Each time Jinju glanced at the rabbit, which was often, she saw it struggling to free itself, straining so hard against the shoestring it looked as if it were trying to separate itself from the ensnared limb in order to escape on the other three. Finally she went over, cut the shoelace, untied the end around the rabbit’s leg, and released it. As she watched it hobble off and disappear amid the cornfield’s once beautiful, but now distressed, stalks, a vague sense of hope rose inside her. A dark, boundless secret was hidden amid all that corn.
“You have the heart of a Bodhisattva, Sister,” Elder Brother said as he walked up. “Your goodness will be rewarded someday.”
His garlicky breath sickened her.
She was treated warmly at lunch, probably because everyone had heard of her compassion that morning. During the fall harvest season, when everyone wished he had another pair of hands, they couldn’t possibly watch her all the time. So after lunch she went to the well to fetch water. Father and Mother followed her with their eyes, but neither said a word. She returned with two full buckets, dumped them into the water barrel, then went back for more. Instinct told her she had won their trust.
Disappointed that she had not seen Gao Ma, she was, however, greeted by neighbor women at the well, and the peculiar expressions she thought she saw in their eyes vanished when she looked more closely. Maybe I’m imagining things, she thought. On her third trip to the well she ran into the wife of Yu Qiushui, Gao Ma’s neighbor, a big woman in her thirties with lofty breasts whose nipples seemed always to be quivering beneath her jacket. As the two women faced each other across the well, Yu Qiushui’s wife said, “Gao Ma wants to know if you’ve had a change of heart.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “Has he?” she asked softly.
“No.”
“Then neither have I.”
“Good for you,” Yu Qiushui’s wife replied, looking around before tossing a wad of paper to the ground. Jinju quickly bent over as if to draw some water, swept up the note, and stuffed it into her pocket.
That afternoon, when it was time to return to the fields, Jinju begged off, complaining of a sour stomach. Father eyed her suspiciously, but Elder Brother said generously, “Stay home and get some rest.”
So she went to her room, bolted the door behind her, and took out the wad of paper (during lunch her preoccupation with the note had made it nearly impossible to keep up a conversation with her parents), which she carefully unfolded with a trembling hand. She could hear herself breathing. When some cold air seeped in through the cracks in the door, she anxiously wadded the paper up again and jerked the door open. The outer room was empty. Then, hearing a rhythmic pounding out in the yard, she tiptoed over to the window, where she saw Mother standing under the radiant autumn sun, pounding ears of grain husks with a glossy purplish mallet. Her net jacket stuck to her sweaty back, and a layer of yellow husks stuck to the jacket.
Finally, it was safe for Jinju to smooth the paper out. She avidly read the handful of printed characters:
Tomorrow afternoon. The cornfield. We’ll run away together!
The words, written in ballpoint, were sweat-smudged.
4.
More than once she made it as far as the edge of the cornfield, but each time she turned and walked back. Cool autumn winds had removed most of the moisture from the crops, so that Gao Ma’s corn rustled noisily and the bean pods in her field had begun to crack and pop. Elder Brother and Father were up ahead, Elder Brother complaining about Eighth Uncle Yang commandeering Second Brother to help make briquettes at the peak of the harvest season. “What are you grumbling about? That’s what family is all about-helping one another.” Chastised, Elder Brother held his tongue, turning to look at Jinju as if to seek her support.
Father was crawling along on his hands and knees, Elder Brother was hobbling along on his game leg, and the pitiful sight of the two men weakened her resolve to leave. Gao Ma’s corn shuddered, it rustled, and she knew he was hiding in there somewhere, anxiously watching her every move. As her longing for him grew, she found it increasingly hard to recall what he looked like; so she concentrated instead on the aroma of indigo and the smell of his body. She decided to help Father and Elder Brother harvest the beans before she ran away.
Throwing herself into her work, she quickly outstripped them both, and by late afternoon had taken in more than the two of them combined. When they neared the final section of the bean field, they stood up and stretched, breathing a collective sigh of relief. Father looked contented. “You’ve worked hard today,” her brother complimented her. “When we get home I’ll ask Mother to cook you a couple of eggs.”
Sadness kept her from answering. She was already recalling Mother’s virtues and some hazy events from her own childhood. My gimpy elder brother carried me piggyback; now he and Father are crawling and hobbling through the field, cutting down beans. The setting sun has lit up the western sky. Their heads glisten. Even the wildwoods are gentle and inviting. There to the north is the village where I’ve lived for twenty years. Ribbons of chimney smoke mean Mother is cooking dinner. If I run away… the thought was unendurable. Off to the east an ox plodded down the road, pulling a cart piled high with beans. “The dog days of summer, sweltering in the sixth month,” the driver was singing. “Second Daughter rides her donkey out into the wilderness…”
Sparrows flew by like a dissolving cloud, heading for Gao Ma’s corn, which stirred briefly. A tall figure came into view, then just as quickly vanished. She moved toward it but stopped. She was being pulled in opposite directions by equally powerful forces.
Father’s voice broke the stalemate: “What are you standing around for? The earlier we finish, the sooner we can go home.”
There was no warmth in his voice now, and her resolve returned in a flash. Throwing down her scythe, she ran toward Gao Ma’s cornfield.
“Where do you think you’re going?” an unhappy Father yelled.
She kept running.
“You’re not going home before we finish, are you?” Elder Brother shouted.
She turned. “I have to pee. You can come along if you don’t trust me!” Without another glance at either of them, she darted into the cornfield.
“Jinju.” Gao Ma grabbed her around the waist and held her for a moment. “Crouch down,” he whispered. “Run like the wind!”
They ran hand in hand down a furrow, heading south as fast as their legs would carry them. Dry corn leaves slapped her in the face, so she closed her eyes and simply ran where the hand led her. Warm tears slid down her cheeks. I’ll never come back, she was thinking. The silken thread tying her to home had parted, and there was no turning back. The din set up by dry corn leaves nearly paralyzed her with fear, and she could hear the pounding of her heart.
The cornfield was bordered by a riverbank lined with indigo bushes, and even in her confused state she sensed their unique, intoxicating aroma.
Gao Ma dragged her up onto the riverbank. Instinctively she turned to look back and saw an enormous bronze orb sinking slowly toward the horizon: she saw multihued clouds; she saw an expanse of sunlit fields; and she saw Father and Elder Brother stumbling toward her, brandishing their scythes. Tears gushed from her eyes.
Gao Ma dragged her down the inside slope of the riverbank, but by then she was too weak to stand. The narrow river formed the boundary between two counties-Pale Horse to the south, Paradise to the north. It was called Following Stream. The flow of shallow murky water caused a barely perceptible swaying of reeds at the river’s edge as Gao Ma hoisted her onto his back and ran into the water without taking off his shoes or rolling up his pant cuffs. From her piggyback vantage point she heard dry reeds whisper and water splash. She knew the mud was thick and gooey by the way he was panting.