Volume One, Chapter Twenty-Seven: True and False Guilt
The mute man who once built this secluded cabin in the woods with the flying squirrel was none other than Amei’s father; later, it became a “safe house” known only to him and the lone wolf.
Three years ago, after careful observation and planning, he chose this hillside as their resting place.
It was a sweltering, windless afternoon. At the foot of the mountain, a deaf-mute man, hunched and dragging a cart, trudged along the path to tend his family’s rubber grove. By chance, he crossed paths with the flying squirrel, who was fishing by the reservoir.
The flying squirrel needed just such a location and identity: not far from the city, remote enough to receive pager signals; befriending a local, preferably courting one—becoming the ideal son-in-law that villagers hoped for.
The deaf-mute rarely met anyone who could communicate with gestures, but he understood the flying squirrel’s meaning: he could help look after the rubber plantation, and would not need to pay him.
The flying squirrel knew some basic sign language and gestured toward a small patch of flat ground, indicating his desire to build a cabin there. He would cut timber and bamboo from the hillside, without spending a cent.
The cabin would belong to the mute man; the flying squirrel was merely a temporary guest, seeking a place to rest.
The mute man readily agreed. He was shrewd, keeping words close to his chest, and in truth, smarter than most who were quick-tongued. A few days later, he brought his daughter, Amei, who tended the grove, up the mountain.
He found the young man had already built a foundation with small stones, and cheerfully invited Amei to help raise the bamboo cabin.
Sometimes, the flying squirrel felt guilty about his calculated ways, but wasn’t this his work after all?
The lower half of the cabin was built on a foundation of mountain stones; at each corner, two-meter-tall timber served as pillars, with thinner wood laid across for beams. Thick coconut husks were layered atop the sloped roof beams, with a sheet of oilcloth sandwiched between two layers of husk. The cabin stayed warm in winter, cool in summer, and shielded from rain.
On tropical stormy nights, lightning would sometimes crash at the doorstep, sparking fire in the air.
Mountain folk feared this deeply. Each year, a few locals would be struck down by misfortune, whether tilling open fields or tending livestock atop hills, losing their lives to thunder gods and leaving behind widows and orphans to endure solitude, children forever patching the scars of a tragic childhood.
Thus, locals never ventured up the mountain on rainy days.
But the flying squirrel claimed to have a stubborn fate, that death would not take him. He delighted in sitting at the threshold during thunderstorms, bottle in hand, watching lightning strike the earth mere steps away.
Tonight, rain was coming.
The flying squirrel told Amei he must leave Mang City tonight; under cover of storm, he could sneak to the edge of town and steal a car. Amei crouched by the clay stove, lighting a fire to boil water.
Unable to bear the silence, the flying squirrel called, “Amei, come here.”
She stoked the fire with an iron poker, watched the flames leap up, then placed the water-filled wok on the earthen stove before walking over and sitting beside him.
Since her parents departed, she had not heard anyone speak to her gently, until she met this Squirrel Brother. Her body trembled slightly as she sat.
The flying squirrel lit a cigarette, took a swig of rice wine, and spoke decisively: “Amei, I’ve never told you what I’m really doing here in Mang City, have I?”
Amei shook her head; she had never asked.
She vaguely remembered him saying he dealt in jade, that “stone gambling” was just catching on at the border, yet she never saw him return with any stones.
Each time he came to the cabin, he brought a book, ate and slept, slept and ate—not at all like a businessman.
Twice, he arrived wounded, blood staining his clothes. Amei was no fool; Squirrel Brother was definitely not what he claimed, and certainly a dangerous man.
Thinking of this, fear crept into her heart.
The flying squirrel took another drink and said, “I won’t speak of what I used to do here. This time, I’m here for one person.”
Amei dared not meet his gaze; he certainly wasn’t here for business.
“Yannu,” the flying squirrel said in a low voice.
Amei looked up in shock. Yannu was the most terrifying figure in Mang City; villagers never dared utter his name, much less mention his deeds.
Ordinary folk, seeing that line of black cars in town, would steer clear, fearing even dust from their wheels might bring misfortune—or worse, that some unknown slight might incur disaster.
The flying squirrel’s face was calm as he continued, “You needn’t be afraid. He might already be dead.”
Amei cared little for Yannu’s fate, but looked at the flying squirrel with deep worry. “Squirrel Brother, if he really is dead, many people will hunt you down. Why don’t you run?”
The flying squirrel flicked his cigarette butt out the door—over ten meters away, the glowing ember traced a straight line, scattering sparks when it hit the ground.
