The growth rings in the ceramic bowl
As the demolition team's pickaxe shattered the third brick, Ayu was squatting in the shade of the old locust tree at the alley entrance, watching Zhong Hua take photos of the bread kiln's final appearance with his phone. Straw from last winter was still embedded in the cracks of the red brick wall, and flour clung to the spiderwebs hanging from the chimney, looking like shards of glass scattered in the morning light. Suddenly, the team leader, Master Wang, straightened up, his Luoyang shovel clanging against something hard.
"Hey, is there some treasure hidden in this kiln?"
When the ceramic bowl was pried out, it was covered with half an inch of kiln ash, and a piece of sintered dough, the color of dried blood, was stuck in the rim. When Ayu took it, her fingertips touched the crescent-shaped notch on the rim of the bowl—she suddenly remembered that three years ago on the rocky beach of Weizhou Island, she had found a conch shell with the same curve. At that time, Zhonghua put the shell to his ear and said he could hear the sound of the tide rolling with broken coral.
"There's something at the bottom of the bowl." Zhong Hua rubbed his fingertips on the bottom of the bowl, and the charred flour layer peeled off in a rustling sound, revealing ring-shaped patterns. The outermost ring of scorch marks was the darkest, like a piece of cowhide licked by fire. Ayu stared at those patterns and suddenly felt they looked familiar—last year at Qinghai Lake, they squatted by the lake at three in the morning waiting for the sunrise. When the first ray of light cleaved through the clouds, the cracks in the thin ice on the lake surface were exactly the same as the direction of these scorch marks. Amidst the cracking sound of ice, frost flowers that had frozen on the zipper of Zhong Hua's down jacket from shooting star trails the night before were still hanging there.
"Look inside." Zhong Hua held the ceramic bowl up to the light. The second ring of patterns was a lighter shade, a light brown, with tiny black particles embedded between the lines. Ayu leaned closer and smelled it. The aroma was a mixture of the scent of burnt wheat and the metallic smell of some minerals, much like the air beneath the sacred waterfall in Yubeng Village—the same smell the first snow that fell on their down jackets when it melted that autumn when they went trekking around the mountain. She remembered Zhong Hua squatting by the frozen lake, poking at the thin ice with his trekking poles, the algae beneath swaying with the waves, like someone had dripped ink into blue glass.
The lightest scorch mark was in the center of the bowl's bottom, yet it formed a clear spoon-shaped pattern. Ayu's heart skipped a beat—it was the shape of the Big Dipper, exactly the same as the position of Alkaid, the star at the end of the dipper's handle, in the star trail photos they took at Namtso Lake. That night, by the lake at an altitude of over 5,000 meters, Zhong Hua held up his camera for a long exposure, while she, wrapped in a down jacket, huddled behind him, listening to the distant sound of Tibetan wild donkeys' hooves breaking the ice. The starry sky seemed so low that it felt as if one could reach out and pluck the handle of the Big Dipper.
"Want to try some?" Zhong Hua suddenly pointed to the rim of the bowl. There were still dark brown char marks there, like a fine layer of icing sugar. Ayu hesitated, then licked it. The moment the charred aroma exploded on her tongue, a strong smoky smell suddenly filled her nostrils—the smell of Weizhou Island's pier at dusk, where fishermen set up iron racks to grill squid. The squid tentacles curled on the charcoal fire, dripping oil sparking orange-red embers, mingling with the sound of the waves, filling the entire mudflat with a salty fragrance. She remembered squatting in front of the grill, watching Zhong Hua haggle with the fishermen, the setting sun casting a long shadow over the pile of clams, freshly pulled from the sea, still bubbling.
"Look at the cracks." Zhong Hua turned the ceramic bowl over. The cracks on the bottom radiated outwards, like a spider web. A Yu followed the lines and suddenly froze—the direction of those cracks was exactly the same as the peeling marks on the landscape mural she had seen last year in Cave 217 of the Mogao Grottoes in Dunhuang. The distant mountains in the mural had been eroded by time, with cracks winding from the foot of the mountains to the clouds. At that time, she was holding a flashlight to examine it closely, and Zhong Hua's shadow was cast on the mural, just enough to cover the deepest part of the cracks, as if someone had added a human figure to the landscape with ink.
Master Wang urged the dismantling of the kiln, the sound of the pickaxe striking the earthenware bowl sending locust leaves rustling down. Ayu suddenly remembered her first time at this alleyway—three years ago, when she had just moved here, Zhong Hua was showing her the way. As they passed the bread kiln, the owner was opening the door, and hot steam carrying the scent of wheat rushed out, blowing her stray hairs across her forehead. Zhong Hua had pointed to the chimney on the kiln roof and said, "Look, doesn't it look like the prayer flags of Qinghai Lake?" At that time, they hadn't been to Qinghai Lake; they had only seen that blue lake on a map.
"This bowl... seems to be engraved according to our travels." Zhong Hua's voice trembled slightly as his fingertips traced the scorch marks of the Big Dipper. "The outermost circle is Qinghai Lake, then Yubeng Village, and the center is Namtso Lake... but we only went to these places in the last two years."
Ayu didn't speak, but simply pressed the ceramic bowl against her palm. The bowl still carried the residual warmth of the kiln bricks, like a stone that had been sun-dried for a long time. She suddenly remembered her mother's dowry wooden chest, the bottom of which was also engraved with circular patterns. Her mother said it was passed down from her great-grandmother, each ring representing a generation's story. But what about this ceramic bowl? Who embedded it in the brick wall of the bread kiln, letting the scorched flour record their future journey?
The demolition team began dismantling the chimney on the kiln roof. Amidst the sound of falling bricks, Ayu heard Zhong Hua suddenly say, "Do you remember that day in Dunhuang, the guide in front of the murals said that some of the cracks in the murals would grow on their own, like something alive?" He pointed to the cracks on the bottom of the bowl, "These lines seem to be a little deeper than before."
Ayu leaned closer to look, and sure enough, the originally fine cracks seemed to have extended, forming a more complex network at the bottom of the bowl. She suddenly thought of the volcanic rocks of Weizhou Island, those black stones riddled with pores; the tour guide said that each stone held the traces of lava flows from ten thousand years ago. And what about the scorch marks and growth rings in this ceramic bowl—did they also hold the light, sounds, and smells of their journey?
"Take the bowl with you," Ayu suddenly said. Zhong Hua nodded, took out a waterproof bag from his backpack, and carefully wrapped the ceramic bowl. The moment the bag was zipped up, Ayu seemed to hear a faint "click" sound, like an ice lake cracking or a mural peeling off.
As they left the alleyway, the old bread kiln was half-collapsed, revealing half a black ceramic bowl handle amidst the pile of red bricks—it turned out the bowl had a handle, the rusty wire wrapped around it bearing a shape strikingly similar to the Tibetan antelope horn they had found by Namtso Lake. Looking back, Ayu saw sunlight shining on the brick pile, the smell of burnt flour mingling with the rising dust, suddenly reminding her of Yubeng Village, when they had climbed to the glacial lake pass, the first snow falling on their backpacks, and the smell as it melted—a similar scent, a blend of the chill of the distant glacier and the decaying aroma of the meadow beneath their feet.
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