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“你老人家这冷天夜里别受风寒，送你回屋去吧。”
老人流着清水鼻涕，并不理会，依然闭目吟唱，沙哑的声音在喉咙里颤抖，含糊不清。
之后，别家的屋门一扇一扇开了，有老妈妈也有老头子，还有跟米的后生小意，一寨子人陆陆续续都仁立到河滩上。有人于是想起回屋里拿了些糯米饭团子，也有提了只鸭子，又有端来碗水酒和剩下的大半碗牛肉，也还有人拎来了半片猪脑壳，都搁到他跟前。
“忘了祖先可是罪过……”老人喃喃呐呐。
有个水妹子一时感动了，跑回屋里抱来一床准备陪嫁的人造混纺毛毯，披在老人身上，用花手帕子给他擦了擦鼻涕，说：
“老伯伯，回屋里去吧！”
后生们也都说：
“几可怜的老人呀！”
枫树的妈，青杠木的爸，忘了祖公，会报应的呀！老人的声音只能在喉咙里滚动，涕泪俱下。
“老伯伯，决不要说了。”
“快回屋里去吧。”
后生们上前去扶他。
“我就死在这里——”老人挣扎，终于喊出声来，像个任性的孩子。
有一个老妈妈说：
“由他唱吧，他过不了这个春天了。”
我手头上摆着这本《祭鼓词》，是我结识的一位苗族朋友记录翻译成汉文的，我写下这一则故事也算是对他的答谢。
42
那是一个大晴天，天空没有一丝云，苍穹深远明净得让你诧异。天底下有一座寂寞的寨子，一层层吊脚楼全在悬岩上支撑，远远看去，精巧得像石壁上挂着个蜂巢。那梦境是这样的，你在山崖下转来转去，怎么都找木到去那里的路，你眼看接近它了，谁知又绕了开去，来回盘桓了许久，最后只好放弃，随便循一条山路信步走去，直到它终于消失在山崖背后，你不免有些惋惜。你也不知道脚下的这条路通往何处，况且你本来就无什目的。
你退自朝前走，山道回环。你这一生原本就没有个固定的目标。你所定的那些目标，时过境迁，总也变来变去，到头来并没有宗旨。细想，人生其实无所谓终极的目的，都像这蜂巢，弃之令人可惜，真要摘到了，又得遭蜂子一顿乱咬，不如由它挂着，观赏一番，也就完了。想到这里，脚下竞轻快得多，走到哪里算哪里，只要有风景可瞧。
两边都是杨梅林子，可又不是搞梅子的季节，等结的梅子成熟，你还不知身在何处。梅子等人？还是人等梅子？是一个玄学的题目。这题目有许多做法，而且尽可以无穷无尽做下去，梅子照旧是梅子，人也依然故我。或者说，今年的梅子并非明年的梅子，人也今是而昨非。问题是如今果真是？或许不是？这判断的标准又从何而立？让玄学家去谈玄，你只管走你的路。
你一味爬坡，在山道上走得浑身冒汗，却突然来到这寨子脚下，望着寨子里的阴影心里也生出一片荫凉。
你全然没有料到，这一幢幢木楼一根根脚柱下，长长的石级竟坐满了人，你只得走在他们盘坐的腿脚空隙中间。没人看你，全低着头，轻声啼哺呐呐，背诵经文，看来都很忧伤。前去的石级随着巷子拐弯，两边的木楼七歪八斜，相互支撑住一幢也倒不了，除非等到哪一天地震或是山崩，要塌得全塌。
这些坐着的老人一个挨一个，也是这样，只要推倒其中一个，就会像小孩码着玩的骨牌，一倒全倒。你没敢去推，怕会是一场灾难。
你小心翼翼，下脚在他们盘坐的精瘦的脚踝之间。他们都穿的布缝的袜子，裹住鸡爪一样的脚掌，木楼在他们的呻吟之中也发出格吱格吱的响声，叫你弄木清响的是木楼还是他们的骨节。他们还都患有老年痉挛的毛病，摇摆身躯叨念的时候，头也总颤个不停。
这巷子弯弯曲曲，没有尽头，连两边的石阶上也坐得满满的，全穿的青灰色订了补丁的衣裳，那是一种陈年上布，一洗就瓤。危楼的栏杆上垂挂下一条条晾起的被单和粗夏布做的许多蚊帐，沉浸在悲哀中的这些老人便显得越发庄严。
他们喃呐声中有一个尖锐的声音，像猫爪子一样刺痛了你，还抓住你不放，吸引你不断前去。你无法确定这声音来自何处，见一家人门前吊着几串黄的纸钱，烟香从挂着帘子的门洞里飘逸出来，一定是什么人死了。
你越往前去越加困难，人一个紧挨一个，越来越密集，简直无从下脚，生怕踩到哪根踝骨上，准造成骨折。你不得不更加小心，从盘根错节老树根样交错的腿脚之间，捡那么点能跪下脚尖的空隙，屏住气息，一步一步倒腾。
你走在他们之中，没有一个人哪怕抬一下头。他们不是缠的包头，便盖的布帕子，你也看不见他们的脸面。这时候他们齐声唱了起来，你仔细听，渐渐才听个明白。
你们都来哟，
一天跑六回，
一回跑六次，
阴间里撒下米，
有事要你们来担起。
那领唱的尖声就来自你身边石门坎上坐着的一位老太婆。她稍许有些特别，肩上搭着块黑布，把头整个蒙住，一只手哆哆啧啧直抖，拍打膝头，身体悠悠缓缓，随着吟唱前摇后摆。她身边地上放了一碗清水，还有一节装满了米的竹筒和一叠四方的粗糙的草纸，草纸上凿打的一行行小孔。只见她手指在水碗里每沾一下，便掀一张纸钱散向空中。
不知你们几时来，
不知你们几时去，
去大地尽头，
东坡那边，
都坍哎，都坍哟，
杀人不要半领米，
救人不要半毫分，
有苦有难都得救哟，
请你们都来齐！
你想绕过她，又怕碰到她肩膀，这身躯一推就倒，只好拨开她的脚踝，她却突然尖声大叫：
都丹哟，都丹依，
筷子细的脚，
头有鸭笼粗，
他来才快当，
他讲才算数，
请他快快来，
叫他莫耽误！
她一边尖叫，一边居然缓缓站起，朝你舞动手臂，一双鸡爪样的手指伸向你，直在你眼前唬弄，你不知哪来的勇气，挡开她手臂，撩起她黑布盖头，里面竟是个干瘪的小脸，双没有目光的眼窝，深深陷进之，嘴皮子张开却只露出一颗牙，似笑非笑，叫着还又跳。
五花红蛇到处游，
老虎豹子都出动，
山门呼呼在打开，
都从那石门来，
四面八方都喊全，
一个一个都叫齐，
快快去救那落难的人！
你企图摆脱她的纠缠，可他们都缓缓站了起来，一个个干柴样的老人团团把你围住，一片颤抖的声音跟着叫喊：
都丹依，都丹哟，
快快开门请四方，
寅时请卯时到，
请到雷公电母，
得马共骑，
得钱共用！
众人一起扑向你，冲你吼叫，声音又都憋在喉管里。你只得推开他们，一个一个嗡然倒地，纸做的那样轻飘，无声无息，周围便一片死寂。你顿时也就明白，那门洞布帘子背后，铺板上躺着的那人正是你自己。你不肯就这样死去，翻然要回归人世。
Soul Mountain
作者：Gao Xingjian
Gao Xingjian
Translation by Mabel Lee
Chapter One
The old bus is a city reject。 After shaking in it for twelve hours on the potholed highway since early morning you arrive in this mountain county town in the South。
In the bus station littered with ice…lollipop papers and sugar cane scraps； you stand with your backpack and a bag and look around for a while。
People are getting off the bus or walking past； men humping sacks and women carrying babies。 A crowd of youths； unhampered by sacks or baskets； have their hands free。 They take sunflower seeds out of their pockets； toss them one at a time into their mouths and spit out the shells。 With a loud crack the kernels are expertly eaten。 To be leisurely and carefree is endemic to the place。 They are locals and life has made them like this； they have been here for many generations and you wouldn’t need to go looking anywhere else for them。 