CRANE

A journey through the sky and the mind

一只奇异的鹤载着一栋有好风景的房子和一个寂寞的男人，他们会飞向何方？

He let his head hang. That way he could better consider certain things. He could see the skin below his chest and a large section of shining white fl oor. The brightness did all it could not to draw any attention, but it still stirred an anxiety within him. He noticed his skin had formed excessive slack, as if in that instant he had aged ten years—a direct reaction to the bright rays.

He entered the inner room, abandoning the brightness behind him. He knew that, with each step he took, the glow would fade by a degree, until all that remained was darkness. Far in the interior of the room, heavy fl annel curtains blocked out all the rays. Clouds of dust fl oated down and gathered in the corners. This further obstructed the refraction of rays, which would fi nd themselves immobilized, as if bound with rope.

Naturally, the darkest place was inaccessible. The crane standing in the corner of the room held its head high. Its black eyes were profound and serene and following them deeper led to thedarkness’s last dwelling. For the moment, he could only stand at the exterior of that lodging, peering inside with curiosity and a little greed.

The crane fl apped its wings. Why it did so was not apparent, but it looked irritated. It had stood there a long time and usually had the patience to adjust to his presence. But, slowly, it fl apped its wings and began to fl y around the room. He stood below, somewhat terri fi ed. The crane expanded. It grew so large that the room could no longer tolerate it. The crane’s two wings and head extended out of the walls so that now it was transporting the room on its body as it fl ew.

He recalled that fantastic event, and thought that perhaps what was happening was that event. In truth, he could not see what was happening outside. The crane’s body barricaded the view. He could only imagine the crane carrying the room on its body as it fl ew. The crane now engulfed the room. He was buried in dense feathers. Its hot fl esh was right above his head. It was, admittedly, an unbearable taste and feeling. He only hoped the crane would land quickly or would swell until the room burst. That way he could fall to the ground amidst a dazzling new fi eld of view.

Thinking of his room, he was reluctant to let it go. It was a pretty room. Its appeal was not only the beauty of its decor and design, but the outdoors, a splendid piece of scenery. Nowadays, there were few of these stand-alone houses with beautiful views available. In truth, he could not even remember where else he had seen a house exactly like this one: a stand-alone structure facing an open plain with a cluster of mountains in the distance. He could also not remember how he had acquired it—had he bought it? Had he rented it? No recollection surfaced from the ocean of his thoughts. He just knew that every day, from daybreak to nightfall, he had leaned out of that window to gaze at the scenery with nobody coming to bother him. It was as if the surrounding population didn’t exist. He had also never experienced such anxiety—to him, as long as the house and the scenery remained, all would be fi ne. People were not important.

Now he fretted about where the crane would fl y. He knew it had to land someplace. He didn’t know where it would land, or how long it would stay there. He also didn’t know if it would bring the house along when it left again. He concluded his anxiety stemmed from the fear of a new place. He didn’t know what kind of place it would take him to. If he didn’t like the place then it was probable his whole life was lost.

The crane fi nally let some space into the room. He could put his head out the window to look around. Most of the time he only saw white clouds whooshing by. Sometimes he saw a bird or two brushing passed his window. The crane appeared to have a disdainful disregard for these birds, whose frames and appearance were awkward by comparison. In any case, he didn’t see any signs of agitation. The crane just fl apped its wings, silently casting its shadow over the other birds. In an instant, it had fl own past them and was rushing into the next layer of clouds.

MA ER马耳

Ma Er lives in Guiling, Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, founder and editor of online literary magazine Shikongliu (《时空流》, Streams of Time and Space). Ma mixes ancient myth with modern imagery and writes with clarity and sophistication.

His simple but accurate use of words constructs a world of fable, fantasy, and reality. “Streams of time and space” is also a literary theory proposed originally by Ma—that by studying the past, projecting the future, and ultimately focusing on the present, a writer breaks the rigid boundaries of time and space to achieve a more fluid understanding of the unique characteristics of the era.

