Unseen Guardian

Ghost Dog

As noon drew near, Ling said to her twelve-year-old daughter, Xue, who had just come in, “Your aunt has opened a shop selling rice noodle rolls, and your grandma went there to help and won’t be back until the afternoon. You’ll deliver lunch to your Pota.”

“Every day?”

“Yeah, as long as you stay here.”

“But I’m not sure how to get to Pota’s house.” Xue had been there before, but the route was a blur in her mind. The houses in the village were interconnected and looked similar.

“Yong can show you the way. He’s going home for lunch and can take you.”

“And the lunch for Pota?”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll prepare some pork porridge.”

At noon, Yong, pedaling ahead on his bicycle, led the way while Xue followed on hers. A steel lunch box, wrapped in a plastic bag, rested in the basket at the front of her bike. They crossed a road and descended along a sloping dirt path.

“Careful, this hill is quite steep,” Yong warned.

“Understood,” Xue responded, her left hand on the rear brake, controlling her descent.

Lychee trees, heavy with bright red fruits, lined the road. Now and then, birds flitted between the branches, their cheerful chirping filling the air.

Before long, they came upon an almost circular pond.

“See, that’s why it’s called Ritang Village,” Yong explained. “Ritang means pond like the sun.”

They anchored their bicycles beside the iconic gatehouse adjacent to the pond, marking the village’s entrance. The gatehouse, an epitome of traditional Chinese design, mimicked the form of a stone arch. Detailed carvings of dragons, phoenixes, and lions, symbols of good fortune, adorned its pillars. The roof, elegantly arched with decorative ridges and curling eaves, added to its grandeur. Painted in striking red and gold, the gatehouse was a vivid symbol of prosperity within the village.

Xue, clutching the steel lunch box, shadowed Yong along the village’s narrow lanes. These pathways were hemmed in by low houses constructed from mud or lime plaster, their surfaces bearing the patina of time. Here and there, cow dung dotted the path, prompting Xue to tread carefully to avoid it. Around several homes, villagers tended to their pigs, chickens, and ducks, the air mingling with the odors of livestock, the smoky scent of burning wood, and the aroma of home-cooked meals.

Yong halted. “Take note of this store; we turn left here.”

Xue committed the direction to memory. They paused before a mud house.

“This is it,” Yong said.

Xue scanned the surroundings for markers to remember Pota’s house. Mud walls tinged with lime stood on either side of the dwelling.

“Do you know how to get back to the gatehouse?” Yong said.

“I should manage.”

“I’ll be back around one to escort you to the brick factory. Once you get the hang of it, you can make the trip alone.” With that, Yong departed.

Xue stepped into the mud house. Inside was a square courtyard paved in concrete, featuring a hand-operated water pump in one corner. To the right was the kitchen, with the bathroom adjacent. The other three sides housed various rooms, with the living room opposite the kitchen, its door slightly open. Xue nudged the door open and entered the living room, furnished with a tea table, a larger table, and two beds. Her great-grandma was sleeping on the rightmost bed.

“Pota, it’s me, Xue,” she called out, mindful of Pota’s poor hearing.

Pota made an effort to sit up. Xue approached, set the lunch box on a nearby table, and assisted her into a sitting position. She placed a pillow by the bed and helped her Pota lean against it. Pota seemed frail, her hair gray and coiled into a bun. Her face was etched with brown wrinkles and age spots, deep lines creasing her forehead, her eyes difficult to fully open.

“Would you like some porridge?” Xue enunciated, bringing the lunch box closer to Pota’s ears. “Porridge.”

Pota nodded. Settling at the bed’s edge, Xue retrieved a spoon from the plastic bag and scooped up a spoonful. As Pota opened up, Xue noticed the porridge had sizeable chunks of pork, not quite finely cut.

With only a few teeth remaining, Pota chewed slowly. She pulled out the pork piece by hand, tearing it into smaller bits before placing them back into her mouth. This process was repeated several times until she consumed a single piece of pork. Xue decided it would be best to feed Pota just the porridge.

