The Wooden Fish Girl speaks

2015-03-10 07:42 来源：www.xuemo.cn 作者：XUE MO 浏览：50692535次

EXCERPT FROM GHOSTS OF THE SILK ROAD, A NOVEL (In Chinese: Foxes Ridge/《野狐岭》

BY XUE MO

TRANSLATED BY NICKY HARMAN

A hundred years ago, the two most famous camel trains of China’s western deserts, mysteriously vanished on Foxes Ridge in Gansu, never to be seen again. A hundred years later, in a series of ghostly encounters, the lost ones give up their stories to the narrator. They include a female assassin from South China in pursuit of her quarry, a devout young shop asistant who longs to become a monk, a lecherous but good-hearted old shopkeeper, a clairvoyant Daoist priest, a desert bandit who can appear and disappear at will, several camel-drivers of impressive skill and daring, some very fine camels, an impoverished scholar from South China with a life-long obsession for ‘wooden fish’ songs (sung to the accompaniment of a temple drum), and his daughter, the Wooden Fish Girl.

The Wooden Fish Girl speaks

I should start at the beginning.

This story begins far away from Foxes Ridge, but you need to hear it to understand the mystery of Foxes Ridge. Without my story, you won’t know the real reason why we ended up there.

First, I’ll sing you a verse from The Ballad of the Cudgel. I learnt it when I came to Gansu, and it’s no word of a lie. What I mean is, Gansu or South China, they really were like in the songs. Once you know that, then you can picture people like Special Li, Pasty Mei, and Fatso Wang who was too fat to fit into a coffin.

They ranged far and wide on their white horses, collecting their dues.

They lived off fried chicken, pancakes, and wheat noodles.

They slept on mattresses piled with layers of white felt,

And they ‘borrowed’ women in the night.

If this lecherous trio showed up, ordinary folk were in trouble.

There were more unjust taxes than they could count

And ordinary folk had to dig deep in their pockets.

To bury your dead, there was a ‘white-moon tax’,

To marry your children, there was a ‘red-moon tax’,

There was a tax to till the fields, and to sell and buy land too

Herding cattle was taxed, having children was taxed.

You paid tax when the children crawled, and when old people needed walking sticks.

Women were taxed on face powder, bachelors were taxed on prostitutes

Widows were taxed for taking off their trousers

There were so many taxes that ordinary folks couldn’t make ends meet.

Do you understand me?

The folks in South China couldn’t make ends meet. My Dad – just the thought of him makes me sad – lived in those times. We knew plenty of Special Lis and Fatso Wangs.

I love wooden fish songs, and that’s down to my Dad. Let me tell you a few stories about him.

Dad was a scholar but a humble one. Humble scholars are the worst-off, you know. Only a famous scholar can live well. One who’s not famous and isn’t decently dressed is sure to end up wretched.

I’ve heard that you’ve studied the law of the Sarasvati, the goddess of learning, so you’ll know that that’s the way to become wise. But you may end up poor. That’s because the goddesses of learning and wealth don’t get along, so if the first loves you, the second doesn’t give you wealth. So the only way to break this curse is to be wiser than anyone else, otherwise you’ll always be unlucky. You can see that from my Dad’s life.

My Dad devoted his whole life to wooden fish songs. He inherited some wooden fish songbooks, I don’t know how old they were but some were real antiques. My grandfather had left him some land and, if he’d just stuck to farming, he could have made a decent living, but he was restless. He’d inherited a sense of mission and was obsessed with wooden fish songs. He spent all his time with those old blind singers. He was never going to make his fortune, was he?

Dad sold his fields so that he could add to his collection of songbooks. He sold them behind my Mum’s back.

By the time she found out, the fields were already planted with another family’s crops. Mum was in despair. That story you told me about old Tolstoy wanting to give away everything he had, I understand his wife. Look at it this way: the whole family’s got to eat. If you give away everything, are they going to eat the wind?

Dad turned everything we owned into a bunch of old books, very valuable books, so they said. Of course, when I think back, I still believe they were valuable. If my Dad hadn’t made an effort to preserve them, those old books would have gone to make rats’ nests long ago. I didn’t understand why the previous owners, instead of putting this treasure into a decent trunk, stowed them in the rafters where the rats could walk all over them. It was only later that I discovered that they didn’t care about this stack of old papers, it was Dad who kept on at them until they realized their value and put the price sky-high. They knew quite well that however much money Dad spent, no one else would buy them. Dad should have known too, that no one else was going to buy a stack of old papers. But he went ahead and sold our fields, just like that, and bought the whole lot, because he knew that other people might not want them but the rats would. If he didn’t look after them properly, then very soon they’d be food for rats, or would moulder away in the damp climate of South China. When I think back now, what Dad did was hugely meritorious. If it hadn’t been for him, those precious old wooden fish songbooks would have been lost forever. Some of them had never been in public circulation.

That summer, Dad mixed his paste in the sunshine and painstakingly glued the books back together, fragment by fragment, page by yellowing mouldy page. He used good xuan paper and the new wooden fish songbooks were bound with yellow silk covers. Mum helped him too. At that point, she still did not know that he’d sold land to buy them. Dad just told her they were valuable. Judging by his expression, he was telling the truth, and she believed him. But Mum’s concept of valuable was different from Dad’s. The way she saw it, ‘valuable’ meant it had money value. That was why she spent months helping Dad produce gleaming yellow silk-bound books. It was only the next spring, when she saw someone else working our fields, that she fully understood what Dad had done.

She was furious.

She picked up armfuls of the books and flung them into the courtyard. She wanted to burn them. I know that she would have done it, too. But before she could set them alight, Dad landed her a blow that knocked her to the ground.

It was the first time Dad had hit Mum. Normally, he adored her. She was very pretty, famous for her good looks thereabouts. As a young woman, she had lots of suitors, but she rejected them all for Dad, because he was a scholar.

Mum never forgave Dad, but she never again tried to burn his books either, because Dad promised that as soon as he found a connoisseur, he would sell them. Dad promised her that a real connoisseur would buy the books from him at ten times the value of their fields. And that was Mum’s life-long hope.

But the longed-for connoisseur never turned up. It was many, many years later before someone realized just now valuable these books were.

That someone was me.

