When the River Was Still There

When I was little, a river wound through my hometown. To reach the far bank each day, all had to cross it, stepping from one moss-flecked bluestone slab to another.

Each time the current ran fierce and spilled over the slabs, people treading upon them looked like dragonflies skimming the surface from afar; needing only a few light steps, they could drift to the far bank. That was the crossing I feared most as a little boy. The instant my foot found a slab, my eyes would fix on what lay underfoot; the longer I stared, the more the stones seemed to slide toward me, as if the world had begun to tilt.

The grown-ups would usually turn back and take my hand when they saw me frozen there.

Past the river lay a stretch of woods at the foot of the hill. If you walked slowly, you could easily spot little green snakes living there. They seldom struck and would slip into the grass at the sight of you, gone in a flash.

Now and then I would come across a bird that I was sure, as a child, was a phoenix. It was likely a golden pheasant. It carried a long, splendid tail and liked to rest among the grass; when it was startled, it rose away, trailing that bright painted fan, and flew into the distance. I was certain, then, that somewhere beyond where it vanished, another world waited — one we had never been told of.

After that, the bird would frequently visit me in dreams. Once grown, I never saw it again in my hometown.

Beyond the woods stretched open fields, dotted with all kinds of fruit-bearing trees. When hunger pricked at me, I would pluck a handful on impulse; no one minded much. Further on there stood a smithy.

It sat at the hill's foot. The smith was somewhere in his forties or fifties then, and kept watch over a furnace year in, year out. The iron within glowed red and wet with light; he stood at its side, hauling the bellows back and forth. With every heave the fire climbed and roared, as though it meant to beat a new shape into every bar.

You could feel the searing heat from meters away.

His undershirt was always dark with sweat. After working for a while, he would step inside and come back with a few cups and a pot of cool tea, pouring one for the customers.

If you were not in a rush, you could stand nearby and watch him work.

The hammer came down, again and again, and sparks jumped off the metal. The red iron slowly took the shape of a knife, a tool, or something else. When it was done, he would catch it in the tongs and drop it into the iron tub of water at his feet.

There came a sharp "Tsss—"

A white cloud burst up, and the water rolled and bubbled, loud with steam.

To me it was pure sorcery.

Some farmers had no money for a knife or a pot and would normally bring a chicken or a duck to trade instead.

I have had plenty of cool tea since then, yet none has tasted as good as the smithy's.

It was probably not anything special. It was only that on those hot summer days, after I had crossed the river and walked through the woods under a raw sun until the heat had soaked clean through me, that cup found my hand at just the right moment.

Many times, I would drift down to the smithy just for that one cup, and stay half the day watching the iron.

If I got hungry, I would go on up the hill behind the smithy.

A small temple stood there. The incense was thin in those days; few people came, except for the old monks, who chanted, meditated, and swept.

But somehow they made fine noodles.

Anyone who climbed up was free to go to the kitchen and scoop a bowl of red-mushroom thread noodles from the clay urn. I never stood on ceremony — I finished one, went back for another, and sometimes a third, scarcely bothering to mop the sweat from my forehead.

The old monk would only smile. "More when you are done," he would say.

Those days of mopping up free meals made up much of my childhood.

A cup of cool tea at the smithy, two or three bowls at the temple, and now and then a few wild‑duck eggs picked up by the river on my way home. I was sure then that the finest things needed no seeking. You just walked, and there they were.

Years passed; I grew older, and so did the smith.

His son would not take over the shop tucked away in the woods. The sign over the door, "Ironwork," rusted slowly until the characters blurred. Then one day the hammers stopped for good.

The underbrush grew safe at last.

The little green snakes were gone.

So was the bird I had once taken for a phoenix.

The bluestone slabs still lay in the river, yet the river dwindled year by year. Later a concrete road was built alongside it, and people no longer crossed via the slabs. A few more years passed, and the river‑bed went dry; the slabs lay exposed to the sun, season after season.

By the time I had outgrown my fear of them, the river was already gone.

The little temple, though, was still there.

I went back several times. The incense burned thicker than in the old days, for word had spread that the temple answered prayers. Each time I would leave some money in the offering box.

It was a slow, small way of repaying what I owed for the noodles I had eaten for free.

The grass by the river still sprang up year after year. But no little green snakes slipped out from within it anymore.

One night, I dreamed of that river again.

It ran deep again.

The bluestone slabs lay glistening-wet above the water, covered all over with human footprints. Some bore hoes over their shoulders; others carried bamboo baskets slung across their backs, crossing the slabs one after another.

I was as I had been — a little boy on the bank, afraid to move.

The grown-ups had already gone far ahead.

So I had to step onto the first slab myself.

Wind came off the water and lifted the hem of my shirt. The woods on the far bank whispered, as if someone there were urging me onward.

Hurry.

I looked down.

The slab beneath my foot was still wet.