After a few mouthfuls, Pota said, “Pork.”

Xue tried using the spoon to break the pork into smaller pieces, but without much success. She mused how a pair of scissors, easily cleaned with hot water, would make the task simpler.

“Do you have any scissors?” Xue leaned in closer to ensure she was heard.

“What?”

Xue let out a sigh. She watched Pota put in considerable effort to chew and swallow each piece. Feeling as if someone might be watching them, Xue glanced around, only to find the living room empty except for herself and Pota. She continued with the task, watching as Pota made her way through the large bowl.

With the final spoonful, Xue completed her task. Pota smiled, her sparse teeth resembling a worn wooden comb.

“Tasty. You’re a good girl.” Pota’s frail hand clasping Xue’s.

Memories of Aunt Lan’s comforting hand came to Xue’s mind, how she patted her back when Xue awoke scared in the night.

“Pota, I need to leave now.”

Xue attempted to pull away, but Pota’s grasp remained firm. Xue sensed her loneliness. In the quiet, empty house, time appeared to slow down; the companionship of a dog would have been a solace. Just then, a dog’s barking pierced the stillness, as if right next to her. Pota opened her clouded eyes. Xue glanced around, but it was just her and Pota in the room. Xue felt a sudden, inexplicable chill.

“Pota, I’ll come again tomorrow,” Xue said loudly. Pota strained to look at her.

Xue detected the sound of footsteps. Turning, she saw Yong standing at the doorway.

“Take your time,” he said.

Yong and Xue advanced in tandem, Yong leading.

“Is there a dog living near my Pota’s place?” Xue said.

“Nope. There’s a family with a dog at the far end of the village, quite a distance from your Pota’s,” Yong replied.

“Did you catch any dog barking?”

“A dog barking?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope, did you hear something?”

Xue hesitated.

Yong decelerated. “You might have heard the ghost dog’s bark then.”

Xue’s eyes widened.

“Hasn’t your mom ever mentioned it to you?”

Xue shook her head.

“Your Pota kept a dog for many years.”

Memories of the dog that used to be with her at Aunt Lan’s place flickered in Xue’s mind.

“But she ate it. Ever since, there’ve been times when villagers heard barking at her house, claiming the dog’s spirit returned seeking revenge.”

Yong’s revelation spun Xue’s head, vivid images of Pota processing the dog flashing before her eyes. She yearned to articulate her tangled emotions but found words elusive. The world around her seemed to dissolve into a blur.

Yong halted, eyeing her with a mix of worry. “Everything alright?”

Xue gave a slow nod.

“Don’t fret, no harm has come to anyone in the village because of it, and your Pota’s been doing just fine all these years,” he reassured her.

The following morning, Ling sliced pork in the kitchen. Xue tiptoed in, a hint of hesitation in her voice as she broached, “Mom, Pota’s teeth aren’t too good. The pork in yesterday’s porridge was too chunky for her. We need to cut it finer.”

Ling halted, her knife pausing mid-air. “I know how to do it. You don’t have to instruct me.” She resumed her chopping with a heavier hand.

Xue’s spirits dipped, yet this reaction from her mother was expected. Ling had never taken kindly to advice or correction.

“I’m just trying to help,” Xue murmured, more to herself than to her mother.

Ling remained silent, her focus unwavering on the pork. Her hands began to move with more delicacy.

By noon, Yong was already waiting as Xue reached her bicycle. She secured the lunch box in the front basket.

“I’ll lead today. If I manage to find Pota’s house, I’ll start making the trip alone from tomorrow,” she said.

The gravel crunched under their tires as they pedaled along the path.

Once they parked near the pond, Xue took the lead. She rehearsed her route, murmuring, “Left at the store, turn left at the store.” She observed her surroundings, finally spotting the store and heaving a sigh of relief. “The mud house between the two lime-plastered walls,” she reminded herself. She paused at one mud house next to white plastered walls, realized it wasn’t the right one, and continued. Slowing her pace, she halted in front of the correct house. With a triumphant smile, she turned to Yong, “This is the place!”