Of course, Dad’s sister realized it too, long before me, because she had written many of the songs down. But one night, my aunt mysteriously disappeared. There were many stories about what had happened to her: some said she had eloped, or that she had died, or that she had turned her back on this earthly world and entered a nunnery. She was a Buddhist, as Dad was. Under their influence, I was a Buddhist too, as a small child. That is how I know that everything that happened to me later was pre-destined.

My aunt’s disappearance remained a mystery.

I’ll never forget the day when Dad tried to hang himself.

The villagers invited him to go and sing them some wooden fish songs. They were believed to bring good luck, so Dad and some of his blind singer companions would be called on at every major village event, such as New Year celebrations or raising the roof on a new house. The Ballad of Two Lotuses, The Flower Song, Dad knew them all off by heart. But the way he sang them was very different from the blind songsters. He made them very refined, used his learning to get rid of the some of the coarse parts. In the old songs there were lots of dirty bits. Dad didn’t like the dirty bits and always cut them out. He really gave those old songs a good clean-up. And the Song of the Flower Letter that the famous German poet Goethe read and loved was the version my father sang. The Song of the Flower Letter was really quite a gorgeous aria. No wonder Goethe called it ‘magnificent’.

But Dad got poorer and poorer. The goddess of learning, when she blessed him, surely exacted her price – poverty. I’ve seen the same with so many people. We had nothing at home, apart from those glittering stacks of wooden fish songbooks. I still remember that we children, boys and girls alike, had no trousers to wear. Eventually, when Mum’s trousers wore out, Dad lent her his only pair to wear when she went out. That meant that whenever Dad was out, Mum and we children had to stay home.

One day, Dad went to sing wooden fish songs, and Mum had to do a day’s work in Old Lecher’s shop. Dad couldn’t wait for Mum to get back, so he just put on the long gown he wore for singing, and left. He told his singing partner but the man said, You’re fine with just the gown. Who’s going to get underneath it and see whether you’re wearing trousers or not?

That day, Dad sat cross-legged to sing and no one thought there was anything strange about that.

When they finished, he reached up to grab his partner’s shoulder, to pull himself upright. The man ducked away and Dad fell backwards on the bed. Everyone could see through the side slits that Dad had no trousers on underneath his gown. Dad felt utterly disgraced.

When Dad got home, he slung a length of rope over the rafter. Then he stuck his neck through the noose. Luckily, just as he kicked the stool away, someone came looking for him.

That day, I was out picking wild herbs. On my way home, I saw a crowd of people around our door and, when I got close enough to hear, I heard my uncle: ‘Whatever did you want to do that for? Any kind of life’s better than dying! Why would you want to leave your wife a widow and your children orphans, what would happen to them? From now on, if you’re in trouble, you just tell me.’ Uncle brought a bolt of cloth for us that day. His family was quite well off. Like Dad, he’d inherited land, but unlike him, he still had his fields and they lived well. Mum sobbed soundlessly, her hanky soaked with tears. My little brothers were bare-bottomed and their legs were coated in mud.

I looked at Dad’s stunned expression and couldn’t help letting out a sob. The onlookers let me through when they heard me. My Dad was ashen pale, dull-eyed but clearly still alive. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then the tears came coursing down my cheeks.

Once or twice, I remember, my Dad got drunk, and would recite poetry aloud. Poetry was the only thing that put him in good spirits. If there was no one there watching him, he’d recite the Qing dynasty poem: A cold autumn wind, and no bamboo to shelter me/I comfort myself by planting a white poplar/My whole family is hungry and cold/We have no money to buy cloth for winter clothes. Sometimes Dad’s reciting moved himself to tears. When that happened, I knew how worried he was.

The villagers all used to tell Dad to stop trying to support his family as a scholar and learn a trade, but Dad refused. But now, it was clear he couldn’t go on like this. He had no land, so he had no harvest, he had no trade, so could earn nothing, and he was not strong so couldn’t work as a hired hand. All he had was a stack of old yellow wooden fish songbooks. They were locked away in a cabinet two feet wide and three feet tall, and every now and then, he would take them out and sing, swaying his head in time to the rhythm. The bookcase held other volumes too which, Dad said, had been written his forebears. They were sagas, written in wooden fish song form and dating back several hundred years, historical proof of the village’s long existence. Sometimes, Dad added his own wooden clapper songs, recounting things like earthquakes, or floods, or some other major event. The imperial court had their official histories, ordinary folk only had these songs. Dad’s books would survive the fire that consumed the rest of our possessions and, half a century later, they would be re-discovered, and sent to Japan and would cause quite a stir. It was said that these were the world’s first clan chronicles, and their value matched that of the Buddhist classics excavated from Dunhuang. By then, Dad’s bones had long since turned to dust. And of course, I had no inkling of any of this at the time.

So Dad’s books, written in dire poverty, provided a living for many researchers but the fame they acquired a hundred years later did nothing to stop his belly rumbling with hunger. Every time he came home, slightly tipsy, from singing the wooden fish songs in someone’s house, he’d boast that what he was doing gave him a unique place in history. Apart from writing his never-ending books, he wrote poems. They were full of indignation. I could read quite a bit by then, but I still didn’t understand Dad’s poems, although I felt their energy. It was the same energy as the wooden fish songs had, he infused his poems with it, used it to nurture his children. My three brothers and I had to recite them every evening. Apart from that, Dad used to teach the village children his songs, for free. Back then, he was even willing to take out his beloved three-stringed sanxian and let them play with it. The kids didn’t understand the songs, but they loved the sanxian. He made them learn the songs first before they could have it so, at one time, lots of the village children could sing wooden fish songs. Dad used to call this ‘sowing the seeds of reading’. Sadly, the seeds of reading didn’t produce grain, and Dad didn’t even have one complete pair of trousers to his name. Mum wanted to make him a jacket and trousers from his singer’s gown, but Dad refused. A gown was the sign of a scholar. Besides, he had to have a gown if he was to sing wooden fish songs to people. That gown was his livelihood, even though beneath it, Dad was completely, embarrassingly, naked.

The villagers spent a long time trying to cheer Dad up the day he tried to hang himself. Finally, he heaved a long sigh. His dull gaze passed over the onlookers and alighted on me. He smiled faintly.

I knelt by him and gripped his hand.

