Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The shadow outside the window disappeared. I waited a moment, making sure the person was truly gone, then reached out and closed the window. The sandwich at the corner of the table was still faintly steaming, but I felt no urge to eat. After all, my hand had just touched a piece of hide. Even though I forced myself to stay calm, touching food now inevitably felt unsettling.

So I moved the rough ceramic bowl onto the nightstand, returned to my seat in front of the wax board, and picked up my carving knife. Yet I lingered, unable to begin.

I didn’t know what was stirring in me, but countless things surged up in my mind-noisy scenes, stirring opera, flickers of light and shadow. Too many bits and pieces floated before my eyes, leaving the air feeling thick and heavy.

She’d chosen her ending, calculating even the timing. Before she left for her death, she must have checked the warning in the weather forecast. The night I left Wild Mountain, heavy snow arrived on schedule, and the mountain was closed. The snowstorm lasted nearly a week, with the forecast claiming such harsh weather would continue for almost two months.

Snow is the best vault for secrets, and a closed mountain is a natural barrier-enough to seal away her secret, together with the whole desolate mountain, at least for now.

There are so few people or things in this world that are truly open and honest. Too many live covering up, concealing instead of admitting.

And you-do you also have secrets you can never share?

Gazing at the clear hide on the wax board, I murmured, “I’ve written a play for you. Will you listen to me sing it?” Of course, I was talking to myself; there was no answer.

Overhead, the bulb tied to an electric wire swayed gently. I steadied my breath and emotions, then began to hum: “Remember those years, in the dust of the past, a youth’s spirit soaring high; the years grew long, time simmered away, worn down old looks and voices. Don’t cling to the world’s lonely lamp; may you awaken early, leave in peace, and in your next life, know no sickness or misfortune-live unburdened and at ease…”

When the song ended, I relaxed and finally began to carve.

Shadow People in shadow puppetry are usually ancient figures, with headpieces for the standard roles: the male lead, female lead, painted-face, old man, and clown. But the one I was carving now was a modern woman-fine brows, almond eyes, full lips, and a helmet on her head. Before carving, I’d traced her design over and over on paper, picturing her face in my mind. Just to be safe, after finishing the sketch, I’d tested it three times using cowhide.

The alarm went off. I laid down my carving knife and wiped the light sweat from my forehead with a towel. My first headpiece on the wax board finally had its outline. Once I carefully refine it, I can add color.

For now, I needed to prepare for the class I was about to teach. I got up and reached for a book from the shelf-“Boiling the Remaining Life.”

The town wanted to develop tourism, so they’d invited media to do promotions, film scenery, and feature people too. As for filming me, it was mostly because of this book.

“Boiling the Remaining Life” has been quite popular these past few years. The author is a young person in their twenties, but the stories they wrote feel dark and tangled, more like someone who’s weathered many storms. Two years ago, I adapted the stories in the book into shadow puppetry, mixing Bowl Bowl Singing with storytelling, performing for passing tourists. If anyone asked, I’d say that while people think artisans are stubborn and old-fashioned, we too want to move forward and try something new.

Now I flipped through a few pages, eyes calm. It’s a collection of shorts and novellas, mostly tinged with sorrow. I’ve read it many times, and its seven stories are deep in my memory. The pages bear many creases. But the endings of my plays often differ from the book’s, which sometimes draws criticism.

Though the book is popular, it’s not universally praised. Many readers complain that the author’s biggest flaw is never wrapping up a story-calling it “open-ended” at best, “sloppy” at worst. I actually agree with this, so I usually change the ending to suit my own feelings.

Some tourists upload my performances online, attracting scolding from the original book’s devoted fans: they say I never paid for the rights and don’t respect the book. Those comments are at least reasonable, but some are just plain mean, even coming to my door to shout.

Of course, there are others who speak up for me, saying that as a small-town intangible heritage artisan, I don’t earn much, and innovation is meant to keep the craft alive. Interpreting stories my own way is a kind of creative second take, born from good intentions-so why be so aggressive? Besides, the author themselves has never objected.
Despite all the upheaval, I stayed calm. Oddly enough, the talk-both praise and blame-swirling around me brought a bit more attention to this little town and its guesthouse. I’d become one of the few local talking points. When the media wanted to film me, the town was naturally pleased, and Ge Wei convinced me to agree.

Old matters resurfaced, stirring up emotions that seemed about to break out of my chest.

I coughed twice, as though negotiating with those feelings.

Gradually, my mind settled. I carefully covered the wax board with an old, dark green mesh, got up, picked up my book and the rough pottery bowl, and left my room. First I went to the small kitchen, repeatedly washed my hands with dish soap, then-with some hot water-I slowly ate the two long-cooled vegetable flatbreads.

By now, I’ve lived here in this town for quite a few years. It isn’t much of a tourist spot, just happens to border Wild Mountain, which draws in a few adventurers and helps sustain the town’s livelihood.

During the busy season, the guesthouse welcomes more guests. Meals improve a little, and my workload gets heavier. By day, I run folk culture workshops; come night, I build a stage in the courtyard to perform shadow puppetry. When things are at their busiest, Ge Wei hires two local women to help with cleaning.

Right now, the new year has just passed and the weather is still cold. With so few travelers, the guesthouse stops hiring extra help; Ge Wei takes on front desk, reception, and kitchen duties himself, and I help with housekeeping. Meals are down to one simple brunch a day-the rest of the time, if you’re hungry, you make do yourself.

I’ve always had a small appetite. One meal a day is plenty.

After eating, I conveniently cleaned up the kitchen.

When I walked into the studio, the TV station crew-a man and a woman-were already there, sitting close together, appearing almost like a couple. They introduced themselves as directors from Tang City Channel 3: the woman was Tang Jing, the man Lu Ning.

“Last summer, our station came to Wild Mountain for a team-building trip. We stayed right here and thought then that we should film you,” Tang Jing said cheerfully. “So when this assignment came up, we jumped at the chance.”

“Thank you,” I replied with a smile, treating it as polite small talk.

My heart stirred. This might be a chance for her, and for me.

After a brief greeting, I told them, “Sorry, please wait a moment-I need to mix some colors first.”

“No problem at all, Teacher,” replied Tang Jing, courteous and bright, instantly likeable. “We’ll get set up and shoot some background footage.”

To make a Shadow Person, treating the leather and carving it are both time-consuming and labor-intensive. Only coloring-the painting stage-is relatively easy to pick up. Even if the painting isn’t skillful, a colorful Shadow Person is still striking, and after it’s dried, it makes for a fine travel keepsake. We’d already agreed: film this part first, because it looks good.

The two directors busied themselves with the equipment, chatting as they worked. Their conversation drifted, eventually circling around to the corpse on Wild Mountain. As I blended my pigments, I couldn’t help but listen in.

“I heard the dead guy was some unlucky backpacker. An old man-got caught in a blizzard, but nothing could stop his death wish, so that’s how it happened,” Lu Ning said.

“Not what I heard,” Tang Jing countered. “I heard it was a veteran hunter who lived on the mountain-he went out while no one was around, trying to poach hibernating rare animals. Karma caught up and he died in the woods.”

So now the story’s become this? A backpacker? A hunter? An old man? How could that be?

“I thought it was a woman who died,” I remarked, keeping my gaze down and my tone casual.

“No, it was a man-I’m sure of it,” Lu Ning said firmly, clutching his camera. “When we got here, the police were canvassing the area, asking about any missing men… Maybe they’ll make their way here too.”

The brush in my fingers slipped and fell, my heart giving a sharp jolt. A man? How could that be.