Singing His Name Back

Just past the autumn equinox, the millet in the mountains ripened.

Vuvu gathered the last ear of grain under the eaves, picked off a dozen of the plumpest kernels, wrapped them in cotton paper, and pressed them into an empty envelope. She couldn’t read or write, so her reply had to be dictated to Teacher Lin at the village school. After Teacher Lin read her grandson’s letter aloud and asked what she wanted to say back, she thought for a long while and asked for only one line:

“Remember to bring your name back.”

The letter traveled seven days. Below the boys’ dormitory on the other side of the city, Du Weiming pulled the envelope from the iron cabinet in the mail room. The corners were worn to fuzz; one heft and he knew it wasn’t paper inside.

He thought of the first letter he’d written a month ago. It was all good news: he’d gotten into the classes he wanted, the cafeteria was cheap, his roommates were friendly. When he reached the part about clubs, his pen hovered for a long time before he finally wrote just one line: “As for clubs, I’ll tell you later.” He signed the three characters of his name, Du Weiming, carefully and neatly.

What Vuvu didn’t know was that on registration day, when the class asked if anyone wanted to join the Indigenous student club, he had buried his head in his textbook. Nor did she know that in his self-introduction he’d said, “I grew up down the mountain—I can’t sing the old songs.” The first half was true. The second half, he himself couldn’t say whether it was true or false. In his first year of high school, someone in music class had laughed and said, “Aren’t you people born knowing how to sing?” From then on, he had held the two words “can’t sing” in his mouth for three years.

At the end of October it was their school’s turn to host, and the five-school exchange ran all day in the activity center. Seniors from other schools greeted the crowd in their tribal languages, and voices answered from all around. Long tables were laid with millet rice balls each school had brought—anyone could break one in half. A tribal elder sat at the front of the stage telling old stories. He said: If you lose your way on a mountain trail, sit down and recite your own name. Your name was given to you by your elders, measured against the mountain roads. Say it once, and your feet will know the direction home.

The audience applauded. Du Weiming sat in the very last row, clapping very softly.

As the crowd dispersed, a girl from the chorus stopped him. “Next weekend is the five-school gathering. We’re short of people. You don’t have to know how—just stand next to me and hum along.”

“I can’t sing.”

“Your vuvu never taught you a single song?” the girl asked.

He opened his mouth, but no answer came.

The night of the gathering, a string of warm yellow lanterns hung in the activity center. Each school took its turn on stage, one old melody after another. A girl with short hair sang a whole verse in her tribal language; the crowd cheered, and she laughed and bowed without a trace of shyness.

The emcee asked: Anyone else want to sing?

A few seconds of silence. Du Weiming didn’t know how he got to his feet.

The first note that came out was trembling. He sang the tune Vuvu hummed sitting on the doorstep shelling peanuts—no words, only throat tones and breath, like wind passing through a bamboo grove. Halfway through, he forgot the turn of the melody and got stuck. No one in the audience laughed. A senior in the corner quietly picked it up, then another voice, and in the end the whole room hummed the melody to its close, the little lanterns swaying overhead.

He stood where he was and heard himself say:

“This song is the one my vuvu sang to me. My name is Dalan. Dalan—the name my vuvu gave me.”

As the applause rose, the two words he had held in his mouth for three years finally went down, swallowed whole. After the gathering, the short-haired girl chased him out to ask: Where is that melody from? Can you teach me? He said, let me ask my vuvu when I go home, and then I’ll teach you.

On the way back to the dormitory he bought stationery. His second letter read:

“Vuvu: I got the millet and cooked it into porridge. My roommates say it tastes like fresh grass. They don’t know it’s the finest thing the mountains give.

Last week, I sang in front of hundreds of people. I sang the one you hum while shelling peanuts, and I didn’t sing it wrong.

I’ve written my name below. When Teacher Lin reads you this letter, have her read this one.

Dalan”

When winter break came, the bus wound through eighteen turns on the mountain road. Vuvu was sitting on the little stool by the door; watching him step down, she rose, steadying herself on the doorframe, reached up and patted the top of his head, the way she had when he was small, and called:

“Dalan.”

“Here!” He answered faster than a roll call.

The next day he helped Vuvu dry the grain, pushing the bamboo baskets back and forth. At night, he used his phone to record Vuvu’s songs, one section at a time. When Vuvu asked what the recordings were for, he said he’d bring them back to the younger students in the city to learn. The old woman said nothing, shelling peanuts, and hummed that melody once more, a little louder than in the daytime. When she finished, she pushed the shelled peanuts in front of him and said: Dalan is the name of the mountain wind. However far the wind wanders, when it smells the fragrance of millet, it knows to come home.

In early spring, a few slender green shoots appeared in the flowerpot on the dormitory windowsill—from the few millet kernels left over from the porridge, the ones he had buried. That year the five-school exchange was hosted by a different school, and on the day of rehearsal he stood in the front row to lead the singing. He began the melody without a moment’s hesitation.

From then on, every letter to Vuvu was signed with just two characters.

The wind rounds the mountain ridge, and once again blows home.

(The End)

This story is adapted from real events; all names are pseudonyms.