When the sparks finally faded, he looked at Amei and spoke lightly, “Let me tell you a story—a true one. Two years ago, Yannu had a shipment coming from the border. He sent many men to guard it. A little girl, just ten, was coming down the mountain and passed that road. On her shoulder clung a tiny monkey. The girl skipped along, singing the very song you love.”
Yannu’s subordinate, Ru Aya, feared she’d seen something, and stopped her with a gun: “Little sentry, which village are you from?”
The girl replied, “I’m from Five Forks Village.”
Ru Aya asked, “Who are you?”
The girl, unaware of the gun’s power, saw only a fierce, bearded man; she showed no fear, raised her head, and replied loudly, “I am myself—who else could I be?”
The flying squirrel shivered with icy dread and asked Amei, “Do you know what happened?”
Before Amei could respond, he said suddenly, “Ru Aya raised his hand and shot the girl in the face.”
Amei instinctively covered her mouth. “Shot?”
The flying squirrel nodded. “Shot her right in the face.”
“Killing a person is quicker than killing a dog.” He’d wanted to use the phrase “disregard for human life,” but remembered Amei wouldn’t understand such deep words.
He fell silent, unable to go on; Amei nodded as if she knew, resting her right hand on his arm.
That feminine warmth overwhelmed the flying squirrel. Amei wore cropped pants, her straight calves unintentionally pressed against his leg.
The flying squirrel sighed deeply. “I was under a rubber tree nearby, rifle in hand.” He drained his cup, suppressing his emotions.
Amei asked innocently, “Why didn’t you fire and save that little sentry?”
The flying squirrel watched the flames leap on the stove, but gave no answer.
His small-caliber sniper rifle held only one bullet. Half an hour later, an enemy agent would pass by, and that bullet would strike precisely through the man’s face, making him the first person the flying squirrel had ever killed.
He deliberately avoided the question, replying, “When the girl fell, the little monkey screamed and fled, running deep into the forest. I often wonder, after that, what did the monkey think of us humans? Maybe it learned to kill its own kind too.”
Amei gently rested her head on his knee. In the soft breeze, her breath harmonized with the wind in his ears. “Squirrel Brother, whether you’re good or bad, I only know you’re good to me. I want you to run; I’m afraid you’ll die. As for me—I’m not afraid at all.”
As she spoke, she loosened her white blouse, revealing her graceful figure. “My Mandarin isn’t good. I just want you to take care of yourself, and only be good to me.”
The flying squirrel knew Amei wasn’t afraid of being implicated; she worried for him. He continued, “Too bad, tonight I have to deal with Yannu, no chance to face Ru Aya. One day, I’ll confront him, face to face.”
He took another swig of white liquor, his hand slipping into Amei’s chest. The girl’s breasts were small but firm, radiating heat.
He muttered, half to comfort himself, “I don’t really want to kill Yannu. Maybe I didn’t.”
He felt Amei’s waist stiffen. “Squirrel Brother, aren’t you afraid?”
Her question made him realize he’d never considered it, but he answered quickly, “Of course I’m afraid—afraid to death.”
Amei didn’t ask why he wanted to kill Yannu or what his work was. The flying squirrel had no wish to explain; to Amei, these matters were too complex.
He pondered how to clarify this fear. He withdrew his hand, lit another cigarette.
“Amei, some things take brains, wear you out, dirty, bitter, exhausting—you have to endure so much. The worst is, you often meet people who want to kill you for no reason, or people you must kill.”
He recalled groping through the sewer in darkness yesterday, and said with helpless resignation, “But someone has to do it. I am that person—I’m willing.”
Amei, her blouse open, struck a match to light his water pipe. The flying squirrel, bare-chested, his gaunt body dark under the lamp, squatted, puffing the bamboo pipe, and occasionally raised the cheap local rice wine for a swig. If he stayed silent, even locals would mistake him for a villager.
Amei fretted, “You should run. What if they catch you? Among us minorities, revenge is never forgotten.”
“I still need to see someone. Besides, no one knows this place. You’re my treasure—how could I let them hurt you?” The flying squirrel puffed his pipe, a roguish smile on his face. “Amei, do you think I could stay in these mountains?”
“You’re not really from here—what would you stay for?”
The flying squirrel watched Amei’s worried face, her brows knit in the dim light, like a child worrying for an adult—so pure and adorable.
He couldn’t help but laugh again. “Amei, go to bed and wait for me.”
Watching her quietly climb onto the bamboo bed, guilt and sorrow swept over him. Wasn’t he, too, exploiting this simple, honest village girl?