Yong returned the smile. “Great job! Should I come back around one o’clock?”

Xue nodded and entered. Pushing the wooden door, she called out, “Pota!” The living room was a stark contrast to the bright outdoor sunshine, its dimness and coolness sending a slight shiver through her. Upon opening the lunch box, she noticed the pork pieces were smaller than before but still not small enough. Retrieving scissors from her bag, she approached the thermos with its red plastic casing on the table. She unscrewed the lid and rinsed the scissors with the hot water from inside, out in the courtyard. She then snipped the pork into even smaller pieces.

She then settled next to Pota’s bed. “Time for porridge, Pota.” Xue spoon-fed her, watching as Pota consumed the meal, her face glowing with contentment. Before long, the bowl was empty.

Haunted by Yong’s story of the ghost dog, Xue hesitated, and retrieved a plush dog from her shoulder bag. The plush, with its worn ears and gentle eyes, showed signs of age. Xue placed it between herself and Pota, its soft fur looking warm in the dim light.

“Pota, did you ever have a dog? Do you hear it barking?” Xue’s voice tinged with uncertainty.

Pota fixed her gaze on the plush. Her lips quivered as she reached out to touch it, as if caressing an old friend long missed.

“It ... it looks just like him,” Pota murmured, her voice catching.

Xue, sensing the abrupt shift in Pota, regretted her impulsive question. She reached out to comfort her but paused, unsure. The room was steeped in an indescribable sadness, its gloom deepening. Abruptly, a bark pierced the stillness. Another bark followed, sounding eerily close.

“Did you hear it?” Xue’s voice rose.

Pota’s face twisted, her lips trembling. “The dog ...” Her body shook, hands clenching the bed’s edge. “I cooked it ...”

Xue struggled to find words to comfort Pota. Her emotions tangled, she questioned the reality of the ghost dog—was it just a figment born from Pota’s guilt and memories? She felt compelled to alleviate this burden.

Petting the plush dog, Xue asked, “Pota, do you think that dog is still around?”

Lifting her eyes to meet Xue’s, Pota whispered, “I always feel it’s still here.”

“When do you hear the dog’s bark?”

“At night, when silence falls. Maybe it’s waiting for me ...”

Xue placed the plush in Pota’s hands, a small comfort perhaps.

“Pota, I’ll stay with you tonight. If the ghost dog appears, I want to hear it myself.”

“Really?”

Xue grasped Pota’s hand, finding solace in her decision. She resolved to wait with Pota, hoping to uncover the dog’s reasons and end Pota’s enduring sadness.

Hearing footsteps, Xue knew without looking that Yong was there. She stood, patted Pota’s hand. “I’ll find a way to help.”

With determination, she left the room.

Upon returning to the brick factory, Xue saw her grandma and Uncle Peng, along with Ling and Sheng, sipping tea around the tea table. Xue greeted them with a forced smile.

Grandma was slender with a curved back and ear-length hair interspersed with strands of white. She looked up, her face creasing into a warm, welcoming smile. “You’ve been putting in a lot of effort these days.”

Xue, sitting down, began playing with her teacup, her face growing contemplative. “Grandma, do you know anything about the dog Pota had?”

A look of confusion crossed Grandma’s face. “Why this sudden interest? Did someone tell you something?”

“I just heard something about a ghost dog.”

Ling cast a skeptical glance. “Ghost? That’s superstition.”

Sheng set down his cup. “Confucius said, the belief in ghosts depends on whether you believe they exist.”

Peng chimed in, “Xue, did you really hear something, or was it just your imagination?”

Xue paused, the sound of the barking still vivid in her mind. “Grandma, could you tell me more about Pota?”