As time went by, Dad wrote many events that happened in the village into his wooden fish songs. He extolled the virtues of the good, excoriated those who did ill. For this reason, there was always an expression of pain on his face. Some of the evil-doers heard that he was singing about them and came banging on our door. They beat my father up and soon he had no front teeth left because they’d punched them out. No one asked him to sing wooden fish songs at their houses anymore, because he couldn’t control his breathing, and the words, when they came out, were incomprehensible.

To help support us all, Dad sent me to herd Old Lecher’s sheep and goats, and taught me wooden fish songs too. I had a good memory and it didn’t take me many years to memorize all of Dad’s prized collected works, as well as the famous wooden fish songs he had written himself. I began to make a name for myself, as the Wooden Fish Girl.

In time, Dad found another valuable collection of wooden fish songbooks. The price the owner was asking was astronomical, and there was no way he could afford them. He was at his wits’ end and I was afraid it would make him seriously ill. ‘Why don’t you sell me, Dad,’ I suggested.

Of course, he refused at first, but I talked him round. Sooner or later I’d leave to get married, I told him. ‘You can’t keep me at home forever.’

And if he waited till I was of marriageable age, the owner would have destroyed the books. ‘If a girl can’t find true love, what does it matter who she marries?’ I said.

Finally I persuaded him. And so I was adopted by Old Lecher’s family, where I was to marry his younger son when I was old enough. ‘Wooden Fish Girl’s been pushed out of the nest,’ the villagers all said. Even Dad saw it that way.

At the time I had no idea that his younger son wasn’t right in the head. He needed a nursemaid more than a wife.

I found out soon enough. Well, that was my fate, I thought.

Before Old Lecher adopted me, the old man was always getting my Mum over to help out in the kitchen. First it was odd jobs, then they took her on long-term. They paid her twelve pecks of rice a year, a handsome wage. Dad said nothing, just agreed.

Mum’s home-cooking was famous hereabouts. Cooking is a bit like writing, you have to have a gift for it. Some people do it their whole lives and still make a mess of it. Mum had several specialties, for instance she could make thirty-six different dishes with taro, all with their own flavour and appearance. Her Hakka cooking was delicious too, and Old Lecher loved it.

But the worm of jealousy entered Dad’s heart and, at forty, he looked old before his time. He was stick-thin and so frail you could knock him down with a feather. Only when Uncle invited him to share a few glasses of rice wine and he was tipsy did he loosen up and bellow out some wooden fish songs in a loud, confident voice, swaying his head to the rhythm. ‘Listen to that old bookworm,’ said the villagers. ‘Performing his songs again.’ But they didn’t ridicule him. In my village, no one ever made fun of the educated, only the ignorant.

After Dad tried, and failed, to hang himself, he stayed at home for a few days. He felt so humiliated. His singing partner, who’d played the trick on him, sent over a bolt of cloth but Dad still would not forgive him. The partner asked him to go out singing, and Dad refused. Even though every time he went singing, he was paid in food, Dad preferred to starve. Their partnership was at an end. It was as if living had lost any meaning. Maybe in his eyes, ‘meaning’ was more important than just living.

‘What kind of meaning do you want?’ asked Mum. ‘Educated people are so pedantic, they always want to find a reason for everything. Living is just living, you get the sweet and the bitter, happiness and sadness, and all sorts of upsets. Stop bashing your head against a brick wall!’

Mum used to sing Cantonese opera. She could read and write, and had been quite a catch when she was young. But she ignored all the ‘young masters’ from good families and fell in love with a bookworm. Back then, Dad was considered brilliant, sure to come out top in his exams. Mum did not care about that either, she just wanted to marry him. Besides, his family was well-off in those days.

Then Dad sold land to get his hands on out-of-print books. Later still, a fire, not a big one, devoured our remaining possessions. Dad had worked his fingers to the bone and all he had to show for it was a bookcase of books. My family, poor before the day of the fire, was now destitute. Still, at least Dad could sing wooden fish songs and get paid, each time, with a few litres of grain. Even though this was ‘eating the seed grain’, at least that throat of his kept the wolf from the door.

When Dad had recovered a bit, Mum moved in to Old Lecher’s mansion. His shop was a branch of a famous, old-established purveyor of the Fuzhuan brick tea so popular in West China. There were apparently many branches all over China. On every pay-day, camels laden with gold and silver made the long journey to Old Lecher’s mansion where the money was unloaded.

Old Lecher had two establishments, one in South China, the other in Liangzhou, Gansu. The former was a solidly-built mansion, as good as a fortress, with high courtyard walls surmounted with gun towers, where sharpshooters stood guard. When outsiders came marauding, the locals pitched in and fought murderous battles until the land ran with blood. Even the county towns were attacked. Only Old Lecher’s mansion survived unscathed. The local bandits were enraged. They laid siege to his house, but months went by and they made no progress at all. More rebels surrounded it and the blood of officials and rebels alike ran in rivers but Old Lecher’s fortified mansion was impregnable. By that time, several hundred people had taken refuge inside. Later still, the regional governor came on a tour of inspection and was full of praise for the fortifications. In its honour, he inscribed a board with the words, ‘Step back.’ No one ever figured out what that puzzling inscription meant.

The mansion was several stories high. There were embrasures along the battlements, allowing sharpshooters to take aim at anywhere around the foot of the building. The designer was a young Hakka who had studied in Japan. It was a real tourist attraction. Even foreign visitors found it impressive.

I remember Mum telling me what she felt the first time she went to the mansion. She was almost overwhelmed by its grandeur, with its great foot-thick, iron-clad, brass-studded door, the gun turrets at each corner, the guards patrolling the battlements, the grotesque scarlet flying eaves, all spoke to her, and the things they said made her very uncomfortable.

Old Lecher went around with a water pipe in his hand. He was a scrawny old man with a pointy chin and small eyes and a wispy beard that fluttered in the wind. He did not look or act like a wealthy entrepreneur at all. In fact, he was said to have inherited everything he owned. His forebears had been honest businessmen, with money and property far and wide. The family haulage business had flourished for over a hundred years, and Old Lecher was the beneficiary. All he had to do was bathe in the glory reflected from his ancestors, as the locals put it.

According to Mum, the old man’s eyes were very bright. As soon as he set eyes on her, she felt as if he were stripping her naked.

