Watching the flock of sheep in front of him, Stone's thoughts drifted back to the Starfall Pavilion. He knew that the old blind man wanted him to go to the pavilion. The old man didn't want to be a burden to anyone, but who wouldn't want to venture out into the wider world to make a name for themselves? Besides, Stone couldn't forget how the people of his original society had banded together to resist the meteor from the sky. Perhaps it was fate that fighting meteors was his inescapable destiny.
But with the advanced technology, man still failed, now in the ancient time, with backward weapons,how to defend the Earth?
But how could he leave the old blind man who had saved his life? He felt really uneasy about leaving him behind. However, yesterday was also the last day of recruiting at the Starfall Pavilion, which put an end to his thoughts.
Looking towards the distant village, where smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, Stone decided, "Let's go back for dinner," when he saw that the sheep had grazed and drunk their fill. The young man got up, dusted off his trousers and began to drive the sheep home.
The sunset was blood-red, with golden clouds spreading across the sky, staining the clouds a crimson like the rouge of palace maids on their first application of make-up. The land beneath this crimson sky seemed like a palette of spilled paint, vibrant and colourful. A light breeze carried the sweet scent of distant fields.
As Stone herded the sheep towards the village, a group of villagers approached, running towards him and shouting as they moved.
"Have you heard? There's an important person in the village recruiting disciples."
"Yes, yes, the daughter of the teahouse owner has been accepted."
Someone saw Stone and called out to him, "Stone, there are people from the capital here, aren't you going to try your luck?"
"I'm not going, I've got to get back to cooking," Stone replied without looking back, continuing to tend the sheep.
As the crowd moved away, Stone suddenly felt like singing.
"Strolling along the country roads, with the homeward-bound flock as my companion..."
His voice grew louder; he loved these old songs. In his day, his taste for such antiquities often made him the butt of friendly jokes.
The rope belt around his waist swayed like a blue butterfly in the wind. His straw shoes rubbed against the ground, making a cheerful sound, and the jade pendant on his chest gave off a soft glow. Long hours of farm work and the high levels of oxygen in his blood infused his steps with power, as if ready to burst at any moment with immense energy.
Soon, a dilapidated farmhouse appeared before him, standing lonely in a corner of the fields, silently enduring the assaults of wind and rain. A few roof tiles were missing, exposing the mottled wooden beams beneath, like wrinkles on an old man's face. The thin window paper on the shattered windows fluttered with every breeze, rustling softly. The front door barely hung on its hinges, leaning as if it might fall at any moment. Nearby, a pile of dry straw lay scattered in an old stove, the occasional chirping of insects breaking the silence around it. The small garden in front of the house was planted with radishes and cabbages, but the well next to it had dried up, and a bucket was leaning against it, next to a large rusty bell, flattened but still able to hold water.
"Cough, cough, cough, why are you back so early today?" An elderly voice came from inside the house as a figure appeared, parting the curtain. The old man was over fifty, but his weathered face made him look much older. His black hair, streaked with white, contrasted with his clouded, blind eyes that reflected no light, only deep melancholy and the wear and tear of years.
His robe was clearly ancient, fine fabric weathered by time to the point of tattering, flapping gently in the breeze, each tear telling a story of the past. His hands, bony and veined, seemed to have struggled with life for countless years, gripping a black walking stick. Though unsteady on his feet, his posture remained erect, his arched back bearing the weight of the world.
"The sheep are fed and it's getting dark," Stone said as he unloaded some firewood he'd picked up along the way under the eaves, then herded the sheep into the pen.
"That's good, otherwise coming back late would waste more lamp oil."
Having finished his chores, Stone led the old man back into the house, where the dim light filtered through the broken windows and danced on the cracked walls. On the centre table stood a lone oil lamp with an almost spent wick. An open cupboard was cluttered with old utensils and papers. In the corner, an earthen kang was covered with an old quilt, well worn with patches. Despite its age, the stove was clean, the air heavy with a mixture of mould and the smell of burning wood. In the corner stood a large, well-worn basket filled with bamboo strips for weaving, with a few nearly finished baskets next to it.
Stone moved quickly to the stove, piled the wood in and lit it. The flames licked up, slowly illuminating the surrounding darkness. The warm glow illuminated his youthful face, shadowed with worry. As the pot steamed, the aroma of cooking filled the air. Stone carefully removed the cooked cornbread from the pot, placed it in a bowl and handed it to the old man.
"Be careful, it's hot." They ate in silence for a while before Stone broke the silence, "I met Mrs Du out herding today."
The oil lamp flickered slightly. The old man replied indifferently, "Ah, Mrs Du, she came to see me too. She's had a hard life, a widow, but fortunately her daughter Nancy is obedient and helps her out. She mentioned that a group of strangers came to town a few days ago; have you heard about it? It was quite an event, many people came to see it.
