Chapter 39
I stuffed the egg tarts into my bag and found the activity room for practical teaching. I buried the memories related to Shuangshan Mingyu at the bottom, trying to recall where I'd left off in the last lesson—this lesson was new. I hadn't learned anything about it, and I didn't recognize any of the students. I paused, feeling a bit lost in this completely unfamiliar environment.
But everyone seemed friendly; no one would target a classmate who also came from elsewhere. I pulled out my class schedule, which read "An Overview of Eastern Literary Theory." I hesitated, then decided not to turn the page.
Will there be any practical activities in this kind of class?
People gradually came in, forming groups of three to five. The teachers also arrived. I sat in a less prominent position towards the back.
The teacher stood on the podium tidying up her things: textbooks, perhaps lesson plans, a stylus pen, a water cup. Light refracted through the glass. I stared, lost in thought.
His hand, in its habitual curve, arched the back of his hand to make it easier to grip the object in his palm. The phone screen emitted a faint light when touched, but unless someone was staring at it intently, it would be difficult to see clearly from this distance.
I tried to take up as little space as possible, hoping the teacher wouldn't organize group activities. Although it was a practical class, the initial focus was still on theoretical knowledge.
The plastic box containing the egg tarts was squeezed inside my backpack. Without textbooks, I just wanted to pull out paper and pen. A flurry of blurry, dark eyes all turned to me. I stiffly made as little noise as possible, and only then did they all turn away as if their trial was over.
I was panicked, and I drew thick lines on the paper with my pen.
"The earliest and most famous anthology of Eastern literature is the *Classic of Poetry*. We have some students in our class from its birthplace, right?" The teacher paused his lecture, flipped through the attendance sheet, and said, "Yuan, Yamamoto, Gray, Brontë… Qinghe." He stopped talking, then asked, "What's this Qinghe student's last name?"
I stood up, my schoolbag swaying loudly in the small space, the rustling sound waking the entire class. I swallowed hard and said, "Teacher, I really am from there."
He adjusted his glasses and said in surprise, "What a coincidence! Qinghe, why don't you tell us about this book?"
I wanted to answer, but a wave of dizziness washed over me, my mind went blank, and my vision blurred. The school building, which should have been bathed in bright sunlight, was instead dappled by the sun filtering through a few plants in the middle of the building, all because of a nearby structure. Now those plants were gone too; they were shut out by the curtains. The harsh, glaring white light from the classroom overhead washed over my mouth, leaving it parched. My throat was unable to produce a sound, and I dug my nails into the desk until the pain shot through me.
Why do I feel so much pain?
I couldn't find a reason, or was it that I was unwilling to look? I didn't continue thinking about it. Meeting the teacher's earnest gaze, I answered with what I knew: the Book of Songs, the Three Hundred Poems, Confucius. The Greater and Lesser Odes, songs of the people, sacrifices, elegant music. Repeated verses, beautiful hopes, the person being missed. By the end, my throat was dry, and the teacher looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand. After he finished speaking, I understood it was surprise.
"Hmm...it seems Qinghe did his homework, but his understanding seems a bit off," he said. "Let's all look at it together..."
I sat down, vaguely following the guidance of the stylus in his hand, and saw the multimedia display displaying distorted and distorted images. Whispers brushed against my ears, sharper than knives. This wasn't the world I'd assumed I knew; this wasn't the *Classic of Poetry* I'd come to know. I thought of Charlie Gordon, whom I'd just remembered, and then I remembered that it was Western.
I sat there on pins and needles, and for a moment I even missed Shuangshan Mingyu. Anyone would do, as long as I knew someone. Now, even a little cat I'd only met a few times that morning could put my mind at ease, but there was no one. Looking around, my classmates were either sleeping, listening, or playing. The few who hadn't taken their eyes off me clearly read mockery in their gazes.
My mind was a jumbled mess, devoid of any inspiration; the thoughts that flashed through my mind were even more obscure. I sat there blankly, unaware that everyone had left to gather outside, until the teacher called out to me, "Qinghe, why are you still sitting here? We're going to do a practical activity."
