Spring, 2001.
Zhao Dehou was past eighty. Time to retire.
Step down!
There was no meeting.
No ceremony.
No speech.
The door of the village committee office stood open.
He stopped in front of the desk.
He had spent forty-nine years in this room.
From the mutual-aid team to the production brigade.
From village Party secretary to last year, when the village committees were merged.
The doors and windows had been replaced three times.
The floor had gone from packed earth to cement.
He pulled open the drawer.
On the wooden board inside there was a knife-cut groove.
For holding the official seal.
He had cut it just after taking over.
His hand had trembled.
The groove came out crooked.
Crooked for decades.
He reached in.
Took out the seal.
A round wooden seal.
Wrapped in red cloth.
The cloth had grown old.
The color had faded.
The edges were frayed.
He unwrapped the red cloth.
The wooden seal showed.
Its face was worn smooth and round.
"Qingshiyuan Production Brigade" — the characters were still clear.
A line of small characters below.
"Made in 1958."
He wrapped the red cloth around it again.
Set it on the desk.
Then he took out the account books.
Three of them.
Blue cloth covers.
Corners worn white.
Each cover had its year written on it.
Last, the keys.
Brass.
Three of them.
Strung on a hemp cord.
One for the storehouse.
One for the archive cabinet.
One for the front door of the village committee.
The cord was old.
In the middle it had worn down to half its thickness.
He laid the three things out on the desk.
Seal on the left.
Account books in the middle.
Keys on the right.
From his pocket he drew a piece of cotton cloth.
Folded it into a square.
He wiped the seal first.
Slowly.
The dust came off the red cloth.
The original color showed.
Then the covers of the account books.
One by one.
From 1998 to 2000.
Then the keys.
One by one.
The brass keys came up bright.
Bright enough to hold a reflection.
He took out the wooden box.
He had made the box himself.
Willow wood.
Mortise and tenon.
Not a single nail.
On the lid he had carved a wave pattern.
The shape of the Yang Canal.
It had taken him days.
He had ruined two boards.
The third one came out right.
He opened the lid.
Put the seal in.
The account books.
The keys.
The three things arranged in order.
Each in its place.
He closed the lid.
The sound was soft.
Click.
He lifted the box.
Walked toward the desk of the village committee.
The man taking over stood beside it.
Thirty or so.
Gray jacket.
Sent down from the township.
His name was Zhou Shirong.
He set the box on the desk.
Said one thing.
"It's all in there."
Opened the lid.
Let him look.
Seal, account books, keys.
Laid out in order.
Zhou Shirong glanced down.
Said, "Uncle Dehou, you've worked hard."
He waved a hand.
Didn't take up the remark.
Turned and walked out.
The door shut behind him.
A creak.
Closed.
He stood on the steps.
Stood there a while.
In front of him, the village road.
Cement-surfaced.
New trees planted along both sides.
Poplars, just budding.
Tender leaves turning in the wind.
Flashing white.
This road was far tidier than when he first became a village cadre.
It used to be dirt.
On rainy days, mud underfoot.
On clear days, dust underfoot.
The year he built the canal.
Every wheelbarrow in the village had cut two deep ruts into this road.
Later it was laid with gravel.
Later still, with cement.
He looked at the road.
Looked for a long time.
And realized he was wondering which way to go.
Toward home.
There was no one at home waiting for him.
Toward the fields.
Someone had long since taken over the work in the fields.
Toward the canal.
The water was still running.
There was nothing he had to do.
Not one person waiting for him to assign a task.
Not one matter waiting for him to make a decision.
He stood there.
The sun shone on him.
His shadow was tucked under his feet.
A very small clump.
"Dehou."
Someone passing by.
Called out.
He came back to himself.
It was Lin Gensheng.
Shouldering a hoe.
"What are you standing here for?"
"Nothing. Sunning myself."
Lin Gensheng said, "Oh."
Took two steps.
Looked back at him again.
"It's still cold. Don't stand too long."
He smiled.
"I know."
Lin Gensheng walked off.
His footsteps on the cement road.
One after another.
He started toward home.
Walked a few steps.
Stopped.
Walked two more.
Stopped again.
He turned around.
And walked toward the ancestral hall.
The sunlight that morning was good.
Warm on his body.
His shadow fell ahead of him.
A little longer than before.
The shadows of the poplars lay across the ground.
Stripe after stripe.
He walked stepping on the shadows of the trees.
The door of the ancestral hall.
Open.
He didn't know who had opened it.
The door pivots were new.
Carpenter Song had replaced them last year.
The door no longer creaked.
He paused at the entrance.
Didn't ask.
Stepped over the threshold.
And went in.
