That morning, the caravan heading inland suddenly halted. I, wearing a green canvas raincoat, walked in the middle of the group. It was mid-August, and the heart of the empire was unbearably humid and hot, the sun's intensity intensifying even more than it had been when we first set out in early June. The light rain that had just subsided hadn't lessened the heat; instead, it made our journey even more arduous. Invisible droplets of water drifted in the air, tiny travelers, rising from the ground, imbued with the scent of rain-soaked earth. Why they fell to the ground, I had no idea; simply sensing their anxious urge to return to the sky was enough to unsettle me.
Perhaps it was because I hadn't paid enough attention before, but it wasn't until early June, when my father gathered the townspeople and announced they were heading inland to escape the war, that I realized this forgotten, uncharted frontier town was home to hundreds of diverse residents. Some were poor, some were wealthy, their clothing and hairstyles varied. But just as I'd always assumed, they all bore some resemblance to their ancestors. I was astonished that the descendants of those pioneers had multiplied so much in just forty years, and now they were appearing before my very eyes. As my father spoke on the stage, I hid behind the scenes, observing the throngs of people in the square. I wondered what my place among them was, what role I played. The breathless, focused faces in the audience felt surreal, as if historical figures had come alive.
When I read the account of that journey forty years ago, I often find myself there. I imagine myself leading my people through mountains and rivers, tenaciously surviving through dangerous jungles and swamps, ultimately reaching the borders of the empire and establishing a beautiful town where they could live for generations. This brings me immense satisfaction. Growing up, a large part of my favorite toys were the seemingly endless tomes on my father's bookshelf. Few other things could bring a smile to my face without fear. After age six, I became more fond of historical reading, and that's when my fantasies about historical events began. The men and women of forty years ago, depicted in these yellowed pages, seem more vivid to me than the townspeople before me. History doesn't change. No matter what choices I make in my fantasies, it's my grandfather who actually decides their fate. He led them through difficult times, so I needn't worry. My father's wisdom rivals my grandfather's, and the audience obeys his orders. Yet, I no longer share the joy and satisfaction I once felt when fantasizing about history. What went wrong? It's clearly not my time to take the stage yet. I should just follow my father's lead. But the audience's eyes looked like the kind used in psychological tests. Which photo makes you feel uneasy? They asked with a smile.
It's said that just a few days after I overheard my father's conversation that night, he received word from the garrison at an outpost near the town that the Tubbers were likely to breach the border defenses. The Empire was sending reinforcements, with the first batch of supplies and troops being drawn from neighboring provinces and expected to arrive at the front in a week at most. If we move inland, we might even encounter reinforcements. In short, the situation is more dire than the newspapers report.
My father decisively gathered all residents and announced we were heading inland for refuge. Unlike our previous journey forty years prior, this time we had no plans to settle elsewhere. However, if the front lines truly reached our town, there wouldn't be many buildings left. Everyone packed up their valuables, hoping they would provide them with a secure livelihood once they reached the inland region.
After leaving the town, we drove onto a narrow road through the mountains. Hundreds of people formed a long line, like a multicolored river flowing slowly under the dense shade of trees. I'd looked at the map and knew there was a main road leading inland near the town. Why did we have to squeeze into the narrow mountain roads? Such narrow and steep roads were impassable for cars, and even horses had a hard time. The town didn't lack cars, though not enough for a few hundred people. But they were better than nothing, and we could get fuel from a post my father knew well, as we'd been doing for forty years. Besides, if we followed the main road, we might encounter other refugee groups. I was baffled and protested to my father, filled with resentment. I desperately hoped someone would share my opinion and join me in raising objections. After all, this was my first opportunity to participate in a major decision that affected every resident. Strangely enough, excitement overwhelmed my doubts and resentment. Before leaving, I ran into my father's study. The books on the shelves were packed, and he was drawing on a map with a pencil.
After hearing my question, my father remained silent. His pen-holding hand gradually stopped moving, and his eyes narrowed subtly. Once again, I felt firsthand the immense restraint within him. Dark gray cumulonimbus clouds enveloped the elegant study, tinged with the scent of ink. The sunlight streaming through the window remained unchanged, yet the restless summer air seemed to condense into a thick, viscous film of air, gently yet firmly enveloping me. My father's silence left me at a loss. My excitement, like water from a cracked glass, silently leaked away, the pressure gradually dissipating. Perhaps it shouldn't have come in. Was the pressure of the water the very purpose of the glass? Had the excitement brought on by my questioning been pointlessly shattered, like a bubble in the water, by my reckless action?
My father suddenly gripped the pen again and forcefully drew a cross across the road marked on the map. Like a blocked artery, his rejection was clear. This road is blocked.
You'll understand. My father put his fingers into my hair and stroked them casually. Now is not the time.
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