Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 36

After the rain 1

Huang Jinye dragged out the cardboard box from under the bed.

The cardboard was saturated with moisture, delaminated at the edges, and peeled into pulp.He opened the lid of the box and took out a stack of yellow paper.The paper is rough, and straw fragments are embedded in the fibers, cutting the fingertips.Twelve gold ingots were pressed underneath and folded into tin foil. The surface was oxidized and turned black, making a clicking sound when held in the hand.

Wei Zhiheng was lying on the camp bed.

The No. 055 school uniform jacket covered his chest, and the frayed edges of the sleeves brushed his chin.The breathing was shallow, the chest rose and fell very little, and the air flowed in and out with a gurgling sound of blood and foam.His right hand stretched out from the quilt, his fingernails were tinged with light purple, and he was holding a quarto sketch paper.The paper was wrinkled, the edges were curled, and it was softened by the sweat from the palms of the hands, making it translucent.There is a pencil drawing of a back figure with broad shoulders, narrow waist and slightly sunken left shoulder on the paper.The lines are applied repeatedly and the graphite seeps into the fibers, creating a dark gray mud.

Huang Jinye stuffed the ingot into a black plastic bag.The word “Dian” is printed on the bag body, and the ink is smudged.He stood up, his right knee was stuck, and the water was sloshing in the joint cavity, rushing from the inside to the outside, making it gurgling.He walked towards the door and stomped on the ground with his spiked shoes, making a sound that echoed in the empty hall.Stop at the doorframe and look back.

Wei Zhiheng’s left hand hung in the folds of the sheets, his knuckles locked in a grasping posture.That hand is getting colder, approaching 16°C.

“Two hours.” Huang Jinye said.The voice is hoarse and rough.

Wei Zhiheng’s eyelids trembled.The eyelashes rub against the cornea, making a rustling sound.He heard footsteps receding, one heavy and one light, descending alternately in the stairwell, the frequency slow, like the flow of an underground river in a limestone cavity.Then the silence surged in, carrying with it the characteristic echo of the villa—empty, cold, stony.

Huang Jinye walked out of the iron gate.The morning fog has not yet dispersed, and the outline of Green Cen Mountain disappeared ten meters away.He walked up the winding mountain road, his canvas shoes stepping on the cracks in the road, and the dry grass in the cracks was covered with white frost.When the right knee was bent, the accumulated water squeezed the meniscus, causing a fine tremor that spread from the thigh to the ground.

The gaps in the barbed wire fence on the northern slope of Green Cen Mountain are covered with frost.He bent down and ducked through. The black sports vest scratched the wire, and the fabric fibers were hooked into thin threads.After standing up straight, he took out a lighter from his trouser pocket.The plastic shell is red, and the rollers are shiny from hand sweat.The thumb pressed down, the flint rubbed, sparks splashed up, and the yellow paper ignited.

The corners of the paper curled, darkened, and rolled upward.The flames were orange and licked the paper.Heat surged upwards, roasting his jaw.He let go, and the burning pages fell, forming red spots on the ground and shrinking into black.The ashes were light, lifted up by the hot air, rising upwards, passing through the gaps in the barbed wire, and swirling in the gray-white mountain fog.Black, with red edges, it spun and flew higher toward the limestone cliffs.

Huang Jinye knelt on the frozen soil.His right knee hit the ground, the water stinging under the pressure.He lit the second stack of yellow paper, the flames became bigger and heat hit his face.The ash continued to rise, dozens of black flakes flying against the limestone backdrop of Greencen Mountain.The tin foil ingot was thrown into the fire, emitting a dazzling white light, and the smell of burning metal was pungent, sinking to the ground.Paper ashes fell on the back of my right hand, still warm and burning.Black, light, sharp edged, limestone.The burning sensation is fleeting, leaving white marks on the skin that quickly turn red.

He knelt and watched the ashes rise.The paper ash flies upward, passes through the fog, and disappears into the gray-white mountain outline.There is no tombstone there – my father died in a mining accident and there is no body to bury. There are only limestone layers on the mountain, vertical flint strips, straight and parallel.Paper ash adheres to the depressions of the rock wall, and the black dots form a color difference with the gray-white limestone, forming a new sedimentary layer.

Two hours.

Huang Jinye stood up.The kneecaps rub dry and the fluid redistributes in the joint cavity.He patted the frozen soil off his knees. The soil was hard and fell off in chunks.Turning around and going down the mountain, my steps were rapid, my spikes scratching the frosty and rustling road surface.The plastic bag was empty, dangling in his hand with a shriveled sound.

The iron gate of the villa is ajar.He pushed away, the hinges groaning and the metal vibrating with fatigue.The hall was empty, and the echo amplified the sound of his footsteps, reflecting off the limestone walls.He rushed up the stairs, taking three steps at a time. His right knee jammed, causing sharp pain, and the water accumulated in it squeezed the meniscus.The door to the studio on the third floor was open.

Wei Zhiheng maintained the same position as when he left, but his body slid to the right, with half of his shoulders hanging off the edge of the bed.The No. 055 school uniform jacket is shrunk and the hem is rolled up, revealing a gray sweater.The breathing became shallower, and the rise and fall of the chest could hardly be seen, only the very subtle movement of the nose.His right hand was still holding the sketch, his knuckles were white, his skin was taut and translucent, and the veins under his skin were bulging and turned purple to black.