There was a time when she went into the hills to collect firewood and came face to face with a wolf. She pulled off her headscarf and whirled the cloth around above her head, shouting frantically for help. The old man came along on a horse, fired his gun and chased off the wolf, then pulled her up in front of him. Mum felt his claw-like fingers gripping her breasts, but she wasn’t used to riding a horse and daren’t wriggle, so had to put up with his pawing her all the way home. He set her down at the village entrance. ‘How strange,’ he commented, ‘you’ve had several children and you’ve still got such big breasts.’ Mum never dared tell Dad about this, but she felt disgusted whenever she thought of it. The first time she stepped inside the mansion walls, she felt his piggy eyes boring into her back.

She did tell someone in the village about it, her closest woman friend. With the best of intentions, she warned her to stay away from Old Lecher. The woman blabbed. Luckily she only told the other women. Dad still didn’t know.

Many of the misfortunes that befell our family after that could be laid at Old Lecher’s door.

Camel caravans laden with tea often came to our village in those days. Dad really liked the camel-drivers.

He particularly loved the Gansu folk songs they sang. He loved all folk songs, all the ballads from Liangzhou and Wenzhou, and he put elements from them into his wooden fish songs. This made them a lot more interesting than the ones handed down by our forebears. The day that Mum started at Old Lecher’s, I went along to their shop to play. Some camel drivers were there, exercising with traditional ‘stone locks’. They flung these huge weights up and down to build up muscles like plough-oxen. Well-developed muscles were the mother of strength. Any camel driver needed to be able to heft loads of two or three hundred pounds, so they had to be strong. When he was at his most desperate, Dad thought of going to earn his living as a camel driver. The money was good, so they said, a peck of rice per month. The drivers got four pecks, equivalent to two silver dollars. Dad wanted to be able to support his family, but he also wanted to travel. Unluckily for him, a camel driver had to be between twenty and thirty-five. Once you got to forty, you could not carry on. Dad was already in his forties. When he tried to shift a camel packload, it was like an ant trying to shake a mountain, and he had to give up the idea of travelling with the camel trains.

That particular camel train was laden with Old Lecher’s goods, tea, salt and salted fish, which they were taking west.

I didn’t like Old Lecher but I did like playing in the shop and I loved watching the camel drivers at their exercises. They were like camels fattening their humps, they filled in the time between arriving with one consignment and collecting and departing with the next consignment exercising with all kinds of weights so as not to lose muscle tone. They said that it only took three days for the muscles to get out of practice. There were camel drivers who lazed around and didn’t exercise. After a couple of months, they could no longer shift the loads and had to hand over their job to someone else. That was a lesson to them all, and no one dared slack off. Whenever they had a moment, they honed their muscles.

The shop workers and camel drivers always greeted me with a smile. ‘Wooden Fish Girl, sing us a song!’

And if I was in the mood, I would. The one I liked back then was The Ballad of Two Lotuses. I would choose the prettiest section and sing that to them.

After Mum went to work in Old Lecher’s kitchens, the camel drivers all used to tell me how well she cooked. That embarrassed me a bit. I don’t know why but I had the feeling there was something shameful about her going to work there. The old man had scores of servants and half-a-dozen cooks, so why did he need Mum too?

I worried that something bad might happen to her. When I went out with her when I was small, men would often laugh and talk nonsense with her. Sometimes, Old Lecher, water pipe in hand, would come to our house. I saw the way he looked at Mum. So did Dad. But we were dirt poor, and to Old Lecher, Dad was just a poor bent old man, dressed in rags. Dad’s only way of keeping his dignity was by refusing the old man’s offers to lend money or food. He was quite firm, he would find some other way. If he had no money, then he would go without trousers. He couldn’t sell his gown even if he wanted to: it wouldn’t even fetch a few coppers. Old Lecher suggested several times that Mum could go and work for him as a cook, and for the sort of money that a man earned, not the pitiful wages the other cooks got, but Dad said in steely tones: ‘No!’ In fact, he hardly ever allowed Mum to go to the mansion. But in the end, Mum went. Dad stood there in silence, his face rigid, and let her go. He stayed awake all that night, and so did I, worrying.

But when I got to the shop, I felt more sure of myself. I knew these workers and camel-drivers so well, they were part of my life. As soon as I saw them, Old Lecher seemed much less frightening. When they told their stories of the desert, I almost felt myself there, among the great, tall, billowing dunes. My head was always full of imaginings, of the camel caravans like little dots amongst the vastness, the herds of sheep and goats, ebbing and flowing like clouds, and it gave me a warm, comforting feeling.

Ever since I was little, I loved listening to those stories. When they asked me to sing, I demanded a story in return.

When sufficient quantities of salted fish had arrived, it was time for the caravan to set off. The camel drivers would pick the healthiest beasts for the journey. Any that were weak or sick couldn’t go. A single camel that didn’t pull its weight could ruin an entire caravan, they said. A sick one was a burden. So it was important to choose well.

The camels chosen were driven into another compound. Then their stomachs had to be shrunk before they set off, that was the rule. The camels would be fed but not given any water to drink.

That was what Big Mouth told me. Dad always enjoyed chatting to him. Big Mouth didn’t understand the wooden fish songs and Dad explained them to him, line by line. Slowly, Big Mouth learned quite a few of the ballads. He said some of the stories in the ballads were the same as those in the ones from Liangzhou in Gansu.

Later, when Old Lecher was pestering Mum, it was Big Mouth who told Dad about it. He’d been in South China so long, he was almost a local, and spoke like a local too. And he always said what was on his mind. I know he told Dad out of kindness, but to me he was a blabbermouth. That was when I understood that if you didn’t talk about certain things, it was almost as if they didn’t exist.

Knowing what was happening destroyed Dad.

I still wonder if the catastrophe that befell us had something to do with Big Mouth’s blabbing.

The Wooden Fish Girl suddenly fell silent.

I sensed she was crying. The wind was getting up, soughing through the trees.

I’m not saying any more, said Wooden Fish Girl.

It doesn’t matter, I said. I can wait.

She said she was too distressed. It is hard to imagine how something that happened so long ago could still be so distressing. She said she’d done everything she could to repress the pain, but the memories hadn’t faded.

I realized that there was a sliver of a moon lightening the east, and the sky was full of stars. The sound they made, it was like the rippling of water. Was that the Milky Way I could hear? Or the clamour of other lives?

The waxen yellow candlelight flickered and sizzled.

I thought if I waited, the Wooden Fish Girl might start talking again. But I waited a long time and she didn’t speak.

It was time to blow out the candle.

It took me a long time to get to sleep that night. The clamour of the stars kept me awake.

