Dobbin opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It was as if his words, along with his soul, had been sucked away by the miraculous tree.
Of course he was speechless.
Colin Walker had tragically passed away. He had been part of a construction crew my father had organized to repair the bridge when Will and I were running back to camp from the forest, and he had slipped and fallen into the ravine.
His body wasn't brought back to camp until the early hours of the next morning. Mrs. Walker knelt beside the body and wept bitterly. She had hidden her love for her husband deep in a hidden corner of her heart, and she had never been kind to Colin. Now, those feelings erupted like a volcano, turning into tears. Her father, dressed in a black suit, stood solemnly beside her, his eyes closed and his head bowed in mourning. I didn't see Will; I didn't know where he had gone. After the crowd dispersed, I walked around the camp several times but couldn't find any trace of him. How would Colin feel about his death? His attitude towards his father seemed unclear, and I never asked him. I only knew that he was terrified of his mother, and Mrs. Walker, like a cold, imposing knight, stood by him domineeringly. Colin Walker was reduced to a silhouette in the background, an unfit father and an obese alcoholic.
I couldn't imagine Will's grief. In my memory, he was always characterized by impatience and anger. Yet, in the fading light of dusk, he spoke those words to me. He knew I'd gone to my father in early June to discuss the migration route, and he probably learned it by eavesdropping. He could also lurk in the shadows like a ghost, listening intently to eavesdrop on others' information. The thought chilled me to the bone. The image I had held in my mind was gradually disintegrating. The Will I knew was always a simple-minded idiot. If he truly had buried his cunning side deep within that clumsy frame, manipulating a clumsy puppet, could it be that even I had been deceived?
Colin's funeral was scheduled for the weekend, so the construction crew took a day off and then went back to work. My father was at headquarters all day, so I didn't have a chance to use the tape recorder. That night, I hid the tapes in a broken clay pot under my bed and tossed the lantern into the grass on the side of the road as I ran out of the forest.
The construction team rushed to the bridge early in the morning, but my father, uncharacteristically, remained at the camp. There was an unprecedented worry in his brow, and every gesture exuded an ominous air. I'd never seen him look so solemn. I watched him pass by the tent and quietly peeked out. He paused at the skinny wooden sticks that served as a fence, gazing at the dense forest not far away. The hem of his black suit fluttered slightly in the wind, revealing unceremonious wrinkles that would be a real loss in a social setting. His hair was also a bit disheveled. My father, always a man of great attention to his appearance, was completely unfazed. His gaze into the forest reminded me of the old man in the cabin. Their focused gaze, as if seeking to extract something extraordinary from the scene before them, transcending ordinary meaning, is the gesture of a scholar of exceptional creativity. My father was doing this not in his study but on a tattered dirt floor, facing a monotonous, unchanging landscape. I couldn't help but let my imagination wander. A forest is simply the sum of countless similar trees; one more or one less doesn't matter. It doesn't possess the profound meaning and complex variations of the professional works my father so often favored. Their monotonous forms would be difficult for writers to capture. Imbuing such things with meanings that transcend their mere existence is truly a remarkable undertaking. But my father seemed more adept at studying their inherent properties, applying them in various ways, and constructing ingenious models. This was also the focus of his education for me.
There might be danger around the camp, my father said. Will told me he saw strange flashes of light in the forest.
This was my father's answer to my guilty inquiry. I breathed a sigh of relief, but new doubts arose at the same time. When had Will been to the forest again? Where did the strange flashes of light come from? The old man in the cabin should have dissuaded him from his evil thoughts. That was the tide of vain desires, which should have retreated into the dark depths of the sea long ago. Left on the beach were hollowed-out shells, with only humble ants crawling around inside. It wasn't high tide, yet the sea was strangely rising. I wondered what would wash ashore. Was my judgment of Will correct? Even I had no idea.
Was he trying to direct his accusations against the old man and the young girl in the forest? I don't know. But there seemed to be no other reason. I hadn't seen him since we ran out of the forest and said goodbye. Colin Walker had only been dead the day before. I couldn't say Will didn't care at all, still hopelessly lost in his lust. The impression he left on me gradually became unreal, as unreal as the foam in beer. After saying goodbye to my father, I walked around the camp again and hesitated for a long time in front of the Walker's tent. It was more like waiting, waiting for the mice hiding in the cave to come out. But the tent was silent. I returned to my bed, thinking about the clay pot under the bed.
I didn't find a chance to play the tape for the rest of the night. At around 7 or 8 p.m., I washed my face, soaked my feet in hot water, drank a glass of water, and went to bed. I slept surprisingly soundly the entire night, my consciousness immersing in a warm, pure darkness. It wasn't the terrifying cold, lightless world of reality, but rather a pure, black greenhouse that gave me a sense of security. All danger and worry seemed far away, isolated by a solid barrier. Alone, I enjoyed a rare tranquility.
After waking up, I changed my clothes and lay in bed for a few minutes, casually listening to the various sounds outside the tent. I didn't know when my father came home last night. The quilt on the other bed next to mine was neatly folded, as if he had never used it. But I knew he had been back. There were subtle indentations in the sheets that didn't reflect his presence, or perhaps it was a unique smell, similar to the strange feeling that drew me in to eavesdrop.
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