We’ll tell him our problems and ask for help, Li Wei says simply.
The answer doesn’t surprise me. Li Wei is more straightforward about some things than I am. Coming from the Peacock Court, where we work with more structure and formalities, I’m hesitant just to rush forward without a concrete plan. You’re still assuming that what happened to the other village was part of some misunderstanding, I say. What if it wasn’t? What if he knows and did nothing?
Then we will have nothing to do with him, Li Wei says. We’ll take matters into our own hands.
I don’t know how I feel about that—or how we’d even go about it—but I decide not to argue the matter until we know for sure the line keeper was complicit. For now, we must go to him and find out what we can.
The usual morning mist covers the mountains, but the day is warming quickly, promising us that summer hasn’t quite left yet. Li Wei has a better sense of how and where we descended the mountain, and he leads us back in the direction of the zip line. We walk through more forest, seeing little sign of human civilization but keeping our eyes open for more persimmons or other edibles. We also pass a few small woodland animals, causing us both to pause in contemplation. Game is as rare as agriculture up in our village, and sadly, animals usually don’t last long due to the lack of sustenance in our rocky soil. We make no attempts at hunting today—not when we’re so near our goal.
Soon enough we see the line coming down the mountain, suspended high over the trees and treacherous cliffs. Seeing it this way is just as surreal to me as this new bottom view of the mountains. For all my life, I’ve seen shipments of precious food come up that line from a mysterious location. Never did I dream we’d arrive there—or that it would be so underwhelming.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a small, nondescript shed at the base of the zip line. Sitting beside it, getting what shade he can from the overhanging of the thatched roof, is a middle-aged man with thinning hair. Two things about him strike me immediately. The first is his clothing. It’s made of cotton, just like my artist’s attire, but there’s a freshness to it that’s rarely seen in our village, where cloth is at such a premium that new clothing is a luxury. The other thing about him that takes me aback is that he’s . . . plump. Outside of babies and drawings from old stories, I’ve never really seen anyone with extra fat, and I find myself gaping.
Li Wei and I stand there, neither of us sure what to do. The man is slumped against the shack’s walls, looking as though he might be dozing. Li Wei shifts slightly, making his pack rattle, and the man’s eyes open in in surprise. He can hear, I realize. He jumps to his feet, putting a rumpled cotton hat on his head, and looks between our faces expectantly. Then something truly remarkable happens: Sound comes from his lips.
It’s not a scream, not laughter. It’s like nothing I’ve yet encountered in my brief experience with hearing, a series of rapid sounds of different lengths and shapes. I realize, with a start, that I must be hearing human speech for the first time. Only, I have no idea what it means. And I certainly have no idea how to make it in return.
Hesitantly, I lift my hands. Our records say that the language we use with our hands is based on a preexisting one used by our migratory ancestors, specifically those who lost hearing through diseases or other known causes. I have no idea if that means others in the lowlands still use this method of communication or if only those without hearing do. Regardless, I bow and then sign a greeting: Hello, most exalted line keeper. My name is Fei, and this is Li Wei. We have traveled a great distance from the village on the top of the mountain to speak with you about grave matters.