Soul Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page A

nature. I ask him if he can get me one so that I can carry it on me. He laughs and says these are what hunters tuck into their shirts to ward off evil spirits, they wouldn’t be of any use to someone like me.
    “Is there an old hunter who knows about this sort of magic and can take me hunting with him?” I ask.
    “Grandpa Stone would be the best,” he says after thinking about it.
    “How can I find him?” I ask right away.
    “He’s in Grandpa Stone’s Hut.”
    “Where’s this Grandpa Stone’s Hut?”
    “Go another twenty li on to Silver Mine Gully then follow the creek right up to the end. There you’ll find a stone hut.”
    “Is that the name of the place or do you mean the hut of Grandpa Stone?”
    He says it’s the name of the place, that there’s in fact a stone hut, and that Grandpa Stone lives there.
    “Can you take me to him?” I ask.
    “He’s dead. He lay down on his bed and died in his sleep. He was too old, he lived to well over ninety, some even say well over a hundred. In any case, nobody’s sure about his age.”
    “Are any of his descendants still alive?”
    “In my grandfather’s generation and for as long as I can remember, he was always on his own.”
    “Without a wife?”
    “He lived on his own in Silver Mine Gully. He lived high up the gully, in the solitary hut, alone. Oh, and that rifle of his is still hanging on the wall of the hut.”
    I ask him what he’s trying to tell me.
    He says Grandpa Stone was a great hunter, a hunter who was an expert in the magical arts. There are no hunters like that these days. Everyone knows that his rifle is hanging in the hut, that it never misses its target, but nobody dares to go and take it.
    “Why?” I’m even more puzzled.
    “The route into Silver Mine Gully is cut.”
    “There’s no way through?”
    “Not anymore. Earlier on people used to mine silver there, a firm from Chengdu hired a team of workers and they began mining. Later on, after the mine was looted, everyone just left, and the plank roads they had laid either broke up or rotted.”
    “When did all this happen?”
    “When my grandfather was still alive, more than fifty years ago.”
    That would be about right, after all he’s already retired and has become history, real history.
    “So since then nobody’s ever gone there?” I become even more intrigued.
    “Hard to say, anyway it’s hard to get there.”
    “And the hut has rotted?”
    “Stone collapses, how can it rot?”
    “I was talking about the ridgepole.”
    “Oh, quite right.”
    He doesn’t want to take me there, nor does he want to find a hunter for me, so that’s why he’s leading me on like this, I think.
    “Then how do you know the rifle’s still hanging on the wall?” I ask, regardless.
    “That’s what everyone says, someone must’ve seen it. They all say that Grandpa Stone is incredible, his corpse hasn’t rotted and wild animals don’t dare to go near. He just lies there all stiff and emaciated, and his rifle is hanging there on the wall.”
    “Impossible,” I declare. “With the high humidity up here in the mountain, the corpse would have rotted and the rifle would have turned into a pile of rust.”
    “I don’t know. Anyway, people have been saying this for years.” He refuses to give in and sticks to his story. The light of the fire dances in his eyes and I seem to detect a cunning streak in them.
    “And you’ve never seen him?” I won’t let him off.
    “People who have seen him say that he seems to be asleep, that he’s emaciated, and that the rifle is hanging there on the wall above his head,” he says, unruffled. “He knew blackmagic. It’s not just that people don’t dare go there to steal his rifle, even animals don’t dare to go near.”
    The hunter is already myth. To talk about a mixture of history and legend is how folk stories are born. Reality exists only through experience, and it must be personal experience. However, once related, even personal