杨云芳《祖先居住的地方》

Returning to the long-lost village of Qinghua was occasioned by the passing of our grandmother, the matriarch we affectionately called "Big Mama." My mother insisted that all her siblings, raised under Big Mama's care, return for the funeral.

Qinghua lies deep in the mountains, accessible by following a stream upstream to its source, where it becomes the waters of Tuowa. These waters, even downstream, are too narrow for boating, necessitating a ten-mile trek along mountain trails. I recall the narrow path, yet a road has emerged, winding along the mountain contours. In our childhood, it was a lonely journey on foot, but the waters of Tuowa were a constant companion, sometimes near and sometimes hidden behind trees, their murmuring always present. Small wooden bridges occasionally led to the other side, where the scenery mirrored the dense forests and lush mountains we traversed. Unlike the daunting cliffs and deep gorges of vast rivers, these mountains were clothed in thick green, turning red and yellow in late autumn but mostly remaining in shades of green throughout the year. The sky overhead varied from narrow to vast, sometimes obscured by dense foliage. Walking through this landscape often left us sweating under heavy loads, but the verdant expanse of nature provided endless comfort, making us forget the summer heat and the cicadas' chirping. When exhaustion struck, we could rest on a rock, scoop up a handful of mountain spring water, and relish its sweetness and clarity.

Years later, travelling the same path by car felt too fast. Before I could fully take in each familiar plant and tree from my memory, Qinghua was already in sight. The village, nestled in a cradle-like plain surrounded by vast mountains, is home to the Pumi people. The wooden houses, from pillars to walls, beams to rafters, and roofs covered with thin wooden boards called "Gebi," exude a rustic charm. The village, too small to be called a "badi" (a large open area in the mountains), is a slightly flat and open space, yet it possesses a unique grace, like a beautiful short poem—concise yet full of vitality. The waters of Tuowa flowing beside it add a lively touch.

As dusk fell, Big Mama's "Geiyangzi" ceremony began. "Geiyangzi" is the most solemn and essential part of Pumi's funeral rituals. According to legend, two ancient Pumi brothers, returning home through a bamboo forest, experienced the bamboo closing at sunset. The younger brother inside the bamboo was safe, while the older brother outside was eaten by mosquitoes as giant as doves. The younger brother buried his brother's bones with his sword and continued his journey home. However, he always found himself back at the burial site each night. An old shepherd eventually gave him a white sheep, which carried the bones back to their hometown. Hence, when a Pumi person passes away, a white sheep is given to take the deceased back to their ancestral homeland.

When we arrived, it was nightfall. A fire burned in the yard, and mourners warmed their hands by the flames, whispering to each other. As more villagers arrived, they brought bundles of firewood, throwing them on the ground with a dull thud—a symbol of neighbourly love and mutual assistance that has persisted for thousands of years.

Big Mama now lay peacefully in the coffin, resting on two benches placed in front of the house. A quilt covered the coffin, and a bamboo table in front held an earthenware pot filled with grains and burning incense. A string of red beads, a bamboo bow, and a spear for the priest were prepared, along with a small sack of linen containing fried noodles and butter. Various meats, dishes, and drinks for the ritual were also laid out. Amidst the wails of grieving relatives, the priest began the ritual of "Offering the Sheep."

He sang, calling upon the ancestors to welcome back the deceased and guide her on her journey. A sheep, washed clean in a trough with fresh spring water, was led through a purifying fire of burning pine and rhododendron branches. Guided by hemp strings, the sheep was brought to the coffin. The priest hung the string of beads around its neck, holding the bamboo bow and spear as guiding weapons. The mournful sound of the ancient horn, the Gushi, resonated as the priest sang, his disciples harmonising, describing the auspicious time for her departure and inviting her to enjoy the offerings prepared by her loved ones. The priest announced that a white sheep had been ready to guide her home.

The sheep was slaughtered, and its heart was placed on the bamboo table. The liver tip, broken bones, and flesh from thirteen joints were mixed with the heart and put in a small sack on the table. The priest assured the deceased that she had everything needed for her journey, including jewellery, provisions, and sustenance, and she could rest assured. He then guided her on her journey, tracing the reverse of the Pumi people's historical migration route: from Lanping County through Laojun Mountain to Lijiang Basin, across the Jinsha River, to Muli and Yanyuan in Sichuan, to a "Great Desert" on the northern Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, pointing to a "Silk Road," crossing a "lake," and finally arriving at the ancestral homeland.

As the priest recited these words with each visitor who came to offer condolences, the ritual continued until dawn.

We had to leave soon after Grandmother's funeral due to our tight schedule. Yet, the departure was prolonged by the villagers' warm gestures. Hearing of our departure, they filled our car with hams, local chickens, honey, fruits, dried fruits, and mountain produce. Of course, the sweet brew and freshly made yoghurt couldn't be missed. Unable to refuse, we accepted these gifts and the villagers' heartfelt parting words, our hearts warmed by their genuine affection. It was nearly sunset when we finally set off.

The villagers' simple smiles, wooden houses, bamboo fences, children tending sheep, and the sounds of chickens and dogs gradually faded from view. Our car, laden with gifts, struggled up the slopes.

The mountains remained verdant, the wooden houses stood stubbornly, the wooden wheels in the watermill still turned, and the elderly weaver continued to rock her spinning wheel. In the evening, young men and women would dance heartily to the tune of Guozhuang. My eldest brother, inspired, began playing a four-stringed lute he had brought for his son in high school. My second brother joined in with a bamboo mouth harp, and we clapped our hands to the rhythm of the Sheep Skin Dance, filling the car with lively chatter.

As we neared the pass, we stopped the car and looked back at the village that had captured our hearts. The sun was setting, and smoke billowed from the chimneys of every household. A massive flock of birds gathered, resting momentarily on the trees before swooping away. We couldn't hear their words but marvelled at their overwhelming presence. They circled the trees as if hesitant, yet ultimately settled peacefully on the giant walnut tree behind Grandmother's former residence and by the time they finally decided, night had fallen.

We seemed transfixed by the sight. It was a picture of sheer beauty, akin to a page from Laozi's book. The village nestled in the embrace of mountains was so serene, with wooden houses casually built along the mountainside, so natural that they seemed to have existed since ancient times. Sheep herds, cooking smoke, rustic wooden houses, and every blade of grass and tree in the mountains were arranged by nature. This was a Pumi village, with crisscrossing paths, chickens and dogs barking, a place of natural beauty, simplicity, and harmony with nature. The people seemed to be a part of the mountains. The Pumi people came from the far northwest, and after such a long journey and vast migration, their ancient songs still resonated, and some still looked back at their homeland as they travelled. No matter how far they went, they remained a part of nature. Grandmother, you should have returned to your ancestors' homeland by now. I imagine it is equally serene and peaceful, allowing the returning child to rest peacefully.