The Boy from the Mountain

My name is Michael Lincoln, and my hometown is Stone Village, deep in Stone Mountain. The old locust tree at the village entrance is older than my grandfather; in spring, its white blossoms fall onto the mud-brick rooftops like a thin veil of snow. The mud-brick house where my family lived was built by my grandfather, its plaster mottled and worn. Leaks during the plum rain season were so frequent they ceased to surprise. Grandfather and I slept in the inner room; each night, three enamel basins had to be set out to catch the rain. The drip-drip sound kept one awake, yet it was the most familiar lullaby of my childhood. Corn pancakes were the staple food, mixed with bran, biting harshly on the throat. Occasionally, when we went to market, grandfather would buy two white steamed buns; I was reluctant to eat them. I would break the steamed buns into small pieces, tuck them into my pocket, and share them with the little girl next door after school. Her father died early, her mother suffered from asthma; their family was even more destitute than mine. As a child, I helped tend the cattle; the rope chafed my wrists red. I sat on the hillside, singing toward the valley, the wind carrying my voice far away. The echo drifted back, wrapped in the scent of fresh grass, the sole light in a barren life. Once, my grandfather took me to the county town to sell mountain goods, and we passed a music store. A singing competition played in the display window; on stage, performers wore sequined costumes and sang. I couldn't move my feet until my grandfather pulled me, saying, “Let's go; you'll never be a singer like this.” That night, I lay in the leaking house, clutching the half-digested cornbread as I made a wish. If only I could make a living from singing, my grandfather wouldn't have to carry fifty grams of mountain goods for miles on end. When I was seventeen, the county TV station came to our village to hold a talent audition. The village head pulled me out of the cattle pen and pressed a faded blue shirt into my hands. It was the only decent shirt my father had in his youth, the collar threadbare and worn through. The audition took place on the playground of the town middle school, on a makeshift stage draped with a worn, red carpet. The crowd below cracked sunflower seeds and shouted, "Don't waste time," while I clutched the hem of my clothes and stepped onto the stage. I sang an old mountain song my grandmother had taught me, its lyrics steeped in the mountains and rivers of Stone Village. The judges exchanged a glance and, to my surprise, handed me a card to advance. Only later did I realize they found the label "country kid" a conversation starter. On the day of the city semifinals, my grandfather sold eggs for half a year to collect fifty for the travel expenses. As he pressed the money into my hand, the veins on the back of his hand stood out, dirt clinging between his fingers, and he said, "Michael, if it doesn't work out, just come home, it’s fine." I gnawed on dry steamed bread throughout the journey on the green-shelled train. In the semi-finals, I sang a song I had written myself, with lyrics that spoke of "the rain on the mud-brick house" and "the cattle on the hillside." After a few moments of silence from the judges, they applauded; I stumbled my way into the national finals. The label of "country kid" made me stand out like a sore thumb among the glamorous contestants. Others wore custom-made gowns and were attended by makeup artists. I had only a borrowed suit; the cuffs were half a sleeve too short, the pant legs rolled twice, yet still ill-fitting. The judges said my "voice bore the weight of life." But I know those were bitter days, carved deep into my very bones. That night of the final, the stage lights flashed so brightly I could barely keep my eyes open. As I reached the chorus, I suddenly thought of my grandfather lying in bed; he suffered from emphysema, without money for hospital care, forced to endure herbal remedies at home. His cough echoed through the courtyard, tears fell onto the stage, splattering like little droplets. The applause from the crowd was louder than ever; in the end, I won third place. The trophy felt heavy in my hands, yet it could never warm me like the steamed bun my grandfather had given me. After I became famous, commercial performances and endorsements followed one after another. I moved from a mud-brick house to a city apartment with an elevator, trading corn pancakes for steaks. Yet my heart always felt empty, as if something was missing. Late at night, lying on a soft bed, I often thought of the days when I would lean on someone else's windowsill to listen in on lessons. Our village had only one primary school; I never attended kindergarten. Every day, I would lean on the first-grade classroom windowsill, following the teacher's lessons. Even with hands red from the cold, I was reluctant to leave, just wanting to learn more.