The crane’s fl ight patterns were as follows: In the morning and evening it would fl y low, as though it was tired or testing the limits of its laziness. Only at noon, when the weather was at its clearest, would it fl y to the maximum altitudes. Up high, temperatures were frigid and the air was restless. He mostly huddled up in a corner of the room and shuddered as he looked out the window at the clouds sweeping past. But up high, clouds were actually rather scarce. He mostly had to rely on his instincts to guess what was happening outside—there was an oil lamp on the table, and even though it was securely mounted, the fl ickering of the fl ame explained to him the crane’s turbulent path. He mostly watched the prancing fl ame andimagined the fl ying crane, its body sloping upward as it climbed and its wings not beating as it glided on a rising current. It only needed to follow the ascending fl ow; that was all. But still, its body couldn’t avoid making violent tremors and so the wings were required to act as a stabilizing mechanism. They looked like two kites doing their best to maintain relative stability as the crane rocked to the left and to the right, allowing it to sail, ever soaring through the air. This beautiful fl ight looked just like a dance, but one that involved tremendous risk.

He understood that fl ying at this height was necessary—the crane was approaching a blockade constructed of many mountains. Only by catching the rising air currents could it make it over the rows of summits. But by instinct he preferred fl ying at low altitudes. That was when he could free himself from the fetters of angst and lean out of the window into the screaming winds to scan the distance. He could see plains, rivers, ponds, and low hills and never grew tired of looking at these things.

Once in a while there were people on the hills, standing there like statues—always a lone fi gure. That moved him and reminded him of him. So he stretched out of the window as far as he could to get a closer look, but he never saw more than a fuzzy silhouette. He couldn’t tell if that person could see him—this spectacle of a huge bird carrying a house. It was likely that nobody could miss it.

But that was not certain. Even as the crane fl ew lower it was still far from the ground and the people on the hills still only looked like little black and white spots. They would not be able to tell what kind of bird this was; much less perceive the house it carried. There were moments when he felt strange. He could not understand what he had become—a cartoon character, or some pitiful creature living in a real dream world. He might not be any better than a parasitic lice lodged in bird feathers; even though his senses were cognizant of far more than those of a louse.

The crane’s occasional landings were bland. Most of the time it landed in barren swamplands. Sometimes he didn’t even dare leave the house. He was afraid that the ants crawling out of the swamps would bite him to death. Some of the better landings, on waterfronts, were nonetheless lifeless scenes. The shores and water were strewn with the white bones of animal carcasses. The landing he remembered best was on the edge of a clear stream. He caught a shiny, silver fi sh in his hands and played with it. The crane walked over, stretched out its neck and pecked the fi sh out of his palms. It put the fi sh on the ground and pecked it a few more times. It kept pecking it until it was bloody and raw, but didn’t even eat it.

When they took fl ight, he stayed in the window to watch the fi sh. It had long died, but it appeared to him to have transformed into another kind of animal—a kind of nameless, immortal life form. What he saw transpire was evidence of this: When the crane had just taken off, he saw it was a bloody fi sh with its tangled entrails showing. As the crane climbed, the scene gradually changed. A new form emerged from within the dead fi sh. It was no longer a repulsive red and black carcass. It appeared as an abstract black and red shape. The crane created a new kind of life. His anger toward the bird quickly dissipated. At night, in the dark, he would often wonder: had he become the crane’s prisoner? The slave image lingered in his thoughts, causing his sleep to become restless. The crane never opened its mouth or said a word, but from its black, opaque eyes he could discern that it was thinking. What it thought—he couldn’t know.

One evening, they landed in a patch of weeds. Deep in the night, he heard the crane crying in pain. He woke to it rocking violently and in the confusion he leapt out of the window.

Just then, the commotion stopped. He saw the crane trembling and slanted to the ground with a mangled lump of bloody fl esh at its rear end.

At daybreak, he saw that it was a bird with a build similar to that of the crane. But its body was much smaller and it did not appear to be the product of birth, as it did not have the form of a newly hatched chick, even though there was blood spattered all over the crane’s backside.