Huang Jinye stopped.He stood in the doorway and looked at the hand.Put the four fingers together, press the thumb on the top, and clench the drawing paper into an irregular ball shape, with the edges squeezed out between the fingers and wrinkles vertically and horizontally.In the center of the paper, the back line is blurred by sweat, and graphite mixes with sweat to form a gray river on the paper.

He came closer.The steps are light, and the soft-soled spikes rub against the ground, causing slight scratches.Squatting down on the edge of the bed, my right knee felt dry and rubbed again.He stretched out his hand and hovered his right hand over Wei Zhiheng’s sketching hand, stopping five centimeters away from the back of his hand.The fingers are curled up and cannot be closed, and there is white stone powder on the edge of the fingernails, which was picked up from the ground when burning paper this morning.

Wei Zhiheng’s lips trembled.Dark red blood seeped out from between the cracked seams and condensed into spots.He made a breathy sound, hissing, and the air flow rubbed against the glottis.Fingers tighten on sketch paper, knuckles whiter, paper fibers tearing, tiny hiss, edges torn.

Huang Jinye lowered his finger.Instead of holding Wei’s hand, he pinched the edge of the sketch paper.He pulled it out, and the paper rubbed dryly and slipped out from between Wei’s fingers, bringing out a trace of moist heat from the skin.The paper surface is fully unfolded, wrinkled, and the surface is uneven. The graphite lines break at the folds, forming black faults.The back was deformed in the folds, the shoulders were skewed, and the waist was twisted.

He spread the paper flat on the cot canvas and pressed the folds with the heels of his hands.The surface of the paper is damp, absorbing the sweat from the palms of the hands, and there is a slight sound of water when pressed.The wrinkles are stubborn and rebound.He increased his strength and rubbed his fingertips against the paper. The graphite stuck to his fingertips, forming gray marks that overlapped with the palm prints.

Wei Zhiheng’s left hand suddenly raised.Movements are slow and muscles tremble.The knuckles were locked in a grabbing posture, hovering over Huang Jinye’s right shoulder, stopping three centimeters away from the fabric of the vest.The nail caps were pale purple with a white edge, and purple-black bruises were embedded under the nail beds.

Stop action.

Fingers hover, spasming.Huang Jinye felt the air flow coming from Wei’s fingertips, with the smell of sweet rot, rotten apples mixed with rust, sinking above his shoulders.He did not turn his head, maintaining the posture of pressing and sketching, and his shoulder muscles were tense.

Wei Zhiheng’s fingers fell.It’s not shooting, it’s pressing.Pressing the fingertips on Huang Jinye’s right shoulder, through the black sports vest, he could feel the bones under the fabric – the edges of the shoulder blades, the tension of the deltoid muscles, and the heat flowing under the skin, 37°C.He misperceived: it was not the shoulder, but the limestone at the edge of the shaft, rough, hot, and weathering.

“Paper.” Wei Zhiheng said.The sound was squeezed out of the blood-moistened throat, muffled and filled with liquid, and the air flow rubbed against the glottis, making a hissing sound.

Huang Jinye did not answer.He took out a limestone specimen from his trouser pocket—the one in Chapter 1, ivory white with gray flint strips and sharp edges.He held it with his left hand, and the stone pressed against the purpura in his palm, causing a dull pain.Then he put the stone into Wei Zhiheng’s hovering left hand.The stone is cold, 16°C, in sync with Wei’s body temperature.Wei’s fingers spasmed and clenched the moment they came into contact with the stone. His nails scraped against the surface of the limestone, making a dry sound and stone powder embedded in the gaps between his nails.

The sketch paper lay abandoned and shriveled on the canvas.Huang Jinye stood up, his knees rubbing sharply.He bent down and pushed Wei Zhiheng’s body, which was sliding towards the edge of the bed, back to its original position. He pressed his right hand on his left shoulder, supported his waist with his left hand, and felt the bulges of his ribs in his palm.Wei’s body is light and is transforming into geological weight.

He sat down, not on the edge of the bed, but directly on the canvas, with his back pressed against Wei Zhiheng’s back.Their shoulder blades crossed.Wei’s body temperature came through the No. 055 school uniform jacket. It was as low as 16°C.Huang Jinye’s body temperature is hot, 37°C, and the heat flows in one direction, from hot to cold.

Outside the window, the outline of Greencen Mountain appears in the midday light. The gray-white limestone has clear vertical bedding.The paper ash – the black sediment – is now attached to the depression of the rock wall, recording the morning after the rain, the burning temperature of the yellow paper, and the hand holding the sketch paper tightly, the joints as white as the fractures of the limestone.

The canvas of the cot made a continuous, irregular sound under the weight of the two men.Wei Zhiheng held the limestone specimen tightly and held the crumpled sketch paper in his right hand. The edge of the paper cut into the palm of his hand, contrasting with the sharpness of the stone.He didn’t speak anymore, and his breathing became deep, with a gurgling sound of blood foam.

Huang Jinye remained seated until Wei’s breathing rate synchronized with the rustle of paper dust in the mountain wind outside the window.Paper dust trembled on the rock wall, black, lifted up by the wind, and fell again.