, forcing his body hard against the trunk. But his efforts were not rewarded, as he tumbled headlong down to the ground. The carpet of rotting leaves cushioned his fall. He'd fallen too short a distance to cause an explosion. The sweet, acrid stench rising up from under him overwhelmed his sense of smell. He got to his feet and, with the sound of water in his ears, began to stumble forward. The stream was hidden beneath the rotting leaves, and as his foot stepped down on them, a coolness rose toward him, and water seeped up from where he had stepped. He lay on his belly and parted the rotting leaves, layer after layer, where the sound of the water was the loudest. It was like peeling away the layers of a flat cake. At first the water was murky; he waited a moment until it cleared. Then he lowered his head to drink, and the cold water rushed past his chest into his stomach; the fetid taste didn't come until later. That brought to my mind the moment during the war when he had lapped up the hot, dirty, tadpole-infested water of the Black Water River.
Once Granddad had drunk his fill, he felt much better and more energetic. All that water staved off his hunger for the time being. He reached up to feel the wound on his neck. It was a pulpy mess, and he recalled the stabbing pain when the fox's teeth snapped off as the animal was ripped away. Gritting his teeth, he probed the wound with his finger. As expected, he found a pair of fangs. Removing them started the flow of blood again, but not much, and he let it flow long enough to cleanse the wound. Then he held his breath and cleared his mind. From the powerful current of myriad forest smells, he picked out the unique, pungent scent of red-leafed loosestrife, and followed it to a spot behind a tall pine tree. I have never found reference to this plant in any illustrated encyclopedia of Chinese herbs. Granddad picked some of the herb and chewed it into a paste, which he rubbed on his wounds, one on his neck and another on his foot. To treat his dizziness, he went looking for purple-stalked peppermint. After tearing off a couple of leaves, he kneaded them until juice came out, then stuck them on his temples. Now his wounds no longer hurt. Beneath a chestnut oak tree he ate a few clusters of nonpoisonous mushrooms, and followed that with some sweet mountain leeks. He was in luck, for he also discovered some wild grapes. Once he'd satisfied his hunger, he emptied his bowels and bladder. He had now turned himself back into an energized mountain spirit.
He walked over to look at the foxes beneath an oak tree. Bottleneck flies were already swarming over them. Always afraid of flies, he backed off. Sap flowing from a pine tree gave off a fragrant odor. Bears were sleeping inside the hollows of trees; wolves were nursing their strength in rocky lairs. Granddad knew that he should return to his mountain cave, but he was drawn to the comforting sound of ocean waves and defied his own pattern of staying hidden in the day and going out only at night. Boldly – he was never afraid – he walked toward the sound of the waves.
The ocean sounded very near, but was actually some distance away. Granddad passed through the forest, as long and narrow as the valley, and climbed a gently sloping ridge where the trees gradually began to thin out. The ground was dotted with stumps of felled trees. He knew this ridge well, even though until today he had only seen it at night. The colors were different, and so were the smells. Amid the wooded areas were spots where anemic stalks of corn and mung beans had been planted. Granddad squatted down between two rows and ate a few green mung beans, which left a grainy residue on his tongue. He felt serene and unhurried, like a peasant with no concerns. It was a mood he'd experienced only a few times during his fourteen years on the mountain. The time he'd extracted salt from the inlet with his aluminum teapot was one of those. The time he'd stuffed himself with potatoes was another. Each had been a special situation, memorable in its own way.
After eating the mung beans, he walked the last few hundred meters to the top of the ridge, where he looked at the blue waters of the ocean that had drawn him to this spot and at the gray village below the ridge. The seaside was quiet; an old-looking man was turning over the strips of seaweed that lay drying in the sun. The village began to stir, starting with the sound of cattle cries. This was the first time he'd approached the village in the light of day, and he had an unobstructed view of what a Japanese village really looked like. Aside from the unusual style of the buildings, it was strikingly similar to farming villages in Northeast Gaomi Township. The odd bark of a sick, feeble dog warned him that he mustn't brave going any closer. If he were spotted in the daylight, escape would be difficult, if not impossible. So he hid behind some brambles and watched the village and the ocean for a while. Growing bored, he headed back in a relaxed mood. But then he was reminded of the cleaver and scissors he'd lost in the valley, and panic set in. Without those little treasures, just getting by would be nearly impossible. He quickened his step.