The sky quickly darkened.

The mule cart swayed back and forth, the road seeming endless. Many passengers were dozing, and sleepiness appeared contagious—Mu Dai’s eyelids soon drooped together.

In her half-asleep state, someone touched her arm and handed her a thin blanket. Mu Dai mumbled a thank you, wrapped herself in the blanket, and fell asleep.

She dreamed of Luo Ren.

He stood in the light, smiling at her.

Mu Dai was overjoyed, running toward him, but when she reached him, Luo Ren’s expression suddenly changed, and he pushed her away.

That immense, inconsolable melancholy was palpable even in her dream. Mu Dai suddenly awoke. The mule cart was still swaying, with the moon hanging above the high mountain ridge. Mu Dai felt distressed by this dream and touched her eyes, finding what seemed like tears at the corners.

Tears from her dream.

A lantern now hung at the front of the mule cart for illumination. She asked Zhama: “Haven’t we arrived yet?”

Zhama pointed toward a mountain hollow in the distance: “Almost there!”

How could Zhama see it? No matter how wide she opened her eyes, she couldn’t make out any lights from the village.

A thought suddenly struck her.

Mu Dai stammered slightly: “Your village… doesn’t have electricity, does it?”

Zhama said, “It’s about to be installed. If you come again next year, the village will have electricity.”

This was not good news for Mu Dai. She quickly took out her phone.

Sure enough, there was no signal.

It felt like a bucket of cold water poured over her head: how would she contact Luo Ren now?

That night, they stayed at Zhama’s home. Zhama’s father had died two years earlier, leaving him with only his elderly mother. Their house was a two-story stone stilt building, with stones gathered from the mountains. The lower level housed the mules and stored miscellaneous items, while the upper level was living quarters, with a drying platform on top.

With no phone signal, Mu Dai was distraught. She even harbored a slight hope as she climbed to the roof, thinking: perhaps standing on the roof would give her a signal?

Science dealt her a heavy blow: no signal meant no signal, no matter how high she climbed.

Unable to sleep, she sat on the drying platform, sighing. Yan Hongsha came out to call her to bed, looking up at her and saying, “Oh, come on, it’s not so bad if you can’t contact him. Don’t you know absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

Is that how this phrase is used? Mu Dai didn’t want to engage, but forced herself to explain: “Today is Wednesday, and this village only goes to market on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. When Luo Ren and the others reach the braided tree at the mountain pass tomorrow, they won’t know which way to go, and no one will guide them.”

Yan Hongsha also became worried but couldn’t find words of comfort, so she reluctantly returned to her room.

Mu Dai sat for a while longer, then suddenly had an idea. She quickly got up to find Zhama.

Zhama wasn’t asleep yet. He was weaving a flower-decorated bamboo hat with his elderly mother. The bamboo strips were whittled to only half the thickness of a matchstick, flitting through his fingers, yet somehow forming intricate geometric patterns.

The old mother smiled at Mu Dai and brought out a small stool strung with hemp rope, inviting her to sit.

Mu Dai thanked her and sat down, asking Zhama if he could take out the cart tomorrow and how much it would cost.

She thought she could pay Zhama to take the mule cart to the braided tree at the mountain pass tomorrow to wait for Luo Ren. At the very least, she could give her phone to Zhama so he could contact Luo Ren on his way out, informing him of her situation and whereabouts.

Zhama answered her seriously.

The reason they only went to market on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays was that the entire village had only one mule, which couldn’t be overworked. After a day of traveling, the mule’s legs would be weak and need a day’s rest. If they forced the mule out tomorrow, injuring the mule would be a minor issue, but affecting the villagers’ market trips would be a major problem—for many years, the Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule had been fixed for deliveries and pickups, and disrupting this timing would cause delays.

Mu Dai was extremely disappointed.

The old mother seemed unable to understand what she was saying and just smiled at her. Mu Dai forced a smile back, said goodbye, and dragged her feet as she left.

She had only walked a few steps when Zhama called after her.