The earliest to leave the place； of course at the time this bus station didn’t exist and probably there weren’t any buses； travelled by river in the black canopy boats and overland in hired carts or by foot if they didn’t have the money。 Nowadays； as long as they are still able to travel they flock back home； even from the other side of the Pacific； arriving in cars or big air…conditioned coaches。 The rich； the famous； and the nothing in particular all hurry back because they are getting old。 After all； who doesn’t love the home of their ancestors？ Of course they don’t intend to stay so they walk around looking relaxed； talking and laughing loudly； and effusing fondness and affection for the place。 Here； when friends meet they don’t just give a nod or a handshake in the meaningless ritual of city people； they shout the person’s name or thump him on the back。 Hugging is also common but not for women； who don’t do this。 By the cement trough where the buses are washed； two young women hold hands as they chat。 The women here have lovely voices and you can’t help taking a second look。 The one with her back to you is wearing an indigo…print head scarf。 This type of scarf； and how it’s tied； dates back many generations but is seldom seen nowadays。 You find yourself walking towards them。 The scarf is tied under her chin and the two ends point up。 She has a beautiful face。 Her features are delicate； so is her slim body。 You pass close by them。 They have been holding hands all this time； both have red coarse hands and strong fingers。 Both are probably recent brides back seeing relatives and friends； or visiting parents。 Here； the word xifu means one’s own daughter…in…law and using it like rustic Northerners to refer to any young married woman will immediately incur angry abuse。 On the other hand； a married woman calls her own husband laogong yet your laogong； and my laogong are also used。 People here speak with a unique intonation even though they are descendants of the same legendary emperors and are of the same culture and race。
You yourself can’t explain why you’re here。 It happened that you were on a train and this person mentioned a place called Lingshan。 He was sitting opposite and your cup was next to his。 As the train moved； the lids on the cups clattered against one another。 If the lids kept on clattering or clattered and then stopped； that would have been the end of it。 However； whenever you and he were about to separate the cups； the clattering would stop； and as soon as you and he looked away the clattering would start again。 He and you reached out； but again the clattering stopped。 The two of you laughed at the same instant； put the cups well apart； and started a conversation。 You ask him where he is going。
〃Lingshan。〃
〃What？〃
〃Lingshan； ling meaning spirit or soul； and shan meaning mountain。〃
You’ve been to lots of places； visited lots of famous mountains； but have never heard of this place。
Your friend opposite has closed his eyes and is dozing。 Like anyone else； you can’t help being curious and naturally want to know which famous places you’ve missed on your travels。 Also； you like doing things properly and it’s annoying that there’s a place you haven’t even heard about。 You ask him about the location of Lingshan。
〃At the source of the You River；〃 he says opening his eyes。
