Mute Words

“Do you want all this?” I looked around and roughly counted at least twenty flower pots in the yard.

“I can’t change them all by myself, so I’ll start with half of them today and finish the rest tomorrow.” Although the Oracle costume looked good, it wasn’t very convenient for manual labor. Mo Chuan said as he put the plastic flower pot aside, he skillfully took off the sleeves of both arms and tied them around his waist, revealing the narrow-sleeved white shirt underneath.

He is a natural clotheshorse with broad shoulders. With the sleeves tucked in at his waist, he looks even slimmer and taller than the TV stars.

“Why don’t I help you?” I touch my nose and offer to help.

Mo Chuan pauses and looks down, a little hesitant: “This is embarrassing.

I have already started to take off my jacket: “I have nothing to do anyway, I have plenty of time.

I said I would help, but I didn’t really do much. I just put some ceramic beads in the plastic bowl, sprinkled some fertilizer on top, and handed it to Mo Chuan.

The mechanical operation allowed my brain to focus on other things, like… they say orchids are hard to take care of, but that’s not necessarily true, it depends on who’s doing the taking care of.

In the past, Mo Chuan used to grow a lot of flowers and plants on the balcony of the dormitory. After he left, Yan Chuwen tried to take over, but he couldn’t get the hang of it and instead became a plant killer. By the time he left for his senior year, the plants were either dead or disabled, except for one pot of orchids that still showed some signs of life.

I felt sorry for it, so I took it and gave it to my grandmother. Under the old lady’s careful care, the orchid blossomed year after year, full of vitality and growing bigger and bigger.

Unfortunately, the good times didn’t last long. A few years later, the old lady passed away, and the flower was once again abandoned.

In a short period of time, the orchid changed hands several times. I felt some sympathy for it, so I kept it in my studio. But I don’t know if something was missing in its care, because it never bloomed again.

Perhaps, just as “a man will die for a true friend, and a woman will adorn herself for one who pleases her,” flowers only bloom for the right person. And I am not the one it is waiting for.

“Have you left this place in recent years?” I suddenly asked as I handed the last flower pot to Mo Chuan.

Mo Chuan’s fingers loosely gripped the edge of the pot and he asked in return, “Where would I go?”

“Outside. Have you been outside for the past seven years? Don’t you want to see what has changed in the world?” Watching the change in his expression, I asked further, “Don’t you want to see different scenery, eat different food, have sex with the person you love, and come and go freely?

This rude and impertinent interrogation was extremely impolite. I thought he would be angry, but he just looked at me and asked again, “What if I want to?”

I was a little mean, hoping to hurt Mo Chuan, but in the end I was stunned by his question.

With a slight effort, he took the flower pot from my hands and looked at the cypress tree in front of the wood shed door in the backyard. He said, “This tree may also want to see the outside world, but its roots are deeply rooted here and have been closely connected to this place for a long time, so how can it still leave?

He carefully arranged the fleshy roots of the orchid in the pot, and then filled in the surrounding area with new clay. There was not a hint of resentment in his expression.

“So what if you want to?” His tone was calm and indifferent, without the slightest ripple, like a frozen lake in winter.

I suddenly understood.

“So what if you want to” was not a rhetorical question directed at me, it was the answer.

I opened my mouth, thinking I should say something, give some feasible and effective advice. But after going through all the “ways out” in my head, I realized that, as Mo Chuan said, what can you do if you think about it?

His identity predestined him not to have the freedom of choice to come and go.

With a puckered lip, I didn’t pursue the subject further, and our conversation ended there.

After the basin was emptied, there was no reason to stay, so I brushed the dust off my hands, got dressed, and was ready to leave.

“Wait,” Mo Chuan called to me, asking me to wait here for a moment.

He turned and went into the kitchen and soon came out with a dustpan. Inside were a few plump, hanging persimmons, their reddish-orange skin covered with a thin layer of frost, looking exceptionally attractive.

“A thank-you gift,” he said curtly.