He jogged over, looking embarrassed and rubbing his hands, saying he couldn’t speak freely with his mother present.

He continued: “If you have urgent business, I’m free tomorrow and can run to the mountain pass. Though I can’t run as fast as the mule, if I hurry, I’ll get there. I can also help you make phone calls on the way, but…”

He hesitated, seemingly finding it difficult to say: “Could you give me some money… one, one hundred…”

Mu Dai was surprised: “One hundred?”

Zhama was startled and stammered: “E-eighty is also fine.”

Mu Dai quickly waved her hands: “No, no, that’s not what I meant…”

The road truly was difficult, with seven or eight li of mud. For Zhama to go on foot so the mule could rest would not only be tiring but would take an entire day.

One hundred yuan seemed embarrassingly little; she felt like she was taking advantage of him.

Yet Zhama accepted the money awkwardly, instructing her: “Don’t tell my mother about the payment. If she finds out, she’ll scold me.”

Now that a solution had been found, Mu Dai felt much relieved and asked an additional question: “Do you make a living by driving the mule cart?”

“Yes, I drive the mule cart out, and people pay for rides. I also bring goods to sell. As you saw, when we’re free, my mother and I weave flower-decorated bamboo hats.”

He suddenly remembered something, pulled Mu Dai back into the house, and gave her three stacked flower-decorated bamboo hats, saying they would be good for keeping off the constant rain in the mountains.

Getting free bamboo hats made Mu Dai feel even more uncomfortable. She insisted on paying, saying his mother worked hard to earn money from weaving hats, and she couldn’t take them for free.

Zhama laughed heartily: “My mother doesn’t make money from this. She’s a famous matchmaking shaman. Men and women from villages ten li around seek her counsel and bring many gifts.”

Mu Dai became curious: What was a matchmaking shaman?

Zhama explained that in their ethnic village, although people were free to fall in love, marriages weren’t so autonomous. After parents’ approval and a matchmaker’s introduction, they still needed to consult the matchmaking shaman to see if the couple could be together.

Only if the matchmaking shaman nodded would both sides feel secure in their union. If the shaman shook her head, even deeply in love couples would separate.

Is it that powerful? Mu Dai wondered skeptically: “Is it accurate?”

Zhama proudly said, “Very accurate! Otherwise, why would people from villages ten li around come to consult her?”

The old mother seemed to know Zhama was praising her and smiled with pursed lips, deep wrinkles lining her face.

Mu Dai’s heart pounded like a drum, and she asked Zhama: “Could she read mine?”

Zhama said, “But you’re alone here. How could she read it? Let me ask her.”

He went over and spoke a few sentences to his mother in the Maonan language, then beckoned Mu Dai to come sit: “Mother asks if you have something given to you by that person?”

Yes, she did. Mu Dai quickly removed the whistle Luo Ren had given her from around her neck—a silver-white chain, a smoothly designed whistle, and the black pearl hanging on the side.

The old mother picked it up, carefully examined it against the oil lamp, and said something with a smile. Zhama translated: “My mother says it’s very beautiful.”

Having someone praise the gift from Luo Ren made her happier than being complimented herself. Mu Dai felt a small surge of pride and thought to herself: “Of course it is.”

The old mother took out a blue embroidered pouch from her waistband, pulling out a pre-woven red string. She lit it with the oil lamp and, when it had nearly burned down, dropped it onto her left palm. Mu Dai let out a soft gasp, thinking: What if it burns her hand?

It didn’t. Perhaps the old mother was accustomed to this, or perhaps the calluses on her palms were so thick they no longer felt pain—she rubbed her hands together until both palms had the charred black of rope ash.

Then she gestured for Mu Dai to hold out her right hand, palm down, while she supported it from below with her palm, gently pressing them together.

Her other palm was also held up supportively as she gestured to Zhama, who quickly placed the whistle pendant in her palm.

The room suddenly grew quiet.

The doors and windows were tightly closed, and even the oil lamp’s flame seemed to stand still. The old mother gently closed her eyes, her withered lips moving slowly.