This time they rested for a few days. The crane needed time to regain its strength. It was the longest he had spent on land since they had fi rst taken fl ight and he was thrilled. He scoured a nearby piece of land and climbed every hill he could reach. He discovered a maze of narrow trails that crisscrossed through the hills and wilderness butnever found out where they led. Every time he followed a trail for a certain distance, a powerful force would grip him and urge him to go back from where he came. Perhaps he was afraid to leave any signs of the crane too far behind.

When the crane fi nally fl ew again, he noticed that the small trails formed the huge image of a bird. They were actually one trail, with no beginning or end that meandered through the hills and wilderness, continually crossing and parting as if it was some kind of disorganized game.

So, all that searching had been in vain. He had to be pleased that he hadn’t explored the trails any further, even if he felt a faint regret. He wondered if perhaps things on the ground were a different rendition.

During this fl ight, the crane changed. It shrunk a little. This opened up even more room in his house and obviously that was a good thing, but he began to question it. Their journey continued, but now covered in a shadow of uncertainty. He needed to think hard about this.

He truly desired to know where the crane was fl ying, but of the things he could learn, that was the least likely. Of all his options, the best choice was to lean out of the window and watch the crane for long periods of time. The crane rarely lowered its head to look at him and he did his best not to alarm it. But he would study its every movement with more care: every fl ap of its wings and the gentle turning of its long neck.

It was getting smaller and smaller now. After a month it was only two thirds of its previous size. That slowed its speed and tamed its movements. He sat in the room and could feel his chest swelling. It felt like there was something that was going to burst from inside him.

One day, as his chest ballooned, tremors shook the house. He ran to the window and looked outside anxiously. The room was approaching the ground. The crane was preparing to land. It was only noon. The crane had never landed at this time of day before.

Outside, uneven shadows swayed over his window. A few days earlier, he had experienced a vague premonition and covered his window with a piece of translucent bamboo paper in order to keep out any outside rays or scenery.

After another violent tremor, the house landed on the ground. The shadows outside grew more distinct. A few of them gathered on the glass, effusing a red-white hue. Familiar sounds and voices entered the room. Even if he had long forgotten them, the last thing he wanted to hear at that moment was those sounds and voices. Still, they crept in through every crack in the house.

He could almost see their faces: small, tapered faces with sparse white beards on the edges. When a wind blew they fl oated around his room, fl oating into every corner. He sulked in his room for the rest of the day. In the evening, the sounds and voices drifted away and everything fell silent.

He slowly opened the window and saw an avenue of cold light that was wide and as straight as a pen. It had a mirror—like surface made of glossy stone tiles that stretched into the distance. On either side there were countless low houses in a build similar to his. They all had their lights out, only allowing clean moon rays to sprinkle the edges of their roofs.

He jumped from the window as softly as he could and climbed up the crane’s belly, slowly making his way onto its back. He then followed its curved neck all the way to its long, sharp beak.

The crane opened its eyes. From atop the beak, he looked into them and saw a plain stretching in fi nitely.

The crane stood up. Towering above the road and houses, it began to gently beat its wings. He saw two dried leaves starting to whirl around its body. They were huge, solid, and looked as though if they were to strike him it would be fatal. He gripped the crane’s beak fi rmly.

The crane slowly rose. A whirlwind pounded against him and shattered the two dry leaves. He could see the shinning road start to narrow. The outlines of a city appeared underneath him, and then gradually dissolved from his sight.

On this fl ight, he was deathly cold and saw high mountains up close for the fi rst time. As they passed over them, the crane tilted its wings and looked like an arrow fl ying at an upward angle shooting past the jagged peaks. Terri fi ed and thrilled he crawled onto the crane’s back and lowered himself into its feathers for warmth. He heard loud blasts ringing around his ears, as if there was a giant foot kicking him over and over. Eventually he slid down the crane’s feathers like a drop of water and returned into the house.

After that, the crane continued shrinking. Its fl ying became increasingly unsteady. Every so often it would drop vertically from the air and land in a bustling neighborhood or at the mouth of a tall chimney. He also endured the shadows endlessly returning to sway on his window, the blaring city sounds and frightening gloom. The farther ahead they fl ew, the denser the city became. It was also getting larger.

He felt as though he had reached the end of a road.

