蔡测海《火塘》

My forebears hailed from the Bayan Har Mountains or the East China Sea. The Xilan Kapu tapestry illustrates two migration paths. One journey heads west to east, descending from the heavens, while the other travels east to west, ascending from the lowlands.

My ancestors arrived, converging from opposite directions—a man and a woman. The man brought seeds, and the woman carried fire. They met, created a home, and settled in a small place that could scarcely be smaller. My hometown nestles between mountains and the sea. Originally a verdant rocky mountain emerging from the seabed, it was once the domain of aquatic creatures.

That singer, serenading under the rising sun, makes me yearn to return home. In my hometown, a young man will always be in the moonlit watermelon field, accompanied by a badger and a steel fork.

The sunlight in my hometown is tinged with the scent of wild tea. The tender green leaves bear the flavour of the sun. People and stones bathe in the river, with rocks shedding moss and people washing away sweat. Women cleanse clothes, and fish shed their scales. A bluebird perches on a stone in the water while another bluebird mates in flight for seconds, like a flash of lightning. Rockflower fish and water snakes mate in the water, but the venomous fish eggs hatch fish, not snakes. In the rain, birds' wings become drenched, ants float on the water, and people run. After the rain, rainbows dance in the mist. The sky clears to a brilliant blue, and flocks of migratory birds blanket the sky, flying from one destination to another. The birds' home lies at both ends of their journey. The essence of their home is in the act of flying itself. A lost bird, surveying its surroundings as it flies, heads towards a new direction.

In those moments, I would gaze at the sapphire sky and remark, "That bird is lost." "It flew away," someone would correct.

The sky has no forks, no crossroads, no signposts. The stray bird, soaring over cities and towns, looks down from its hometown sky to see three households in a village: a tile-roofed house, a cedar bark house, and a thatched cottage—each house shelters three fireplaces and shrines dedicated to household gods and our family names. The three fireplaces share the same flame.

The fire, carried by our ancestors from distant lands, has weathered wind and rain without ever extinguishing. We keep a bowl of fire ashes, bury charcoal, and replenish it as needed. Along the journey, kind charcoal sellers offer us pieces of charcoal. Friends, the fire is a companion.

Once the fireplace is kindled, it shall never dim.

To construct a wooden house, we erect the rafters, connect timbers, raise the beams, nail the rafters, and cover the roof. But it is merely a shell until the fireplace is enclosed. The ground floor features a three-foot square window framed with four stones, filled with yellow mud, topped with a layer of fire ashes, and a tripod set up for burning wood. When the fire is lit, the house transforms into a home. The room with the fireplace is called the hearth room, housing a shrine for household gods. The kitchen is built separately, distant from the family, for the kitchen god is easily offended. The family gathers close to the fireplace, for the fire is a part of the family.

In my memory, the fire in the hearth is like my grandfather, while the fire in the kitchen is like my grandfather-in-law. Both are dear to me, but I must tread carefully and show particular respect to my grandfather-in-law; his temper could flare, and he would leave in anger. Like fire, they both bring warmth and transform raw ingredients into meals. My grandfather-in-law and grandfather are both essential; without either, my life and the essence of my hometown would be incomplete. My hometown values men more than women, just as it values the hearth and the kitchen. The hearth serves for daily meals, but the kitchen comes alive with grand dishes for guests or special occasions. During such times, the family feels more significant. My grandfather-in-law would hold a large earthenware bowl and drink corn liquor. He let me take a sip, and it was bitter and spicy, burning my throat. Then it felt like I was on a boat, the ground swaying and the house and trees tumbling. My grandfather would say to my grandfather-in-law, "The child will die of drunkenness." Their arguments over me were their appetiser, growing livelier with each drink.

The kitchen remained idle primarily, with cold ashes and no fire. We used it rarely—only for making tofu, distilling liquor, slaughtering pigs for the New Year, boiling large pots of water, preparing grand meals for guests, or handling significant matters. These events occurred only a few times a year.