Stone replied nonchalantly, "I don't know, and I didn't want to join the crowd. But a flash of regret flashed through his eyes, unseen by the blind old man.
"Mrs Du mentioned that they were from the Starfall Pavilion, looking for new recruits."
Stone's hand, holding the cornbread, froze as if struck by a profound realisation. The old man, blind eyes staring blankly, seemed to pick up on every nuance of Stone's thoughts.
"What's that got to do with us? Oh, and tomorrow I need to borrow some wooden planks from Uncle Wang next door to fix the window. It's getting colder as autumn approaches."
"Cough, cough, cough," the old man began to cough, and Stone quickly handed him some water.
"Stone, I know it's me," the old man started, but Stone cut him off.
"Let's eat first, it's getting cold."
The old man said nothing more and ate his cornbread quietly. The meal ended in silence.
Afterwards, the old man groped to the side and grabbed a strip of bamboo to continue weaving his basket.
Stone took paper and ink from the cupboard and began to practise his calligraphy by the light of the lamp. Although he could speak the language, he hadn't yet mastered the written script of this world. Fortunately, the old man was able to teach him. When Stone first saw the old man write, he was amazed.
The blind man was transformed as he wrote. Holding a freshly inked brush, the veins in his wrist pulsed slightly. His breathing became rapid, but his hand movements were steady. The brush glided across the paper, the ink flowed like water, each character seemed to come alive. As the brush danced, characters appeared, each one filled with life, like black jade birds fluttering on the page. They connected fluidly, each character with its own posture, yet blending harmoniously with the others. Some characters soared like dragons, majestic and commanding; others floated like flying phoenixes, graceful and enchanting. Sometimes Stone wondered if the old man was really blind.
Recognising the importance of literacy, Stone had asked the old man to teach him. After two years, Stone, though not yet fully proficient, no longer needed practical guidance.
After a dozen pages, Stone sighed deeply. A few more baskets had appeared beside the old man. Not long after, the old man stopped weaving and groped his way to the other side of the bed, where he lay down in his clothes.
"That's enough for today, let's sleep," Stone blew out the lamp and lay down on the edge of the bed, shielding himself from the wind blowing through the broken window with his body. Outside the autumn wind was bleak, but inside the two men, each with his own thoughts, struggled to fall asleep.
Stone remembered what Mrs Du had said earlier; she had hoped that Stone would visit the Starfall Pavilion recruitment centre, saying that he shouldn't limit himself to such a small place. She wanted to take the old man with her. Mrs Du had left in tears, saying she didn't mind the old man's blindness and was deeply grateful for his years of teaching Nancy to read. In Nancy's heart, the old man was more like a father to her than her biological one. Mrs Du urged Stone not to let the old man's situation tie him to such a limited life.
Stone knew that the old man was kind but proud, and a life of dependency was not what he wanted. Besides, who would protect the old people if Stone left? Lost in thought, Stone drifted off to sleep.
In his dream, he returned to modern society and awoke from the dining table to find his father cooking in the kitchen. "You're awake," his father said softly, his face obscured by a thick mist - was it because it had been so long that he couldn't remember his father's face? Suddenly the world spun, the figure in front of him blurred, "Stone, Daddy's going to be a hero, take care, I will always love you."
"No, no!" Stone woke from the nightmare and looked around the ramshackle room. The old man's bed was empty, he had probably gone to teach Nancy. Shaking his head, Stone stepped outside to brush his teeth with a willow twig and opened the sheepfold, planning to lead the flock to fresh pastures before the end of autumn.
"Stone, brother!" Just as Stone was about to leave, a sweet voice called from behind him. He turned to see a little girl running towards him.
Her face, though not snow-white, was soft and creamy. Her eyes, like those of Chang'e in the Moon Palace, were jet black and shimmering, deep enough to drown in. Beneath a delicate nose was a small cherry mouth, always hinting at an unintentional sweetness. Her light figure, partly hidden by her clothes, resembled a delicate touch of green on the farm, like a scene from a pastoral poem.
Yet her steps were timid and shy, her simple straw shoes blending seamlessly with the land and the vast rice fields. She seemed a part of this rural landscape, a dot of colour in the vastness of time, forever intertwined with the earth, as if a heavenly being had descended to form a family bond on earth.
"Nancy? What are you doing out here? Isn't Uncle Blind teaching you to read?"
"I didn't sneak out, Mother sent me to fetch you, she said it was urgent."
What could be so urgent? Perhaps someone was causing trouble at Mrs Du's teahouse again? Stone thought, taking no chances, he quickly strapped a sickle to his waist and made his way to the teahouse.