It was very quiet inside the hall.
The plaque on the main wall was still there.
"Be Careful at the End, Remember the Distant Past."
Most of the gold lacquer had come off.
The wood showed through underneath.
He stood in the courtyard.
Looked up at the old cypress.
Its crown shaded half the courtyard.
Sunlight leaked down through the gaps in the branches.
Landing on the ground.
Patch by patch.
He walked to the threshold of the main hall.
Didn't go in.
Sat down on the threshold.
The first time he came into the ancestral hall to take over the keys.
He had sat on this very threshold too.
The wooden threshold was worn to a shine.
He reached out and touched it.
His fingertips ran over the grain.
Cool.
Smooth.
He heard the wind come from behind the hall.
Stirring the leaves of the old cypress.
Rustling.
Rustling.
The light in the courtyard crept slowly along.
From the east wall to the west.
He sat on the threshold without moving.
A sparrow landed in the courtyard.
Hopped a few times.
Tilted its head to look at him.
Then flew off.
The flutter of its wings circled inside the hall.
He thought of the first time he came into this hall.
He was thirty that year.
Qian Shouye had put the key in his hand.
Brass.
Still carrying the shine of the Qing dynasty.
He had clenched the key in his fist.
Clenched it until his palm was sweating.
That day he had sat on the threshold too.
Sat half an afternoon.
Going over every word Qian Shouye had said.
"The ancestral hall belongs to the whole village. The key is the rule. Once you take it, you carry it to the end."
He had taken it.
Carried it for forty-nine years.
The canal was built.
The grain was stored.
The ancestral hall was saved.
The people were protected.
Now the key was handed over.
The account books handed over.
The seal handed over.
He reached up and touched his own face.
It was all creases.
His fingers slid across them.
He stood up.
His legs had gone numb.
He held onto the door frame a while.
The blood making its way down to the soles of his feet.
The numbness wore off.
He walked toward the main hall of the ancestral temple.
Toward the place where the tablets had stood.
The wall was bare.
The tablets were long gone.
Smashed in the Cultural Revolution.
Never replaced.
A few square marks remained on the wall.
Darker than the plaster around them.
Pressed there by the bases of the tablets.
He looked at them for a while.
Reached out.
Ran his hand over one of the marks.
The wall was cold.
Rough.
He drew his hand back.
Stepped back three paces.
Bowed three times to the empty wall.
The first bow.
He bent at the waist.
Held it for three seconds.
The second bow.
Deeper than the first.
The third bow.
When he straightened.
His knee cracked.
He walked out of the temple.
The daylight was bright.
The sun came pounding down.
So warm it made him squint.
He stood at the temple gate.
Eyes narrowed, looking down the village road.
A figure was coming this way.
Hurrying.
A blue cotton tunic.
Carrying something.
Only when he came closer could he make out who it was.
Song the carpenter.
Carrying a wooden box.
"Dehou, I heard you stepped down."
"Mm."
Song held the box out.
"For you. Took me three months."
He took the box.
Opened it.
Inside lay a wooden key.
Carved from willow.
The same size as the real one.
Head and tail both worn smooth and round.
"The real key's been handed in. This one's to remember it by. You've opened locks your whole life. You shouldn't be left empty-handed."
He looked down at the wooden key.
Looked for a long time.
His fingers moved over the teeth, one by one.
Every tooth had been sanded smooth.
"Old Song."
"Mm?"
He looked up at the carpenter.
"Let's go sit a while."
"All right. Where?"
"Under the blockhouse. There's a breeze there."
The two of them walked toward the blockhouse.
The sun stretched their shadows out behind them.
One long.
One longer still.
At the foot of the blockhouse.
Zhao Dehou sat down at the base of the wall.
His back against the grey brick.
Song sat beside him.
Set the box on his knees.
The wind blew past.
A little dirt trickled down from the blockhouse wall.
Landed on Zhao Dehou's shoulder.
He didn't brush it off.
"Old Song. What do you say a man fears most, getting old?"
Song thought about it for a while.
"Having nothing to hold."
Zhao Dehou took the wooden key out of the box.
Turned it over and over in his hand.
Turned it several times.
"You've got it right. This morning I handed in the key, walked out of the village committee door, and just stood there. Didn't know which way my feet should go. With no key in my hand, something inside me was hollowed out."
"You've got one in your hand now."
"Mm. Made of wood."
"What's wrong with wood? That's willow. Willow's the toughest there is. It won't snap."
Zhao Dehou smiled.
Slid the wooden key into the pocket against his chest.
"Won't snap. That's good enough."
The daylight slanted west.
The blockhouse's shadow slowly spread out long.
And covered the two of them.