“Okay.” I didn’t beat around the bush and went to take it, but the dustpan suddenly moved away.

A snow-white handkerchief was handed to me, and it was held to my plaster-covered fingers as if to say something.

“Very thoughtful,” I said with a wry smile, pinching the end of the handkerchief before pulling it angrily, squeezing it into a ball in my palm, and rubbing it a few times before quickly handing it back to Muchuan.

Muchuan stared at the ball of “cauliflower”, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, but he finally took it back.

The soft touch of the cotton fabric gently brushed over my fingers, and I curled up my fingers, resisting the urge to laugh.

The next moment, the basket of persimmons was brought to me again, and this time I was finally able to take it.

“I’m leaving,” I said casually as I walked out, and after walking down a dozen meters in one breath, I looked back to find Mo Chuan standing at the end of the long staircase, actually seeing me to the door.

His manners are so thorough, no matter who it is.

I waved my hand for him to go back. He didn’t move, still standing there with his eyes downcast.

Most people here have darker skin tones, and even Yan Chuwen has obviously darkened considerably over the years, but whether it was seven years ago or seven years later, Mo Chuan’s skin tone always appeared cold and white, as if it could never be warmed no matter how much sun it was exposed to.

As he stood in front of the ancient temple, his entire body seemed to merge with the white wall behind him.

No. I pulled my eyes away and continued on my way down.

Perhaps… they had long since become one.

Back at the Research Institute, I had just put down the dustpan when Yan Chuwen came down the stairs.

“Where did you get these persimmons?” He picked one up and put it in his mouth.

“Mo Chuan gave them to me.”

Yan Chuwen was full of surprise: “You went to Deer King Temple?”

“Mm.” I told him about the courier delivery, leaving out the part about helping to plant flowers.

I grabbed the top of the persimmon and lifted it up, then took a bite, the sweet taste spreading through my mouth in an instant.

“The people in Muchuan are quite nice, aren’t they?” Yan Chuwen quickly finished one and wanted to take a second, but I was quick enough to stop him.

He covered the slightly reddened back of his hand and shouted in shock, “Why did you hit me?

I didn’t know why myself, and after a long pause I said, “Dinner is almost ready. If you eat so many persimmons, will you be able to eat rice? After saying that, I picked up the whole dustpan and went upstairs.

Halfway up the stairs, I met Guo Shu, who was going downstairs to eat. She was about to say hello when I handed her the dustpan and let her choose one of the remaining four.

“?”

She carefully picked one, thanked me, and went downstairs without knowing why.

I could vaguely hear her say to Yan Chuwen downstairs, “Brother, is the persimmon on the hook very expensive in Baiyin? Why is it so…”

On the ninth day of my stay in Cuoyan Song, the Cenglu Tribe’s Winter Harvest Festival arrived.

I was awakened by the loud sound of firecrackers outside just before 7 a.m. Resisting the urge to curse, I pushed open the window, only to see the long staircase filled with people.

“Are you awake?” At that moment, Yan Chuwen happened to be knocking on the door.

I scratched my unkempt hair and ran to open the door.

Yan Chuwen and Guo Shu planned to go to the temple to get some congee and soak up the festive atmosphere. They asked if I would like to go with them.

Despite my young age, I like to join in the fun.

“No,” I said and closed the door.

Yesterday I spent the whole night going back and forth revising my illustrations, and in the end I realized that I had just drawn a bunch of junk. Now I don’t want to do anything, I just want to sleep.

Yan Chuwen, who is acting like a nagging mother outside, said to me, “If you’re hungry, help yourself to something in the fridge. The aunt who’s cooking for us today also went to the temple to help.

I rummaged through my suitcase and took out some ear plugs. I put them in and went back to sleep. After ten minutes of trying, I jumped out of bed in frustration.

The interrupted drowsiness was like a rabbit in the field that would escape without a trace if you weren’t careful.

Tiredly wiping my face, I rushed to the bathroom and took a shower. When I came out, I felt refreshed.

