Under the lazy afternoon sun, two children were squatting by a shallow cement ditch beside a house, immersed in the joy of playing with water, oblivious to the passing strangers. The red iron gate of the house was slightly ajar, and the courtyard was silent, without a sound. Everything seemed like the languid summer afternoon air, soft and powerless, flowing invisibly and soundlessly, like a time-lapse shot in a black-and-white silent film. Only the roosters caged by the gate, startled by the unfamiliar scent, broke through the powerless black-and-white backdrop, trembling their red combs and letting out alert cries.
An invisible alertness also drifted through the village, following us all the way, yet it was hard to pinpoint what that alertness was or what its purpose was. Everything felt quiet, with a whooshing sound like wind brushing past our ears, like a low conversation between the sun and the crops, with the wind diligently conveying their thoughts. A dog wanted to follow us but couldn't immediately tell if we were friend or foe, so it trotted behind at a distance, occasionally rushing forward when the gap grew too large, then cautiously stopping and pulling back to what it considered a safe distance when it got too close. We couldn't tell if it was being friendly or waiting for a chance to bite, so we didn't dare let it follow and shooed it away.
Before entering Zuolimei Village, a small village of only ten or twenty households, we took a wrong turn and ended up in another scattered village. Zuolimei wasn't on the map; we had only glimpsed this tiny village from the roadside, recognizing a cluster of a dozen or so simple old houses. After spotting a white road next to a three-story concrete brick house in the distance, we headed in that general direction but got lost in a field of reflective corn, puzzled by another village near the mountain ahead.
On the bright village road, two elderly women with white hair and youthful faces appeared. As we turned from the main road into the village path, we passed by them. They were walking slowly along the roadside, each carrying a small basket filled with a dozen or so mushrooms of various sizes. The two sisters had probably decided to go mushroom picking in the mountains on this fine day. We didn't know how far they had walked or how long they had searched, but after gathering enough for a dish, they supported each other and headed back to the village. I asked them the name of the village, but they couldn't understand me, and I couldn't understand them either. I could only guess from their smiling faces that they were inviting us to their home.
Standing on the slope beside the cornfield, we could only see a few protruding eaves, suggesting not many houses. Just as we were about to turn back, a middle-aged man approached. He said this was Zuolimei Village, and the village was in the direction we were looking. Only then did we search for the village name on the map, confirm the direction, and avoid heading toward the distant mountain. At that moment, the village was like a lazy cat, curled up on the sloping hillside, enjoying a beautiful nap with steady snoring. In the brief moment we asked for directions, the two elderly women on the road had vanished into some courtyard, and the villager who pointed the way had also suddenly disappeared. Everything was hazy, dizzying like a dream.
The narrow stone paths and steps always led to simple, unadorned gates, with piles of dry firewood or casually placed wooden ladders in front. The wooden doors were either half-open, tightly shut, or slightly ajar, and the scenes behind them were always easy to guess. The village lacked the diverse and complex lifestyles of the city; life here was monotonous and dull. People's needs were merely about survival, with few consumer goods beyond basic necessities. They lived in the mountains, spending most of the year tending the land, the crops, and the livestock in the pens. Only during the brief dinner time each day and the occasional holidays throughout the year did they remember themselves and reward themselves.