A very pretty girl appeared smiling in my dreams. At first, I thought she was the Wooden Fish Girl, but it wasn’t her.

I couldn’t figure out who the girl in my dreams was.

Could it have been me in a former life, I wondered.

一、木鱼妹说

我得从开头说起。

我说的这开头，不是发生在野狐岭里，但要是没有它，你了解到的野狐岭，就不全面。你只有从我的故事里，才能了解到一个真相：我们为啥进入野狐岭？

我先唱一段《鞭杆记》，这是我后来在凉州学会的。它写出的，是那个时代的真实。就是说，无论是那时的凉州，还是那时的岭南，都像歌中唱的那样。明白了这一点，你就明白了我们的那时——

李特生，梅浆子，胀烂棺材的王胖子。

骑的白马遛趟子，四乡六区里收款子。

吃的是鸡儿油饼子，还有饧面拉条子。

铺的花褥子摞白毡，半夜里还要问你借婆娘。

这三个老驴一槽拴，百姓就给遭了殃。

人家们咕咕唧唧弄上一阵子，

百姓们苛捐杂税可就多得了不得。

红月捐，白月捐，这些个捐税要掏钱，

掏的可就是冤枉钱。

死灾丧葬要的是白月捐，娶儿嫁女要的是红月捐。

佃田卖地也要捐，置田置地也要捐，

经营牲口也要捐，生儿育女也要捐。

娃儿们捐的是爬爬钱，老汉们捐的是拐棍钱。

妇女们捐的是胭粉钱，光棍汉捐的是嫖风钱，

寡妇子捐的是裤裆钱。

苛捐杂税就是这么多，百姓实在无法活。

明白了不？

那时的岭南人，也是没法子活的。我和阿爸——一想到他，我的心就痛——就生活在这样一个没法子活的时代。我们的身边，也有许许多多的李特生和王胖子。

我爱木鱼歌，是受了阿爸的影响。

我先讲讲阿爸的故事吧。

阿爸是一个文人，没有名气。要知道，没有名气的文人是很糟糕的。文人要有大名，才会有好命。要是没有大名，而且有一身酸气的话，他就可能受穷。“穷酸穷酸”，指的就是这。文人穷了就酸，酸了才穷。

听说你修过妙音天女法，你应该知道，修妙音天女法的人，容易得到智慧，但可能会受穷。因为管智慧的女神和管财富的女神一向不睦，只要妙音天女喜欢你，财续佛母就不给你财富。这种说法，很有象征意味。所以，除非你智慧超群，才能打破这个魔咒，不然，就真的“文章憎命达”了。阿爸的一生，正好印证了这一点。

阿爸将一生的心血都用到木鱼歌上了。祖宗传下了一些木鱼书，不知传多少代了，很多是木鱼书古本。此外，他还从爷爷那里继承了一些田产。要是他安安稳稳地务农，也能活一辈子，可他偏偏不安分，家族传承的使命感使他对木鱼歌更上心。他整日里跟那些瞎佬们混在一起。你想，他能混出个啥眉样？

为了搜集那些古老的木鱼书，阿爸卖了田产。阿爸卖田产时，是背着妈做的。等妈发觉时，田里已种上了别人的庄稼。妈真是绝望了。你讲过那个托尔斯泰晚年的故事，我理解那个贵族夫人。你想，一大家子人都要吃饭，要是你将吃饭家当都给了别人，家人去喝风呀？

阿爸将一家人的吃饭家当都换成了木箱中的那些古本，据说很珍贵。当然，这时想起来，我仍然觉得它们很珍贵。要是没有阿爸的努力，那些书早叫老鼠垫窝了。让我不解的是，那一家既然将它当成了宝贝，就该好好珍惜，或是找个好些的箱子保管，不该随随便便放在屋梁上，让老鼠们糟蹋。我后来才知道，那一家人，本来不在乎那堆纸，是阿爸的大呼小叫提醒了他们，他们才要了天价。他们也知道，无论阿爸花多大的价钱，别处是买不到它们的。其实阿爸也应该知道，无论那家人如何被提醒，别人也不会买那堆破纸的。但阿爸还是毅然卖了田，换回了那堆破纸。因为阿爸知道，别人不会要它们，但老鼠会要它们。要是不妥善保管，要不了多久，它们就会变成老鼠的食物，或是在潮湿天气的糟蹋下变成一堆真正的垃圾。现在想来，阿爸真是功德无量。要不是他，那些珍贵的木鱼书就失传了。其中有许多珍本，是世上不曾流通过的。

在那个夏天，阿爸打了糨糊，在阳光下，他一点点、一页页粘好了那些古本木鱼书。他用上好的宣纸，将那些零散的、零碎的、泛黄的、发霉的纸片儿，粘成了一本本书，还包上了黄绸子。做这事时，妈也帮忙。那时，妈并不知道它们是用地换的。阿爸只是说它们很珍贵。从阿爸的表情上，妈信了他的话。但妈理解的珍贵，跟阿爸说的珍贵不是一种含义。妈将那珍贵当成了值钱。妈信了。所以，在几个月里，妈跟阿爸一起，将那堆破纸粘成了一本本黄灿灿的木鱼书。直到次年春天，妈发现有人在自家地里种田时，才知道了事情的原委。

妈气疯了。

妈抱出了那些木鱼书，扔到院里。她想烧了它。我知道，在那时的气头上，她真会烧了它们的。但她还来不及点燃，就被阿爸一巴掌扇倒在院里。

记得，那是阿爸第一次打妈。平日里，妈是阿爸的心肝宝贝。妈很漂亮，是当地有名的美人。妈嫁阿爸前，有许多富家子弟追她，但她选择了有文才的阿爸。

后来，妈一直没有原谅阿爸，但她再也没有打算烧那些书，因为阿爸答应，等遇到识货人时，他就将这宝贝转卖给他。阿爸一再强调，要是遇到识货者，这些木鱼书至少会卖出十倍于那些田产的价格。这，成了妈命运中的一个盼头。

只是，阿爸等的那个识货人一直没有出现。直到多年之后，有人才发现，它们真是无价的珍宝。

那个人便是我。

当然，在我之前，我的姑姑也明白它们是宝贝。她也记下了很多木鱼歌，但在一个夜里，她神秘地失踪了。关于这，有多种说法，有人说她跟人私奔了，有人说她死了，还有人说她看破红尘，进了寺院，当了尼姑。她跟阿爸一样，也信佛。在他们的影响下，我很小的时候，就信了佛。我当然认为，我后来的一切，其实也是一种因缘。

