Tales from the Borderlands

Chen Sanshui knocked his oar against the side of the boat, and the sunset shattered across the water like broken porcelain. The bamboo canopy of the covered boat had faded white in the sun, while the tung oil at the stern glowed amber in the evening light. It was his first time back since leaving Bianshui Town twelve years ago. The old locust tree by the dock was still there, but the four characters he had carved into it back then, “Sanshui was here,” had long since been weathered into a pockmarked mess.

“San... Sanshui?” Yaomei, crouched by the dock shucking clams, flinched. A clam shell dropped into the water, scattering the minnows swimming nearby. Her woven bamboo hat had slipped to one side, revealing a dark-red birthmark on her left cheek, like a drop of ink on rice paper. Chen Sanshui remembered that mark. Twenty years ago, when he helped Yaomei snatch her kite back from a water ghost, her face had been unmarked.

“Yaomei.” Chen Sanshui jumped ashore, his straw sandals scraping over the bluestone slabs. “Where’s your brother?” His gaze swept over the fishing boats along the shore. Most were wrapped in plastic sheeting, their hulls coated in green moss; only three or four still had nets hanging from them. Yaomei didn’t answer. She pointed to the fish-drying racks in the distance, where dozens of dried mandarin fish hung, their scales making a faint crackling sound in the breeze.

Chen Sanshui’s throat suddenly tightened. When he left twelve years ago, the dock had been crowded with fishing boats unloading their catch, and the air had smelled of fish and rice wine. Now, only a handful of old people remained, dozing in bamboo chairs. He touched the water-dividing knife at his waist. The red cord wrapped around its handle had faded. His mother had pressed it into his hands on her deathbed, telling him, “If you meet a water ghost, strike it on the forehead.”