The boundary was the closed window that would either open to a straight passageway or a deep chasm. Actually, the passage and the chasm were the same. The passagewas a level trap, the chasm a vertical road.

There was a problem. He couldn’t open the window. As long as the shadows remained he was like a mouse backed into the corner of the room who could only slip out late in the night. The city blocks they landed in were always fi lled with a maze of roads running in all directions and chasms surrounded the chimney mouths. The strange thing was that no matter where they were, daytime was constantly fi lled with shadows. It was as though they existed in every corner the sunlight reached. It was only by fl ying into the sky that their presence could be escaped.

The torment lingered, and the crane continued shrinking. Eventually, one day he discovered it had returned to its original size. It could only fl y around in the room. Having lost the crane’s support, the house dropped and shaved the dense crowns of a few trees before it made a smooth landing.

At fi rst, everything was a quiet and that brought him some relief. But soon he started to see the many long and short shadows on his window. Their familiar sounds and voices seeped into the room, attacking him from all directions.

Feeling wretched, he was determined not to leave the room. Even at nightfall he wouldn’t open the window. He imagined it would be a grisly, hellish world. All he hoped was for the crane to return to its giant form and rise off with the room once more. But the crane had resumed its old habits. It fl uttered around the room, showing no trace of its transformation.

So, they were each other’s prisoner. The crane could not take him fl ying and he could not let it fl y away. He sat dumbstruck on his bed, gaping at the wall, when the crane leapt up beside him. Now it was the crane that made the effort to observe him. It tilted its head, locking one glossy black eye with his. It suffused a small cold light that fi lled his fi eld of vision and then transformed into a glittering gem. He could now only see the layer of gleam on the eye’s surface and was no longer able to look into it. The two were left to face one another in silence. He closed his eyes and everything went black. He opened them and his big eyes met with its little eye. Occasionally, the crane would take off mischievously, causing the house to jump off the ground and send him a jolt of surprise.

Once the excitement passed, the days felt longer and even more miserable.

Seeing the crane standing at the head of his bed entranced in stillness, he was able to relax and return to his own thoughts. He watched the shadows outside his window slanting and getting longer by the day. He knew that some unavoidable changes had taken place.

The shifting outside and stagnation inside piled together, deepening his anxiety. He worried that in the days ahead that critical point would be reached and he would be forced to open the window.

He sat in distress, with much time passing until his thoughts had hardened. He noticed a long, hard beak sticking out beneath his eyes. He barely sensed it.

The change felt natural. It was not until his neck and body had grown thick plumage that he was startled. But by then the process was irreversible. He stood in front of the dressing mirror day after day, watching the transformation in hysteria, stretching his un fl edged wings into the room and fl apping them. At the other end, the crane stood at the head of the bed watching him with its glossy black eyes. It had a pure yet arrogant air as it observed this person who resembled it more by the day.

In the end, he transformed into a crane. And one day he used his in fl ated body to take the house fl ying. The fi rst time he went up he had climbed high, for he rushed to pass every cloud he saw. Some time later, he was picked up by a rising air current and soared even higher. He saw a mountain towering before him.

The current rushed him along. High ground fl ew towards him. Only now did he perceive the danger. But it was too late. The current thrust him at the wall of the mountain. The house shattered. He saw a swarm of

debris and furniture plunging to the ground behind him. Within the mass he saw the large dressing mirror and his re fl ection diving to the ground behind him. Inside the re fl ection he saw the large dressing mirror and his re fl ection inside it—one distraught, tumbling man.

As he fell, he was thinking:

What happened to that crane?

– TRANSLATED BY NICHOLAS RICHARDS (芮尼克)

Author’s Note: I loved flying as a kid and have read many stories about it. The Greek myth of Icarus flying through the sky on the wax wings of Daedalus was the one that impressed me the most, which is probably the inspiration for this story. The crane is also my favorite bird, an ethereal creature—apathetic and mysterious. The man in the story is a modern figure trying to hold on to an ancient myth. He is hesitant and weak but never loses hope completely; instead, he continues to try new possibilities. In the end, the house is broken and the man falls to ground, rendering him a modern man again—a pitiful but inevitable end.