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.
The man gapes, and his eyes bug out. It’s clear that he doesn’t understand what I’ve said . . . but it seems to me he recognizes that I was speaking with my hands, as though perhaps he’s encountered others who do as well.
What do we do? Li Wei asks me when no immediate answer comes.
I make a motion of painting or writing with my hand and then look at the man expectantly. The line keeper occasionally sends notes to communicate with us, so surely he must keep supplies here. I think my meaning is clear, but it takes a few more repeated attempts before he understands. When he does, he shakes his head, which surprises me. How was he communicating with our lead supplier if he has no writing tools on hand?
Stumped, we resort to much more basic attempts. Li Wei touches my shoulder and his own chest, then points up to the top of the mountain, tracing along the zip line. He then signals that we have descended the mountain, coming to this spot. I watch the line keeper closely as Li Wei maneuvers, and I feel myself growing increasingly puzzled. This isn’t at all the kind of man I expected. At the very least, I imagined someone a little more intelligent. Maybe we can’t communicate in the same language, but Li Wei’s gesturing is pretty basic. The man finally seems to grasp where we’ve come from, and that realization almost frightens him. He shifts from foot to foot, looking troubled and conflicted.
At last, he gestures that we should sit down. He points at himself, then at the small dirt road winding away from the shed, and indicates he will return. When Li Wei takes a couple of steps forward to suggest we accompany him, the man frantically shakes his head and reiterates that we should sit and wait.
Li Wei and I exchange looks. What else can we do? I ask. Maybe he’s going to get someone who knows our language. Or at least some paper and ink.
Our deliberation slams to a halt when the man hurriedly goes inside the shed and returns with a crate. He sets it on the ground and opens it, beckoning us over. We come closer, and I can’t help but gasp. The crate is filled with food. I’ve never seen so much at once. Small buns, radishes, onions, rice, dried fruit. It is staggering, and I know my awe is reflected in Li Wei’s face. The man gestures grandly that it is for us, his motions sweeping and generous. He urges us to sit down and eat while he is gone, and it is an offer we have a very difficult time refusing. The persimmons were a joyous discovery, but the one I ate this morning didn’t make much of a filling breakfast.