姑姑的失踪，成了一个谜。

我一直忘不了阿爸上吊时的情景。

那天，村里人请阿爸去唱木鱼歌。那时节，唱木鱼歌是人们眼中很吉祥的事。所以，每逢过年过节，或是盖房，人们就会请阿爸和几个盲佬唱木鱼歌，图个吉祥。阿爸会唱许多木鱼歌，像《二荷花史》《花笺记》什么的，阿爸都能唱得烂熟。但阿爸的唱，跟以前盲佬的唱有些不太一样。阿爸唱得很雅。他用自己的文才洗尽了许多木鱼歌的“俗”。先前的木鱼歌中，有很多黄段子。阿爸嫌它们诲淫，就坚决地删去了。阿爸将那些传统的木鱼歌都洗了一遍。后来，德国大诗人歌德读到并大加赞赏的《花笺记》，就是阿爸老唱的版本。那《花笺记》，真的是文采四溢，难怪歌德称赞它是“伟大的诗篇”。

但阿爸也越来越穷了。也许，当智慧女神赐福于某人时，真的要让他付出贫穷的代价。后来，我在许多人身上发现了这一点。那时，家中除了那一包包黄灿灿的木鱼书外，算得上一贫如洗了。记得那时，我们姐弟几个，都不穿裤子的。自从妈的一条裤子穿破后，阿爸就将自己的裤子给了她。后来，他外出时，妈和我们就只能待在家里。

阿爸去唱木鱼歌那天，妈正好去马家票号帮工。阿爸等不及妈回来，就穿着唱木鱼歌特有的行头——长衫出门了。知道这事的，是跟他一起唱木鱼歌的搭档。当阿爸说他没有裤子时，那人说，穿了长衫即可，没有人会钻进里面看你有没有裤子的。

那天唱木鱼歌时，阿爸盘腿坐着，没人发现他有什么异常。

后来，阿爸起身时，一手撑搭档的肩膀，想借借对方的力。哪知，阿爸正要起身，那人一塌膀子，阿爸便摔倒在床上。这时，谁都发现，穿着长衫的阿爸竟然没穿裤子。就这样，阿爸出了大丑。

回家后，阿爸就在梁上挂了一道绳子，将脑袋伸了进去。幸好，阿爸刚蹬倒小凳，就有人来找他。

那时节，我正在外面挑野菜。远远地，就见门口围一群人。到了近前，听到大伯正在劝阿爸：“你怎么是这号人？好死不如赖活着。你一无常，丢下孤儿寡母，怎么办？以后有什么难处，你张嘴。”他带来了一匹布。大伯家底子好，他跟阿爸一样，都继承了一些地。阿爸的地没了，他的还在，日子就好过很多。妈无声地哭着，手帕全湿了。弟弟们半裸着身子，腿上尽是泥巴。

我看到了阿爸木然的脸，不由得哭出声来。听到哭声，人们让开了路。阿爸的脸灰灰的，眼球显得发木，但分明还活着。我舒了口气，泪却哗哗了一脸。记得有几次，阿爸酒醉后，老是诵一首诗。阿爸只有在诵诗时，才显出十分的神采，他旁若无人，大声吟一首清诗：“寒甚更无修竹倚，愁多思买白杨栽。全家都在风声里，九月衣裳未剪裁。”有时候，阿爸能诵出一脸的泪。每到这时，我就知道，阿爸又为什么事发愁了。

村里人也劝阿爸灵活些，去学个手艺，阿爸却依旧木着，这日子，明摆着没法过了。没有地，就没有收成；没有手艺，就挣不来工钱；没有力气，也当不了长工。阿爸有的，只是那些泛黄的木鱼书。他将它们锁在那二尺宽三尺高的书柜里，时不时取出，摇头晃脑唱一阵。书柜里还有几本书，阿爸说是好几代祖宗写的，以木鱼歌的形式，记载着几百年来发生的大事。这是历史，也是一个村落存在过的证据。阿爸也时时续写此书，记载天时的变化，诸如何时地震，何时有洪水，何时发生过什么大事。朝廷有史官，百姓没有史官，但百姓也有自己的史书，我当然没想到，这书会躲过后来的那场大火，半个世纪后，被人发现，传到日本，在世界上激起大波。据说，这是世界上第一部家族编年史，其价值，可和出土的敦煌古籍媲美。可到了那时，阿爸早成了一堆骨头。他忍饥挨饿写的那些文字，反倒养活了很多研究它的人。

百年后那些书的辉煌，不能使阿爸的饥肠不再辘辘。每次去人家唱木鱼歌回来，微醉的阿爸也会自吹自擂，说在历史的坐标上，他有着不可替代的作用。他除了写那本永远写不完的书外，也写诗，诗中多激愤。我那时已识了不少字，但我还是看不懂阿爸的诗，不过，我能感受到阿爸诗中的气。那气和木鱼歌一个味儿。阿爸把那股气融入诗中，用它来熏陶子女，每天晚上我都要和三个弟弟背那些诗。阿爸还给村里其他小孩免费教木鱼歌。那时，他甚至愿意将自己最惜爱的三弦子拿出，让那些小孩们胡乱拨弄。小孩们不懂木鱼书，但爱弹三弦子，为了能弹到三弦子，他们就只好背木鱼书。就这样，许多小孩都会唱木鱼歌了。阿爸管教小孩们唱木鱼歌叫种书田。但那书田，是种不出粮食的，阿爸连个囫囵裤子也穿不上。妈曾劝阿爸，让他把那长衫改成衣裤，阿爸不让，一则长衫是读书人的象征，二来，给人家唱木鱼歌时，必须穿长衫，那长衫，等于吃饭碗了。当然，谁也不会想到，阿爸的长衫下，竟会是赤条条的身子，真丢死人了。

村里人劝了许久，阿爸才长吁一口气，那木木的眼神转了，从众人脸上扫过，在见到我的那一瞬，他仿佛笑了一下。

我跪了下去，捉住了阿爸的手。

后来，阿爸将村里发生的许多事编成了木鱼歌。他歌颂贤良人，鞭挞作恶者。因为这个原因，阿爸的脸上老是有伤。因为一些恶人听到骂他们的木鱼歌后，就找上门来，用疯耳光往阿爸的脸上扇。不几年，阿爸的前门牙就没了，那是被直冲面门的拳头打飞的。从那以后，就没人请他唱木鱼歌了，因为他的嘴收不住气，唱起歌来显得含糊不清。