Only the hearth kept a constant fire. The ember was an inheritance from our ancestors and must not be extinguished. My grandfather taught me how to preserve the ember, reciting a rhyme as if he were teaching me math formulas or Tang poems: "Hot ashes smother cold ashes, and in the morning, they glow red." Before bed, we would smother the fire at night by covering the burning hardwood with hot and cold ashes. We would uncover the ashes in the morning to rekindle the fire and cook.

Those who couldn't smother the fire were considered destroyers of the family. Smothering the fire was akin to tending a family tree; a thriving fire symbolized a flourishing family. On the eve of the Lunar New Year, we would burn a large log of wood, likening it to a fat pig or a giant ox. The fire would burn all night without going out. The whole family gathered around the hearth, guarding it, ushering in the New Year, and hoping for a miracle that would bring us a golden axe, good weather, and good fortune.

Not every New Year's Eve was snowy. It snowed heavily on New Year's Eve, with large clumps of snow falling. The sky seemed to rise three feet, and the ground thickened three feet.

There's a saying that the sky would drop three days of cotton, followed by three days of tung oil, and then three days of fire. Why?

I've always wanted to rewrite this story. The good stories, I imagine, are already embedded in people's wishes. The north gets white noodles when it snows, and the south gets rice.

The big yellow dog named Arrow sniffed the scent of wild animals in the snow and chased them into the forest. The snow on the trees fell in showers, and Arrow barked twice, his voice echoing through the mountains. There was blood on the snow. Even in the woods behind, I could hear Arrow's barking, and snow fell from the trees in showers.

Smoke blackened a wooden house, coating it with black enamel layers known as soot paint. The wooden house remained intact for hundreds of years. My grandfather believed that a house's longevity came from its human presence. A lively atmosphere made the house sturdy. A house, exposed to wind, rain, and sun, became more resilient over time as people and the house breathed together.

The wooden house was blackened by smoke and fire, covered in a dark glaze left by the flames. Despite this, it stood firm for centuries. Grandfather believed the house's resilience came from the human touch it received. He thought that a lively atmosphere fortified the house. The exposure to wind, rain, and sunlight only made it sturdier over time, as the house seemed to breathe alongside its inhabitants.

Grandfather often smoked tobacco by the fireplace, occasionally spitting into the fire, claiming the fire was a cleaner. We would roast sweet potatoes and rice cakes there. He always said, "Fire purifies." When asked why eating five grains brought illnesses, he shared a story: "Big Buddha," someone who ate everything, even mice and insects, never got sick because his consumption of dirty things made him nearly immortal. When I questioned why our beautiful and clean cousin never got ill, Grandfather said, "She's too smart and beautiful to fall ill."

The kitchen was immaculate, kept pristine by the kitchen god's obsession with cleanliness. New brides weren’t allowed to enter for three years. There were no mice, cockroaches, or mosquitoes. Yet, my cousin, a new bride, made a pot of sweet wine in the kitchen, which turned out delicious. Her beauty and intelligence seemed to appease the kitchen god. Grandfather recounted how, during his youth, he had to hide from bandits. He drove the cow into the mountains, extinguished the fireplace, and hid in a cave with fire. Finding a cold, empty house, the bandits left without taking anything. Grandfather also invented a popular fire-extinguishing tool made of water gallstone agate.

Our village, comprising three households, was uniquely situated at the intersection of Hunan, Hubei, and Sichuan provinces. Later, the Sichuan household became part of Chongqing. Though minor, the village was significant, with directives from above seamlessly turning into local customs. When higher officials inspected, they found everything in order. The three households, each with its fireplace, used resources from three provinces and one municipality to cook similar meals. Sharing the same surname and ancestors, they carried identities across these regions, continuing to live where their forebears had settled.

To read the complete text, please see the October 2023 issue of National Literature in Chinese.