With a heavy sigh, Grandma began. “Your Pota, well, she never had kids of her own. So, when your grandpa was about five, his mom, right, she was running from the war and all, begging from place to place. They ended up in Ritang Village, and there was your Pota, just drying her grains outside. His mom went up to her, all desperate-like, and asked if she’d take your grandpa in. And you know what? Your Pota said yes, gave her a bag of beans for it too. They even made this deal, like a promise, that your grandpa wouldn’t go looking for his real family when he got older.”

“When did Gongta pass away?” Xue vaguely remembered her mother saying that Pota had raised Grandpa by herself.

“Not long after he and your Pota took me in.”

Xue looked at her grandma in astonishment.

Ling laughed. “Didn’t you know? Your grandma was a child bride adopted by your Pota. If not for your Pota, your grandma might have starved to death.”

“I was just six or seven back then,” Grandma said.

“So Pota raised both of you all by herself?” Xue said.

“Yes,” Grandma said, pride evident in her voice. “Your Pota was very resourceful. She really worked hard, you know. Grew her own veggies, and to make ends meet, she’d carry these heavy salt sacks on her back to sell. This one time, while hauling salt, everyone started freaking out, yelling ‘The Japanese are coming!’ Out of nowhere, she just hit the deck in a field nearby, just as bullets started flying everywhere. It’s a wonder she made it out of there alive.”

“Did the Japanese ever reach Ritang Village?”

“No. Our village, nestled in the mountains, was untouched.”

“And when did Pota start keeping that dog?”

“On the day we buried your great-grandpa. We stumbled upon this feeble, starving pup near a trash pile. Your Pota took it home.”

“What was the dog like?”

“That dog, it was something else, really loyal, you know. Whenever your Pota went out, it kept an eye on us. Wouldn’t even let us step out the door, would grab our clothes with its teeth to stop us. And get this, one time your great-grandma brought home a fish for a festival. But then, this sneaky cat from next door snatched it. What did the dog do? Chased that cat down, brought the fish right back. Truly understood what loyalty meant, that dog did.” Grandma smiled, reminiscing.

Xue hesitated, wanting to ask about the dog’s death.

Sensing her hesitation, Grandma sighed. “After the dog passed away, your Pota cooked it for us. I’ll never forget it—your Pota, tears rolling down her face, cooking that dog. It’s stuck in my head, that image.”

“What ghost, really? I grew up there, never seen or heard any such thing. Right, Peng?” Ling refilled the empty cups on the table.

“Absolutely, it’s all hearsay,” Peng said, sipping his freshly poured tea.

Xue’s thoughts vacillated. She remembered the distinct barking she heard, filled with sadness and anxiety. It was not her imagination. She shattered the silence. “Grandma, Mom, I’d like to stay over at Pota’s tonight.”

Surprise registered on her family’s faces.

As all eyes turned to her, Xue’s cheeks warmed. “I feel ... Pota could use some company.”

Ling looked at her. “Alright, you’re old enough to make your own decisions. Spend a few more nights with Pota. Just don’t come back tomorrow crying that you don’t want to go again.”

Ling’s comment left Xue slightly embarrassed, her face growing hotter, but she bit her lip and held back a reply.

“Don’t worry, I’ll sleep in the living room too,” Grandma added. “We’ll be together, so there’s nothing to fear.”

As night descended, Xue readied Pota’s room. The room brimmed with an old-world charm, punctuated by the steady ticking of the wall clock. Distant insect chirps and the whisper of leaves seemed to whisper the night’s secrets. Lying on the left bed with her grandma, Xue kept her eyes half-open, ears tuned to the sounds, listening, waiting.

Darkness engulfed, the world falling into an uncanny quiet. Xue’s heartbeat echoed in the silence, her eyes fixed on the door. Time crawled. Xue fought sleep. Grandma began to snore. Apart from the sound of the wind and an occasional distant bark, she heard nothing else.

In a daze, she felt a lick on her hand and saw a dog beside her bed. Sitting up, she beheld it in the darkness, glowing dimly, surreal yet tangible. The dog, gentle and light, nudged her hand.

