In early August, according to the lunar calendar, the lingering heat of the Western Ranges had not yet fully withdrawn, and yet, within the mountains, autumn had already begun to lay down its faint first colors.

The morning sky was clear and freshly washed. Wisps of white cloud drifted lightly overhead. In the distance, range upon range of mountains rose and folded into one another; amid the deep green, here and there appeared flecks of cinnabar red—wild maples that had changed color ahead of season, and Chinese tallow trees newly dressed in autumn robes. A mountain wind came softly along the gorge, carrying the fragrance of pine resin, the cool breath of running water, and the faint sweetness of nameless wildflowers, so that one’s heart seemed, all at once, to open wide.

Twenty-odd miles southeast of the little town of Qianzhou in western Yue Region stood the South Heavenly Mountain, known since ancient times as “the foremost blessed mountain south of the Five Ridges.” Halfway up the mountain, ancient trees towered toward the sky, waterfalls hung like white silk, and among green pines and emerald bamboo rested a thousand-year-old monastery—South Heavenly Temple. Whenever the people below the mountain were blessed with some joyous event, they would often come here to burn incense and fulfill their vows, giving thanks for the protection of Heaven, Earth, gods, and Buddhas.

That morning, Zhao Youlan led her two sons slowly from the town toward the mountain.

She was past forty, with gentle brows and kind eyes. Though years of household labor had traced fine lines at the corners of her eyes, they only made her appear more tender and compassionate. She wore a blue cotton blouse washed almost pale with age, and over her shoulder she carried a bamboo basket. Inside were incense sticks, candles, fruit, and several pieces of glutinous rice cake she had made with her own hands.

Walking on her left was her eldest son, Ma Rende, thirteen years of age.

The boy had already begun to grow tall. His features were clear and refined, his eyes bright. That summer, he had just been admitted to the county’s key high school, and the whole family had rejoiced. The previous year, Zhao Youlan had made a vow before the Bodhisattva of South Heavenly Temple. Now that her wish had been fulfilled, she had naturally come in person to give thanks.

Mountain Walk In Autumn

On her right was her youngest, five-year-old younger son, Ma Xinde.

The little fellow wore his hair cropped short, and his eyes were dark and shining like grapes. All along the road, he was either chasing butterflies or picking up pinecones; whatever he saw seemed fresh and wondrous to him.

“Mother!”

Ma Xinde suddenly stopped and pointed ahead at a colored butterfly, clapping his little hands in delight.

“That butterfly is wearing flower clothes!”

Zhao Youlan smiled and said, “That is a swallowtail. Don’t catch it. It has to go home too.”

“Where is its home?”

“Where the flowers bloom, that is its home.”

The child nodded as though he understood and yet did not. He chased the butterfly a few steps farther, but the little creature floated leisurely across the stream and landed among a patch of wild chrysanthemums. Xinde had no choice but to pout and return.

Ma Rende could not help laughing. “Little brother, if you run any farther, you won’t be able to find Mother for a while.”

“Brother is lying. My ears are sharp. If Mother calls me, I’ll hear her!”

Zhao Youlan gently patted both children.

“Walk slowly. The mountain path is slippery.”

The three of them climbed the stone steps at an unhurried pace.

Those steps had endured several hundred years of wind and rain, worn smooth and glossy by the feet of countless pilgrims. On either side, ancient banyans let down their trailing roots, and mountain vines wound around tree trunks. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and fell upon the stone path, where patches of golden light seemed to leap softly from step to step.

A mountain spring flowed out from among the rocks, clear enough to see straight to the bottom.

Ma Xinde squatted down and scooped up a handful of water. It was so cold that he cried out with a little “Ah!”

“Brother, it’s cold!”

Ma Rende bent down too and cupped some water in his hands.

The spring water was sweet on the tongue, even clearer and cooler than the water from their well at home.

Zhao Youlan looked at her two sons, and a smile rose unconsciously to her face.

She suddenly remembered that when Rende had been little, he too had once crouched by the stream like this, insisting on moving the stones one by one, saying that the Dragon King must be hiding underneath.

In the blink of an eye, that tearful little child had grown into a graceful young boy.

At this thought, her heart filled with pride, and yet, faintly, with an ache of reluctance.

The autumn wind stirred the treetops.

Mountain birds sang sweetly among the woods.

Now and then a squirrel leapt across a branch, its tail like a tuft of soft cloud, vanishing in a flash among the leaves.

Sharp-eyed Ma Xinde called out again.

“Mother! Look!”

Zhao Youlan lifted her head and saw a flock of white egrets rising from the distant rice fields. They skimmed across the valley, their snowy wings reflecting the blue sky like scattered fragments of auspicious cloud.

“So beautiful,” she murmured.

Ma Rende gazed into the distance and suddenly said, quite earnestly, “Mother, when I have studied well, I will take you to places much farther away.”

Zhao Youlan smiled.

“Silly child.”

“In all my life, the farthest place your mother has ever gone is this Heavenly Mountain.”

“Mother, didn’t you say our old home was in the great cities of Suzhou and Hangzhou? Isn’t that farther away?”

Zhao Youlan grew thoughtful and said, “That was when I was little. Though I lived in the city then, girls had few chances to travel far from home. I had never seen great mountains.”

She paused, then looked again toward the layered green peaks.

“But I feel this mountain is already very good.”

Ma Rende was silent for a moment, then nodded softly.

All at once, he felt that this mountain of green slopes, clear wind, and white clouds was dearer and more intimate than all the famous mountains and rivers he had read about in books, and even dearer than the cities of his mother’s youth.

The family continued upward.

The mountain path climbed higher, and the clouds drew nearer.

From far above, upon the summit, there suddenly came the long, deep sound of a bell.

Dong, Dong—

The bell note drifted on and on, passing through the forest, crossing the ravines, and echoing without end among the surrounding peaks.

Even the wind seemed to slow. The birds in the woods fell silent. Even the murmuring stream seemed to chant softly along with the bell.

Zhao Youlan stopped, joined her palms, and bowed in silence toward the mountaintop.

The two children followed their mother’s example and respectfully brought their palms together.

The mountain wind lifted the hems of their clothes and stirred the endless bamboo, making it rustle softly.

Heaven and earth were clear and bright. The surrounding peaks seemed to smile.

In that moment, mountains and rivers were at peace, and the human world was tranquil.

None of them knew that the invisible hands of fate were already hidden deep within the years, waiting for some future day, when they would gently turn this ordinary, warm happiness toward another page.