The destination of the field trip was the back hill of the school, my first time there. No, this was my first time in over a month. Ivy, grapevines, roses, and other unfamiliar vines. The shade was dense, the air was cool and still, birds flapped their wings, and perhaps you could even hear the screams and whistling of monkeys.
That's not all. There are wild boars, snakes, hedgehogs, all sorts of insects, squirrels, cattle, and sheep. And other things too. After explaining the precautions and telling everyone not to provoke anything aggressive, the teacher directed everyone to collect plants from the "Classic of Poetry."
It's not watercress, it's ze; it's not plantain, it's medicinal; it's not dragon's breath, it's shenghua. I listened numbly. When it was my turn, the teacher didn't speak immediately. I waited patiently, my hands and feet getting cold. He said, "Go pick 'papaya'."
It's not "You gave me a papaya, I returned a beautiful jade." The papaya is actually a type of wild gourd.
I searched for a long time, until cold sweat began to bead on my forehead. In the warm sunlight, drops of sweat dampened my cheeks, and I felt a warmth mixed with icy cold wash over me, like being attacked by the icy chill of winter in late spring. I couldn't find the papaya; it wasn't the season for papaya blossoms. I hastily picked a few fruits and headed back, hoping to get away with it. The fruits were sweet and fragrant, and I thought they could rival the sweet berries. Tiny insects were attracted to them, swirling around me, their wings fluttering incessantly. Only the air was fresh. I slowed my pace, wanting to sniff the air a few more times to calm myself. My ankles itched from being scratched in the grass, and the cool dew soaked my socks. I looked down to see where the grass blades were, trying to push them aside with my foot. A black snake coiled around my leg, staring back at me. The heavy water transformed into a reptile, and crimson blood flowed unceremoniously. I was soaked. Its black, beady eyes stared at me intently before it darted into the grass before I could come up with a solution. Its ambient coloration wasn't that of plants, but rather as similar as possible to that of soil.
The squirrel hid in the tree, watching me intently. The rustling sounds gave it away. It was still clutching a pine cone in its paws, its round eyes fixed on the vine the monkey had used, seemingly preparing to try and fly over like it. I left behind a few of the freshest-looking pine cones, making my harvest even more pitiful.
I wiggled my ankle; it was still movable. I slowly walked to the meeting point, the sun shining down diligently after more than an hour of searching. Everyone had found their corresponding plant, except me. Dizzy and dazzled, I walked up to the teacher. He patted my shoulder reassuringly; his not-so-robust physique possessed the air of a scholar, and his thin face was full of kindness and encouragement.
"I believe you will succeed next time, Qinghe."
No, there won't be a next time. I thought that after this class, we would never see each other again. This didn't imply anything about death; it just meant that we were from completely different worlds. Teacher, do you know that you came here so suddenly? I looked at his fingers; his fingertips had thick calluses from years of holding a pen. A sudden sadness welled up inside me. I wanted to ask him if he knew the world could be destroyed. I'd been out of sorts all day because I dreamt of death again last night—everyone, any uncontrollable plant, any extraterrestrial being, animals, buildings, land—everything that could self-destruct, self-destructing, or being destroyed by something else. Teacher, you must love teaching very much and be very tolerant, otherwise you wouldn't have given me such a gentle smile despite my terrible homework. Teacher, do you know that one day you might die without having accomplished anything? You might die at the hands of the person you trust most, your lover holding a knife, your child killing her, and your house drowning your child.
Standing before him, I thought a lot, yet time flowed by in a fleeting instant. I shouldn't have said that; it was just a dream, and dreams aren't necessarily real. Why did I trust my intuition so much? I've decided that if I see that self-proclaimed world figure this afternoon, I'll ask it if it can guarantee that this world truly experiences such desperate suffering. If these things are real, does it have any solutions? Many hands make light work; surely someone will listen if we appeal. What about leaders at all levels? What about reporting to the highest authorities? Surely someone will be watching?
My ankles were so cold I could barely stand, and the blood flowed until my skin turned pale and then bluish-white. It wasn't a poisonous snake, so I ignored it. Let it all flow, let it flow until it can never flow again in this lifetime.
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