You don’t know this You River； either； but are embarrassed about asking and give an ambiguous nod which can mean either 〃I see； thanks〃 or 〃Oh； I know the place。〃 This satisfies your desire for superiority but not your curiosity。 After a while you ask how to get there and the route up the mountain。
〃Take the train to Wuyizhen； then go upstream by boat on the You River。〃
〃What’s there？ Scenery？ Temples？ Historic sites？〃 you ask； trying to be casual。
〃It’s all virgin wilderness。〃
〃Ancient forests？〃
〃Of course； but not just ancient forests。〃
〃What about Wild Men？〃 you say； joking。
He laughs but without any sarcasm； and he doesn’t seem to be making fun of himself which intrigues you even more。 You have to find out more about him。
〃Are you an ecologist？ A biologist？ An anthropologist？ An archaeologist？〃
He shakes his head each time then says； 〃I’m more interested in living people。〃
〃So you’re doing research on folk customs？ You’re a sociologist？ An ethnographer？ An ethnologist？ A journalist； perhaps？ An adventurer？〃
〃I’m an amateur in all of these。〃
The two of you start laughing。
〃I’m an expert amateur in all of these！〃
The laughing makes you and him cheerful。 He lights a cigarette and can’t stop as he tells you about the wonders of Lingshan。 Afterwards； at your request； he tears up his empty cigarette box and draws a map of the route up Lingshan。
In the North； it is already late autumn。 Here； however； the summer heat hasn’t completely subsided。 Before sunset； it is still quite hot in the sun and sweat starts running down your back。 You leave the station to look around。 There’s nothing nearby except for the little inn across the road。 It’s an old style building with a wooden shopfront and an upstairs。 Upstairs the floorboards creak badly but worse still is the grime on the pillow and sleeping mat。 To wash； you’d have to wait till it was dark to strip off and pour water over yourself in the damp narrow courtyard。 This is a stopover for the village peddlers and craftsmen。
It’s well before dark； so there’s plenty of time to find somewhere clean。 You walk down the road with your backpack to look over the little town； hoping to find some indication； a billboard or a poster； or just the name 〃Lingshan〃 to tell you you’re on the right track and haven’t been tricked into making this long excursion。 You look everywhere but don’t find anything。 There were no tourists like you amongst the other passengers who got off the bus。 Of course you’re not that sort of tourist； it’s just what you’re wearing： strong sensible sports shoes and a backpack with shoulder straps； no…one else is dressed like you。 Of course； this isn’t one of the tourist spots frequented by newlyweds and retirees。 Those places have been transformed by tourism； coaches are parked everywhere and tourist maps are on sale。 Tourist hats； tourist T…shirts； tourist singlets and tourist handkerchiefs bearing the name of the place are in all the little shops and stalls； and the name of the place is used in the trade names of all the 〃foreign exchange currency only〃 hotels for foreigners； the 〃locals with references only〃 hostels and sanatoriums； and of course the small private hotels competing for customers。 You haven’t come to enjoy yourself in one of those places on the sunny side of a mountain where people congregate just to look at and jostle one another； and to add to the litter of melon rind； fruit peel； soft drink bottles； cans； cartons； sandwich wrappings and cigarette butts。 Sooner or later this place will also