Xue smiled, reaching out but touching nothing. It turned towards Pota’s bed, moving with a light, assured gait. Its ears stood alert, tail lowered. Nearing Pota, it sniffed her quilt, its pale blue, semi-transparent eyes fixed on her. Suddenly, a scurry in the living room prompted a low, tense bark from the dog. But it turned out to be just a rat. It settled beside Pota, letting out a soft, caring bark.

A mix of warmth and unease surged within Xue. She instinctively reached for the plush dog beside her for comfort.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the cracks in the door. Grandma patted Xue’s hand. “Did you sleep well last night?”

Xue hesitated. “I ... I felt something, but not sure what it was.”

“It might have been a dream. I heard you murmuring in your sleep.”

Xue nodded but was convinced it was more than a dream. Her memories flickered like dust motes in the sunlight. Her heart quivered like a bird trapped between the hands. She thought back to the ghost dog’s cautious movements, the scurrying mouse, and how the dog’s ears perked up at signs of danger—as if guarding Pota. No. It was exactly that it was guarding her. The soft, low barks near Pota’s bed were unmistakably real.

But could she be sure it wasn’t just a dream or a hallucination? No, she couldn’t. If the ghost dog appeared again tonight, she’d have her confirmation. She contemplated waking Grandma. But why? To have another witness? Another mind to understand the ghost dog’s intentions? No. They might scare it off. She resolved not to wake her grandma. Though she thought she should wake Pota ... She would figure it out tonight. She decided to take a nap today, to gather her strength. “I’ll figure it out tonight,” she murmured, her lips moist as she licked them. And she was afraid of approaching the ghost dog. So scared and exhausted that she needed a clear, vivid image to cement her resolve.

She was back in the mud house where she once lived with Aunt Lan. The dog wasn’t allowed in their room. Each early morning as Aunt Lan departed to sell vegetables, Doggy would dash to Xue’s bed and curl up, claiming it as his own. Perhaps Doggy felt her loneliness and fear and sought to comfort her. Was it the same loneliness that tethered the ghost dog to Pota?

Xue closed her eyes, transforming into the dog, reliving Pota’s tales like movie scenes. She wasn’t resentful, only profoundly sad. Her vision blurred, tears threatening to spill. Pota’s love for it was deep, and its affection for her was like that of family.

Tonight, she’d uncover the truth, ready to face whatever it held, to understand it fully. She would converse with the ghost dog, delve into its heart.

Deep into that night, Xue fought sleep, her ears tuned to the slightest sound. Pota lay curled in bed, breathing raggedly. Her murmurs, “No ... I don’t want to ...” drifted through the darkness.

A deep, mournful bark shattered the silence, resonating within Xue. Her eyes flew open, heart pounding. She flicked on the flashlight by her pillow, its light quivering with her breath.

The living room lay empty. Only the tense marks of Pota’s clenched fingers on the sheets disturbed the stillness. Xue felt a tight grip on her heart as memories of Doggy flooded her with warmth and security.

Barefoot, she approached Pota’s bed and shook her. “Pota, wake up.”

Pota’s eyes fluttered open, her face cycling through confusion, fear, and pain as if from a nightmare.

Xue wiped away her tears. “Pota, I know it sounds incredible, but I really saw the dog.” Her voice was steady, tinged with sadness but not fear.

“But ...” Pota’s voice was dreamy as she clutched Xue’s hand. “I ...”

“It’s not here for revenge,” Xue assured her, turning towards where the ghost dog had been. “It’s been protecting you all this time.” She felt a jolt of pain. “There’s no anger in its actions or barks, only care and guardianship.”

“It wasn’t?” Pota’s voice was raspy.

“It chose to stay. It never resented you. It loved you so much that it couldn’t bear to leave. Even as a spirit, it’s gentle, loyal.”

Pota’s lips quivered, struggling to speak. She seemed relieved, and Xue felt lighter, as if she’d completed a vital mission. Pota nodded slowly, tears streaming down her lined face. This was the only possible explanation, thought Xue. She would believe anything, however impossible, that could bring peace to her Pota.