为了养家，阿爸除了让我去给马家放羊外，还让我学木鱼歌。我的记性好，几年过去，我全部记下了阿爸视若珍宝的古本，也记下了他写的那些被誉为“伟大诗篇”的木鱼书。于是，远远近近的人都知道了“木鱼妹”。

再后来，阿爸又发现了一批珍贵的木鱼书，那人要价较高，阿爸实在刮不出一两油水了。看到阿爸失魂落魄的样子，我怕他憋出病来，就对他说，你卖了我吧。

阿爸当然不愿意。后来我开导他，说我迟早得嫁人，你又不能养我一辈子。等我将来嫁人时，这些珍本木鱼书早被人糟践了。我说女人嘛，要是找不到真爱的人时，嫁谁还不是嫁？

我终于说动了阿爸。就这样，我进了驴二爷家，成了他的童养媳。

村里人都说，木鱼妹掉富窝里了。阿爸甚至也这样认为。

那时节，我当然不知道，驴二爷的小儿子，脑子不太清楚。他与其说要个媳妇，还不如说要一个照顾他的丫环。

这一切，我都认了。我想，一切都是因缘定的。

在我进驴二爷家之前，驴二爷老是叫妈去他家的厨房帮工，从短工变成了长工，工钱是一年一石二斗大米。这工钱，是大汉的数儿，阿爸没说什么，就答应了。

妈的茶饭好，远近有名。这茶饭，也和写文章一样，要有天赋，有人做了一辈子饭，仍是一锅糊涂浆子。妈有好几样绝活，比如，她能用芋头做出三十六个菜，有色有香，绝不重样；她的客家菜，也独有味道，驴二爷很是喜欢。

但那穷，仍老醋蚀铁一样侵害着阿爸的身心，不到四十的他显得很老，很瘦弱，一副病怏怏的模样。他只有在微醉时——有时，大伯也会请他去饮几杯米酒——才摇头晃脑，旁若无人地吟唱木鱼歌，声音很大，中气十足。村里人听了，都说：“听，那书呆子，又唱戏文了。”却都不嘲笑。在我的家乡，没人嘲弄读书人，只会骂那些不学无术者。

阿爸上吊被救活后，有好几天不出门，他觉得脸面丢光了。期间，捉弄他的搭档送来了一匹布，阿爸还是不原谅他，后来那人请他去唱木鱼歌，他也不去，虽说每次唱歌总能挣些吃食，但阿爸宁愿挨饿，也不再跟那人搭档了。想是阿爸一想那事，就觉得没意思活了。也许，阿爸的眼里，那“意思”，比活更重要。

妈劝阿爸，你要什么意思？酸文人干个什么，总爱找个理由。其实，活就是活个过程，甜也尝尝，苦也品品，乐也有过，忧也受过，七荤八素都经经，别死钻牛角尖了。

妈原是唱粤剧的，懂些文墨，当时有好些大户家的少爷追，她却不正眼瞧他们，偏偏爱上了一个书呆子。那时，有人老夸阿爸的文才，说是这样的人，能中状元的。妈也不管中不中，就嫁了过来，再说那时的家底也算殷实。后来，为了那些据说已绝版的刻本，阿爸卖了地。再后来，一场不大不小的火，将剩余的家当全燎了。阿爸拼了死命，只抢出那个书柜。火烧当日穷，我家就一贫如洗了。好在阿爸会唱木鱼歌，村里人祭土地时，总要请他，事完后谢几升粮。虽说寅吃卯粮，但那三寸喉咙，倒也能糊住。

阿爸稍好些时，妈就到驴二爷家的商号里去了。这商号，是“马合盛”名下的分店。据说，全国有好些这样的店。每到分红节儿，那些骆驼就会驮了金，驮了银，沿了那千里驼道，把金银送往驴二爷的老家。

据说，驴二爷有两个家，岭南一个，凉州一个。在岭南，驴二爷住的是碉楼，是堡垒式的一种房屋，高墙，大院，上有炮楼，炮楼上有土炮，也有枪手。土客械斗时，有好些杀疯的土人打了来，杀了一条血路，连一些县城也攻下了，唯有驴二爷不尿他们。那群土人气急败坏，率众攻打，但攻了几个月，也没能占半点便宜。再后来，更多的乱民围了来，杀官的，造反的，血流成河，但也入不了驴二爷家的碉楼。当时，那碉楼里，拥集了好几百人，以避战乱。再后来，总督前来巡视时，对碉楼赞叹不已，题了一个匾：“退一步”。这题词莫名其妙，叫后人们猜测了几十年。

驴二爷的碉楼高达数丈，箭垛枪眼，到处都有，可以向堡子下面的各处发射枪弹。这碉楼，是个留学日本的客家子弟设计的，后来也成为当地一个有名景点，一些外国人看了，瞠目结舌呢。

记得，妈讲过她第一次进碉楼时的感觉，她首先感到的，是那威焰赫赫的挤压。那尺把厚的包了铜泡钉和铁皮的大门，那墙角上的炮楼，那墙上巡逻的护院家丁，那红红的怪模怪样的屋檐飞角，都在对她说话，说一些让她很不舒服的内容。

驴二爷老是抱个水烟壶。这是个瘦小的老头子，尖下巴，小眼睛，几根风中乱颤的胡须。据一个尚相者说，这驴二爷，是典型的穷相，无多少福禄。他的富足，想来是祖荫所致。也倒是，他的祖宗以德经商，广散其财，泽被四方，才有了一百多年不败的家运。一人有福，拖带满路。都说，驴二爷沾了祖宗的光。

妈说，驴二爷的小眼睛很亮，第一次看她时，她就有种被剥光衣服的感觉。某次，妈去山里打柴，途中遇狼，就解下脖中的头巾一下下抡，呼喊救命。恰巧，这瘦老头骑马过来，放一枪，吓跑了狼，将她拉上马来。惊魂未定中，妈觉得那爪子搂在了自己胸上，她不善骑马，不敢乱动，由那爪子揉捏了一路。到村口，驴二爷才放下她，说：“日怪，生了几个娃儿，咋还有这么大的奶子？”这事儿，妈一直没敢给阿爸说，但一想这事儿，她就想发呕。自打进了那碉楼，妈老是觉得那小眼睛一直扎自己的背。

