That morning,the rain poured heavily,hitting the thatched roof of Ming’s cottage like a handful of small stones.It seeped through the gaps in the walls,leaving dark and damp marks on the mud floor,and made the air so cold that even the small fire in the hearth flickered as if shivering.Ming knelt beside his mother’s straw bed,his little hands holding a worn quilt,which smelled with pine resin and long-term illness.Her cheeks were burning because of a high fever,making the quilt feel like a hot stone when touched.Every breath she took was a rough and noisy gasp,as if her lungs were filled with sharp thorns.
“Stop to relax,my dear,”she whispered,her voice as thin as a spider’s web.Her fingers,once rough for mending nets and stirring porridge,now felt as light as dry twigs when she brushed a lock of hair from Ming’s forehead.“The fever will go down.It always does.”
Ming said nothing.He had heard the same words three nights ago,when the first coldness had attacked her body.Back then,she could still sit up and cook a pot of wild mushroom soup.But now,she could barely lift her head.At dawn,he had run to the village doctor,his boots squelching in the mud.He found the old man bending over a table full of dried herbs,with his hands shaking so much that he could hardly hold the mortar.When Ming hurried to tell the doctor his mother’s symptoms,the old man’s face wrinkled,just like a withered leaf.
“It’s cold rot,”he mumbled,grinding a handful of bitter root into a paste.“A kind of disease that gets into the lungs.My herbs can ease the pain…but they can’t completely cure her.”
At doctor’s words,Ming’s throat felt so tight that he could barely speak.“Is there any other way?”
The doctor hesitated for a moment,then leaned forward,lowering his voice into a whisper,as if he was afraid the walls might hear.“There’s a legend.The villagers call it Soul-Returning Grass,a plant that grows deep in the Blackwind Forest.They say it blooms only once every hundred years,and its petals can heal even people who are almost dead.But the forest…it’s no place for a child.The trees block out all the light.The rivers trick people with lies.And the snake pits where the grass grows?They’re guarded by creatures that never sleep.”
He put the bitter root paste into Ming’s hand,his eyes full of sadness.“Stay hereand take care of your mother.That’s the best thing you can do.”
But Ming had never been the kind of person to stay put.Three years ago,when his father had died in a logging accident,he had learned to cut wood before sunrise.Last winter,when the village’s grain supplies were low,he had sneaked into the woods to catch rabbits,even when the snow was up to his knees.Responsibility was not a choice for him;it was something he had to do,like breathing.So when he went back to the cottage,he didn’t tell his mother about the doctor’s warning.He just put the paste into her hand,kissed her forehead,and said,“I’m going to collect firewood.I’ll be back before sunset.”
Now,as he knelt beside her,he watched her eyes close slowly.A quiet anger grew in his chest,not at the fever,not at the rain,but at being so helpless.He was only twelve years old,too small to lift a whole log,too young to remember a time when his mother didn’t look tired…but he was all she had.His fingers wrapped around the handle of the small ax his father had carved for him,which had become smooth after being used for years.The doctor had said the forest was a death trap.But was there any other choices for him to make?Let his mother grow weaker and weaker alone,while he just sat and watched?so cruel.
“Cowards can just sit and do nothing,”his father’s voice echoed in his mind.“Brave people take action.”
Ming stood up,his knees making a sound like “zhi——”.He walked softly to the corner of the cottage where he kept his things.He put some dried chestnuts and a loaf of black bread which was stale but still edible,into a bag,slung a water skin over his shoulder,and tied the ax to his belt.When he turned around,his mother was asleep,her lips slightly parted.For a moment,he almost changed his mind.What if he never came back?What if the forest really swallowed him up?The thought made his hands shake.But then he remembered the scene that she had smiled at him that morning,even through the pain,and he straightened his shoulders.
He knelt down again and kissed her forehead gently.“I’ll bring the grass back,”he whispered.“I promise.”
By the time Ming went outside,the rain had turned into a light drizzle.The village was quiet most of the cottages had their doors closed to keep out the cold and the only sound was the gurgle of the stream running through the center of the village,which had swelled with rainwater.He walked quickly,his boots sinking into the mud,until he reached the edge of the Blackwind Forest.The trees here were taller than any he had ever seen,their trunks as thick as carts,their branches twisted together so tightly that they blocked out the sky.Even in the daytime,the forest floor was covered in a gray,unhealthy light,and the air smelled of decay and wet earth.
A shiver ran down Ming’s back.He had heard the stories:travelers who had wandered into the forest and never come out,their screams fading away among the trees;a“forest witch”who lured children with singing;snakes as long as boats sleeping in the bushes.But he took a deep breath,gripped the ax tightly,and stepped across the line into the forest’s shadow.
