Read Online Colors of the Mountain by Da Chen - Free Book Online

children, but I jumped for joy. I had always loved the ocean, with its blue waves and long, white beaches. Sailboats skimmed across the surface. A million possibilities lay hidden in the sea’s depths, fueled by stories told by old sailors.
    When Yan asked me, “Can you walk all day without complaining?” I bobbed my head eagerly.
    Ten miles off the mainland, Milon lay like a sapphire amid the blue Pacific. To get there before sunset, we started out early in the morning and walked all day along a winding path. We passed several brooks, plodded beside endless fava-bean fields, and walked under countless trees until the sun began to dip in the west. Long before we got to the coast, the land began to level and spread out. Grass thinned away and finally disappeared. There were no homes or dwellings in sight for miles around, nothing but an occasional lonely windmill, squeaking and grunting monotonously as the wind turned its sails.
    As we drew closer to the coast, the breeze became stronger, pungent with the smell of salt and sea. I held tightly to the brim of my straw hat lest the wind blow it away. The stretch of land along the coast looked white and glistened under the setting sun. Yan told me these were the salt fields. The salt farmers pumped seawater into acres and acres of beachfront, then they built low walls to block the water from flowing back, and let the sun bake out all the moisture, leaving behind a field of salt in its solid form. This natural salt was exported to many foreign countries; the salt we used at home also came from here.
    I knelt down and scooped a handful of the shining salt into my pocket when Yan wasn’t looking, and ran off to see the coast.
    Suddenly, the ocean loomed before us. At first it was a wide belt of dark blue water with glistening stars dancing on its surface. But as I ran closer and closer in my excitement to embrace it, the sea grew wider and longer until it seemed to engulf the little piece of land I was standing on. The vastness of the sea made me feel small and flimsy like a blade of grass in the wind.
    As Yan caught up with me, a fragile old man waved to us and shouted my cousin’s name.
    “That’s the boatman guarding the ferry from the island,” Yan said. “His name is Old Mountain.”
    “Old Mountain?” I laughed.
    “Funny, huh?” Her eyes twinkled. “Wait until you meet my pupils.”
    We went to a lonely, creaky dock, where only two little sailboats bobbed in the water. Our ferry was small, its sails like a patchwork quilt filled with holes, shreds flying in the wind. It wasn’t much to look at, but it rocked sturdily as we gingerly crossed the plank and descended onto the deck. We were the only passengers. Old Mountain had a skinny young man helping him. Within minutes, we were on our way.
    I held fast to the mast. Occasionally, waves spilled onto the deck, but the old ferry stayed upright and skipped forward with a taut sail. In the twilight, the sea was as scary as a dark night without stars. Yan told me that island people were very superstitious and did not want bad things mentioned on the boat, so all the way there I sat quietly, occasionally casting a glance at Old Mountain, who whistled a broken tune and narrowed his eyes, looking off into the distance.
    Half an hour later, Yan helped me off the ferry and we said good-bye to Old Mountain and his helper. The island of Milon was dotted with little houses. At the busy dock, we were suddenly surrounded by a dozen enthusiastic, noisy girls and boys who seemed to be around my own age. They grabbed our luggage, shook our hands, and even took my hat as if it were too great a burden for me to carry. The girls all seemed to have babies fastened to their backs; the boys wore only simple shorts on this warm winter day. They were all barefoot.
    “These are all my pupils,” Yan told me proudly as she turned to the children. “Here, I want you all to meet my cousin. His name is Da.”
    “Good day, Daaaa…” they said