后来，这事儿，妈告诉了她村里的一个姐妹——就是你们现在说的闺蜜，叫她以后小心些，别着了驴二爷的道儿。妈本是好心，没想到那闺蜜嘴碎，一传出去，就成一溜风了。好在只是在女人堆里传，爸还不知道。

那时，我还想不到，日后家中的许多灾祸，会跟驴二爷有关。

那时节，我也常常看到来我们这儿运茶的驼队。阿爸也喜欢那些驼把式。他更喜欢把式们唱的那些民歌。阿爸几乎喜欢所有的民歌，像凉州贤孝、温州鼓词等，他都喜欢。这喜欢，就让他写出的木鱼歌比老祖宗传下的那些多了一份包容。妈正式去驴二爷家帮工那天，我跟着去马家商号玩。我看到几个把式正在练石锁。他们把那斗大的石锁抛抛接接，身上就多了许多犟子肉，跟那犁地的牛一样。犟子肉是力气的妈妈。当驼户的，要把二三百斤的驮子搬上搬下，没力气不成。当初，走投无路时，阿爸也想跟驼队去谋个营生。听说当驼户挣钱多，平常的长工一月工钱是两斗大米，驼把式是四斗，算银元是两块钱。除了想养家，阿爸也想走万里路。可惜，把式的好时光是二十岁到三十五岁之间，一上四十，是干不了驼把式的。阿爸想当把式时，已近四旬了，移那驮子，如蚂蚁撼山，他这才息了跟把式们远游的心。

那时的驼队，就是往驴二爷的商号里运货的。运茶，运盐，也将一些盐制的海产品运到西部。

我不喜欢驴二爷，却喜欢到商号里玩，喜欢看那些把式们练功。平日里，跟骆驼追膘一样，把式常要抛弄担子石和石锁，免得让力气溜走。从驮来货物，到收集好下次驮走的货物间隙，把式们也得练功，说是三天不练手生。曾有人撒了懒没练功，几个月后，就再也弄不起驮子，只好将那把式位子拱手让给别人。有了这教训，谁也不敢撒懒，一有时间，就嘿哈着打熬力气。

那时节，一见我，那些商号伙计和把式们就会露出笑脸，都会说：“木鱼妹，来一段木鱼歌。”

要是有兴致的话，我也会唱一段木鱼歌。那时，我最爱唱的，是《二荷花史》的择锦，我选了其中最好听的段落来唱。

自从妈进了驴二爷家帮工后，一见我的面，把式们就夸妈做的饭好吃。我一听，有点不好意思。很奇怪，不知为什么，我觉得妈进了驴二爷家，是一件不光彩的事。驴二爷家有几十个伙计，五六个厨娘，偏偏妈去了，我就觉得不光彩，说不清为什么。

自打妈进了驴二爷家，总是让我牵挂，总觉要发生一件不好的事。小时候，我陪妈外出，就常有人嬉皮笑脸说胡话。有时，那驴二爷也会端着水烟锅到家里来，望妈时，眼里有火星在冒。阿爸也看见了，但人穷志短，马瘦毛长，在驴二爷面前，阿爸的腰自然塌了三分。阿爸唯一能显示自己尊严的，就是不向驴二爷张口借钱借粮，断顿了就别处想办法。没钱了，可以不穿裤子，那长衫是不当卖的——当也值不了几文。以前，驴二爷几次提出叫妈当厨娘，别人当厨娘没多少工钱，妈可以按大汉的份额给的，可阿爸钢牙铁口地说：“不！”他很少叫妈进那碉楼大院。但这次，妈还是进了。阿爸也没发半声叹息，木了脸，望了一夜椽子，也让我悬了一夜的心。

不过，到商号时，我又觉得心实落落地进了肚里。这些伙计和把式都那么熟悉，仿佛是我生命的一部分。一见到他们，便觉得那驴二爷，也没什么好怕的。驼户讲故事时，我仿佛能看到那一浪一波荡向天边的沙浪。我老是想象那星星点点点缀在沙褶里的骆驼，老是想那些忽忽悠悠云一样飘来荡去的羊们，心里就会生起一种异样的温馨和熨帖。

记得小时候，我最爱听的，是驼队的故事。每次，把式们一叫我唱木鱼歌，我就叫他们讲驼队的故事。

当那些腌制好的海产品达到一定量时，就该起场了。把式们就会选那些最健壮的驼来当役驼，瘦弱的或是病了的，都不让上路。说是在长途驼运中，一个不合格的驼往往会坏事。若是有了一个病驼，一把子骆驼也就让拖累了。所以，使役前的选驼很重要。

把式将选好的驼们赶入另一个院子，要先叫驼掉水。据说这也是规矩。驼起场前，先得叫驼掉水。掉水期间，供草供料，但不能饮水。平时驼由了性子吃，撑大了肠胃，不掉水使役的话，会弄伤驼的胃。掉水十多天后，才能使役，那时才可以恢复饮水。

这些，都是大嘴哥告诉我的。阿爸最喜欢跟他聊。他听不懂木鱼歌，阿爸就一句一句地讲给他，慢慢地，他也明白了好些木鱼歌的故事。他说，木鱼歌唱的一些故事，在凉州贤孝里也有。

后来，驴二爷欺负妈的事，就是大嘴哥告诉阿爸的。大嘴哥嘴大话多，因为在岭南待的时间长，也会说些当地话，心里有啥话都藏不住。虽然我知道他跟阿爸说那些话是为他好，但我还是嫌他话多。那时节，我便知道，有些东西，你不知道时，它便也等于没有存在过。

大嘴哥一说，阿爸的天就灰了。

我不知道，我家后来的大难，是不是跟大嘴哥的多嘴有关？

木鱼妹忽然寂了。

我感觉到她在哭泣。风吹来，在柴棵间扫出声音，噎噎的。

我说不下去了。木鱼妹说。

不要紧。我说。我可以等。

她说她难受极了。没想到，过去了这么长的时间，一想到往事，仍是这么难受。她说，多年来，她一直压抑着那种难受，她尽量不去想。她把那个皮球压了许久，但在生命的记忆中，它并没有消失。