Her hands were dry and thin. Her fingers, possibly cut by bamboo strips, were wrapped in adhesive bandages that had turned blackish-gray from daily toil.

Not knowing how long to wait, Mu Dai’s mind began to wander.

Did she believe in this? She wasn’t sure. Initially, asking Zhama’s mother for a reading was partly curiosity and partly fun, but now that it was happening, she felt much more anxious.

What if the news was bad?

She began to regret it, feeling she shouldn’t have sought a divination. If it was bad news, she’d rather not know.

The old mother released Mu Dai’s hand. Compared to before, her expression had become somewhat grave. She spoke only to Zhama in their dialect. Mu Dai couldn’t understand but noticed that Zhama’s expression had also become much more serious.

What was wrong? Her heart slowly tightened.

Zhama handed the whistle pendant back to Mu Dai and said, “Let me see you out.”

Mu Dai’s heart felt heavy. She mechanically stood up and followed Zhama. At the door, she looked back.

The old mother was bent over, weaving her flower-decorated bamboo hat, seeming to sigh.

The door closed softly behind them. The night was cool and dark. If she held her breath, she could hear the mule below pacing in its pen, snorting.

Mu Dai asked: “What’s wrong?”

Zhama thought for a long time, then haltingly said: “Once, a couple from the village came for a reading. They were so very much in love, but my mother said it wouldn’t work. So their families disagreed with the match, and they parted with tears. Then, the next year, they both found new partners and were so very happy—even happier than before.”

Mu Dai stared at him: “What did your mother say?”

Zhama felt awkward under her gaze. Steeling himself, he stomped his foot and blurted out: “My mother said he doesn’t end up with you. It’s not you.”

Mu Dai’s ears buzzed. She asked: “Why?”

Zhama couldn’t explain clearly. He rubbed his hands, stomped his feet, and rambled incoherently: “Mother doesn’t understand either. She said it’s strange, she can’t see clearly, but she knows it’s not you. You’re good together, but for some reason, you disappear in the middle… In the end, the person by his side isn’t you…”

He dared not continue. By the faint light filtering from the house, he saw that Mu Dai was crying.

When people in love say they don’t believe in such things, they still feel hurt hearing contradictory voices, especially hearing him say that in the end, someone would be by Luo Ren’s side, but it wouldn’t be her.

She turned to go back to her room, her steps light and weak, one deep and one shallow, as if walking on cotton.

Zhama anxiously stomped his feet behind her, craning his neck to call out: “Oh! Let me tell you, my mother’s predictions often don’t come true. Many times, what she says doesn’t happen…”

Mu Dai smiled through her tears. She appreciated Zhama’s good intentions, but this person didn’t know how to lie.

Yan Hongsha was sleeping hazily when she rolled over and, by the moonlight streaming through the window, saw Mu Dai sitting there.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again.

She was sitting there, motionless.

Yan Hongsha yawned and moved closer to her, reaching out to pat Mu Dai’s knee: “Why aren’t you sleeping yet? Grandfather said we have to set off early tomorrow.”

Mu Dai didn’t move.

Yan Hongsha found this strange. She sat up, wrapped in her blanket, and asked: “What’s wrong?”

Mu Dai didn’t look at her and said softly, “Hongsha, I might die.”

In the middle of the night, Yan Hongsha was covered in goosebumps. She froze for a full three seconds before saying: “Pah, pah, pah! Wood! Knock on wood!”

She scrambled to the foot of the bed where the iron shovel was placed and struck its wooden handle three times. The noise was so loud that even Old Man Yan impatiently rolled over.

Mu Dai seemed not to notice. She sighed, slowly lay down, and pulled the blanket up to her face.

Yan Hongsha crawled back, wanting to ask Mu Dai what was wrong, but when she got close, she suddenly found that Mu Dai had already lain down, her eyes closed, seemingly asleep.

Yan Hongsha became uncertain and pondered alone in the darkness for a long time.

Had Mu Dai said those words, or had she been dreaming?