The dense crowd downstairs seemed to have thinned a bit, but when I looked over, it was still a dark mass. I had no idea where Yan Chuwen and the others were in the line.

The Winter Harvest Festival is the Cenglu Tribe’s second biggest festival after the Birthday of the Deer King. On that day, the tribe will be busy from morning to night preparing vegetarian porridge for the tribe members who have come to Pengge from all over. If you drink the porridge, you will be healthy and free from disease for the next year.

Of course, there is no way in the world that a bowl of porridge can cure an illness, but when people are down on their luck, they are always willing to believe in something good, even if it seems ridiculous.

Why not give it a try? It costs nothing to try, and it might really change your luck. Maybe… drinking it will inspire you?

My mind was filled with such thoughts, and when I came to my senses, I was already surrounded by a crowd and had become part of the procession.

Me: “…”

I wanted to turn around and push my way out, but I couldn’t. Fortunately, although there were a lot of people, there was no disorder. Everyone walked slowly and orderly, without pushing or shoving.

There were also many people in the queue who were dressed like me, the Xia people. I asked one of the families and learned that most of them were from Shannan, but they were either believers or had just come to enjoy the festive atmosphere.

“My child will take the college entrance exam next year. I heard that this Ren Bingjia was a top student from an early age, scoring over 600 points. We want to come and soak up some of that good fortune.” After saying this, the woman smiled and stroked the back of her son’s head.

The boy had a few pimples on his face, and he looked a little impatient, avoiding his mother’s hand: “Ouch, don’t mess up my hair.

Hearing this, the boy’s father also got involved: “What’s wrong with stroking you? I’ll give you a cooler haircut.”

“You don’t understand, this is the trend.”

“It’s trendy when you can’t even see out of your eyes…”

As I watched this family laugh and joke, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness.

Just so that their child could share in the happiness of the scholars, the parents drove hundreds of kilometers to bring him here to participate in the Winter Harvest Festival.

The boy may never realize in his life how enviable his good fortune is.

The line moved slowly, and after half an hour in line, it was my turn.

At the first long table, the man across from me handed me a plastic bowl. Holding the plastic bowl, I went to the second Am, who skillfully ladled congee into my bowl from a huge stainless steel deep bucket. The third am handed me a palm-sized piece of bread.

Holding the bowl in one hand and the piece of bread in the other, I finally arrived at the Mo Chuan.

Between us was a small wooden table with an old bronze basin containing a sprig of fresh cypress in clean water.

At first he didn’t notice me, and after quickly tapping the water with the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of his right hand, he was about to extend his hand to bless me. But as soon as he saw my face, he froze, and the smile on his lips stayed there.

“Just freeloading a breakfast,” I said, smiling at him and biting into a large piece of the cake in my hand.

He lowered his eyes and said nothing, as he had done a million times to other believers. He brought his two fingers together and touched them to my forehead, then released them. The pad of his thumb, cold and damp, brushed my lips.

My chewing stopped and so did my breathing. The sweet taste spread from my lips to my mouth. I thought that was it, but Mo Chuan’s hand didn’t let go and remained pressed against the tip of my lips.

It’s not over yet?

I felt a little strange when the person sitting across from me suddenly spoke in a low voice, the first words he had said since we met that day.

“Don’t eat here.”

His fingertips pressed down slightly, as if to warn me.

Me: “…”

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I quickly swallowed what was in my mouth: “…okay.”

His hand was still pressing when he said the first two words, but by the time he said the last, he had already pulled it away, as if disgusted.

In the cold winter, his fingers had been immersed in water all the time, and his fingertips were red from the cold.

“La Jieluo.” Without opening his eyes, he seemed unable to bear the cold and clenched his fingers.

La Jieluo, according to my limited knowledge of Cenglu, this should mean “God is victorious.” In keeping with today’s holiday theme, it may be the same as the Christian “Amen,” which expresses praise to the gods.

I looked at his solemn and holy face and repeated after him, “La Jieluo.”