In this tranquil village, some ties were stronger than blood, some guardians last beyond a lifetime.

Pota

Pota lay in bed, stroking an old garment she had sewn during her son’s first winter with her. Her gaze, lost beyond the slightly open wooden door, seemed to travel through time itself. She envisioned her soul as a delicate butterfly, darting over fields and through forests.

She thought the realm of the dead was a sanctuary of tranquility, where she would reunite with her ancestors and departed loved ones. They would feast on traditional Hakka dishes that evoked cherished memories—the salty tang of Meicai Kou Rou, the rich flavor of salt-baked chicken, and the sweet ferment of rice wine. She believed that upon arrival, she would join her ancestors in watching over her family, maintaining a bond of love as enduring and comforting. As the warmth of sunlight. The caress of a spring breeze. When she met her husband, they would walk along serpentine mountain trails, bordered by whispering bamboo. They would hum the Hakka mountain songs. Her husband’s deep voice would blend with her melodious tones, full of life and love as in their earlier days.

Yet, she remained in this vibrant world.

Although parting was a natural part of life’s cycle, reluctance tugged at her heart. She ached for her children’s future, the continuation of her family, and her beloved homeland. Sighing, she pressed the fabric to her cheek, embracing the comfort of its familiar touch.

The hen’s plump silhouette graced the courtyard, heralding a fresh cycle of life. In the henhouse corner, chicks hatched and flourished under their mother’s care. Pota loved watching them chirp and scamper around the hen. From her bed, where she drifted between lucidity and drowsiness, she felt like an ancient tree, witnessing the ebb and flow of life. On sunny days, she sat in the yard, observing the hens and chicks pecking at the ground, imagining herself frolicking with them. She yearned for that unfettered joy and freedom.

Adjusting the fan at her bed’s end, a soothing breeze swept over her. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. She savored the cool relief. In this serene half-sleep, she watched a form bathed in moonlight, dancing across the field, its eyes tenderly beckoning—it was her dog, her cherished departed companion. “I’ll see you soon,” she murmured. But when she woke the next morning, she found herself still in her bed, the fan’s cool air fluttering around her. She turned off the fan. Xue would soon bring lunch. Several nights, she had also stayed to watch over her. But Pota felt surrounded by a sea of memories that she didn’t mind being alone. She used the bedpan beneath her bed. She brewed tea. As she listened to the ghost dog’s distant barks, she felt its ever-near presence.

In recent years, the sensation of the ghost dog’s nearness grew stronger. Just before waking fully, she could feel its soft fur, its tongue licking her hand—a connection so profound it seemed the past’s bonds were unbroken. Perhaps this was a sign that she would soon reunite with her beloved pet.

She had been haunted by regret and sorrow for the dog that comforted her through her hardest days. After its death, she buried it. The villagers advised her that if there was enough food, she could let it be, but her children were starving, their bodies gaunt. With a heavy heart, Pota unearthed the dog, cooked it, and distributed the meat among the village’s neediest. Yet, she didn’t eat a single bite herself. This guilt weighed on her like a heavy stone, haunting her for years. She yearned for a reunion, to apologize and express her deep gratitude. She thought that in another world, she could hold the dog again.

For years now, she’d understood that emotions were complex, enduring, fleeting, and cyclic. As humans, we perceived emotions as connections, yet they were more like reflections or the flow of tides. But time was more than that, extending through time. In her emotional sea, glowing fireflies, red lychees, and the dog she tragically dismembered, all flew to her. It occurred in her middle age, in a stifling kitchen. From a pot where she cooked the dog, memories swirled around her like black smoke. They infiltrated her body and embedded themselves in her very being. This was the nature of emotions: love and sorrow coexisted, inseparable.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the whirlpool of her emotions, traversing past and future, until she met the dog once more. There, in a realm where time and pain dissolved, all her regrets and sorrows, along with her love and hopes for reunion, would finally find peace.

Article © Huina Zheng. All rights reserved.
Published on 2024-09-09