IV

Originally, the land adjacent to the city wall outside the West Gate had been public land. The zigzag path running across it, trodden out by passers-by seeking a short cut, had become a natural boundary line. Left of the path were buried executed criminals or those who had died of neglect in prison. Right of the path were paupers' graves. The serried ranks of grave mounds on both sides looked like the rolls laid out for a rich man's birthday.
　　
The Ching Ming Festival that year was unusually cold. Willows were only just beginning to put forth shoots no larger than grains. Shortly after daybreak, Old Chuan's wife brought four dishes and a bowl of rice to set before a new grave in the right section, and wailed before it.

When she had burned paper money she sat on the ground in a stupor as if waiting for something; but for what, she herself did not know. A breeze sprang up and stirred her short hair, which was certainly whiter than the previous year.
　　
Another woman came down the path, grey-haired and in rags. Carrying an old, round, red-lacquered basket with a string of paper money hanging from it, she walked haltingly. When she saw Old Chuan's wife sitting on the ground watching her, she hesitated, and a flush of shame spread over her pale face. However, she summoned up courage to cross over to a grave in the left section. where she set down her basket.
　　
That grave was directly opposite Little Chuan's, separated only by the path. As Old Chuan's wife watched the other woman set Out four dishes of food and a bowl of rice, then stand up to wail and burn paper money, she thought: "It must be her son in that grave too." The older woman took a few aimless steps and stared vacantly around, then suddenly she began to tremble and stagger backwards, as though giddy.
　　
Fearing sorrow might send her out of her mind, Old Chuan's wife got up and stepped across the path, to say quietly: 　　"Don't grieve, let's go home."
　　
The other nodded, but she was still staring fixedly, and she muttered: "Look! What's that?"
　　
Looking where she pointed, Old Chuan's wife saw that the grave in front had not yet been overgrown with grass. Ugly patches of soil still showed. But when she looked carefully, she was surprised to see at the top of the mound a wreath of red and white flowers.
　　
Both of them suffered from failing eyesight, yet they could see these red and white flowers clearly. There were not many, but they were placed in a circle; and although not very fresh, were neatly set out. Little Chuan's mother looked round and found her own son's grave, like most of the rest, dotted with only a few little, pale flowers shivering in the cold. Suddenly she had a sense of futility and stopped feeling curious about the wreath.
　　
In the meantime the old woman had gone up to the grave to look more closely. "They have no roots," she said to herself. "They can't have grown here. Who could have been here? Children don't come here to play, and none of our relatives ever come. What could have happened?" She puzzled over it, until suddenly her tears began to fall, and she cried aloud:
　　
"Son, they all wronged you, and you do not forget. Is your grief still so great that today you worked this wonder to let me know?"
　　
She looked all around, but could see only a crow perched on a leafless bough. "I know," she continued. "They murdered you. But a day of reckoning will come, Heaven will see to it. Close your eyes in peace. . . . If you are really here, and can hear me, make that crow fly on to your grave as a sign."
　　
The breeze had long since dropped, and the dry grass stood stiff and straight as copper wires. A faint, tremulous sound vibrated in the air, then faded and died away. All around was deathly still. They stood in the dry grass, looking up at the crow; and the crow, on the rigid bough of the tree, its head drawn in, perched immobile as iron.
　　
Time passed. More people, young and old, came to visit the graves.
　　
Old Chuan's wife felt somehow as if a load had been lifted from her mind and, wanting to leave, she urged the other:
　　
"Let's go."
　　
The old woman sighed, and listlessly picked up the rice and dishes. After a moment's hesitation she started off slowly, still muttering to herself:
　　
"What does it mean?"
　　
They had not gone thirty paces when they heard a loud caw behind them. Startled, they looked round and saw the crow stretch its wings, brace itself to take off, then fly like an arrow towards the far horizon.

四

西关外靠着城根的地面，本是一块官地；中间歪歪斜斜一条细路，是贪走便道的人，用鞋底造成的，但却成了自然的界限。路的左边，都埋着死刑和瘐毙的人，右边是穷人的丛冢。两面都已埋到层层叠叠，宛然阔人家里祝寿时的馒头。
　　
这一年的清明，分外寒冷；杨柳才吐出半粒米大的新芽。天明未久，华大妈已在右边的一坐新坟前面，排出四碟菜，一碗饭，哭了一场。化过纸，呆呆的坐在地上；仿佛等候什么似的，但自己也说不出等候什么。微风起来，吹动他短发，确乎比去年白得多了。
　　
小路上又来了一个女人，也是半白头发，褴褛的衣裙；提一个破旧的朱漆圆篮，外挂一串纸锭，三步一歇的走。忽然见华大妈坐在地上看他，便有些踌躇，惨白的脸上，现出些羞愧的颜色；但终于硬着头皮，走到左边的一坐坟前，放下了篮子。
　　
那坟与小栓的坟，一字儿排着，中间只隔一条小路。华大妈看他排好四碟菜，一碗饭，立着哭了一通，化过纸锭；心里暗暗地想，“这坟里的也是儿子了。”那老女人徘徊观望了一回，忽然手脚有些发抖，跄跄踉踉退下几步，瞪着眼只是发怔。
　　
华大妈见这样子，生怕他伤心到快要发狂了；便忍不住立起身，跨过小路，低声对他说，“你这位老奶奶不要伤心了，——我们还是回去罢。”
　　
那人点一点头，眼睛仍然向上瞪着；也低声吃吃的说道，“你看，——看这是什么呢？”
　　
华大妈跟了他指头看去，眼光便到了前面的坟，这坟上草根还没有全合，露出一块一块的黄土，煞是难看。再往上仔细看时，却不觉也吃一惊；——分明有一圈红白的花，围着那尖圆的坟顶。
　　
他们的眼睛都已老花多年了，但望这红白的花，却还能明白看见。花也不很多，圆圆的排成一个圈，不很精神，倒也整齐。华大妈忙看他儿子和别人的坟，却只有不怕冷的几点青白小花，零星开着；便觉得心里忽然感到一种不足和空虚，不愿意根究。那老女人又走近几步，细看了一遍，自言自语的说，“这没有根，不像自己开的。——这地方有谁来呢？孩子不会来玩；——亲戚本家早不来了。——这是怎么一回事呢？”他想了又想，忽又流下泪来，大声说道：
　　
“瑜儿，他们都冤枉了你，你还是忘不了，伤心不过，今天特意显点灵，要我知道么？”他四面一看，只见一只乌鸦，站在一株没有叶的树上，便接着说，“我知道了。——瑜儿，可怜他们坑了你，他们将来总有报应，天都知道；你闭了眼睛就是了。——你如果真在这里，听到我的话，——便教这乌鸦飞上你的坟顶，给我看罢。”
　　
微风早经停息了；枯草支支直立，有如铜丝。一丝发抖的声音，在空气中愈颤愈细，细到没有，周围便都是死一般静。两人站在枯草丛里，仰面看那乌鸦；那乌鸦也在笔直的树枝间，缩着头，铁铸一般站着。
　　
许多的工夫过去了；上坟的人渐渐增多，几个老的小的，在土坟间出没。
　　
华大妈不知怎的，似乎卸下了一挑重担，便想到要走；一面劝着说，“我们还是回去罢。”
　　
那老女人叹一口气，无精打采的收起饭菜；又迟疑了一刻，终于慢慢地走了。嘴里自言自语的说，“这是怎么一回事呢？……”
　　
他们走不上二三十步远，忽听得背后“哑——”的一声大叫；两个人都悚然的回过头，只见那乌鸦张开两翅，一挫身，直向着远处的天空，箭也似的飞去了。