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

西關外靠著城根的地面，本是一塊官地；中間歪歪斜斜一條細路，是貪走便道的人，用鞋底造成的，但卻成了自然的界限。路的左邊，都埋著死刑和瘐斃的人，右邊是窮人的叢冢。兩面都已埋到層層疊疊，宛然闊人家里祝壽時的饅頭。
　　
這一年的清明，分外寒冷；楊柳才吐出半粒米大的新芽。天明未久，華大媽已在右邊的一坐新墳前面，排出四碟菜，一碗飯，哭了一場。化過紙，呆呆的坐在地上；仿佛等候什么似的，但自己也說不出等候什么。微風起來，吹動他短發(fā)，確乎比去年白得多了。
　　
小路上又來了一個女人，也是半白頭發(fā)，襤褸的衣裙；提一個破舊的朱漆圓籃，外掛一串紙錠，三步一歇的走。忽然見華大媽坐在地上看他，便有些躊躇，慘白的臉上，現出些羞愧的顏色；但終于硬著頭皮，走到左邊的一坐墳前，放下了籃子。
　　
那墳與小栓的墳，一字兒排著，中間只隔一條小路。華大媽看他排好四碟菜，一碗飯，立著哭了一通，化過紙錠；心里暗暗地想，“這墳里的也是兒子了。”那老女人徘徊觀望了一回，忽然手腳有些發(fā)抖，蹌蹌踉踉退下幾步，瞪著眼只是發(fā)怔。
　　
華大媽見這樣子，生怕他傷心到快要發(fā)狂了；便忍不住立起身，跨過小路，低聲對他說，“你這位老奶奶不要傷心了，——我們還是回去罷。”
　　
那人點一點頭，眼睛仍然向上瞪著；也低聲吃吃的說道，“你看，——看這是什么呢？”
　　
華大媽跟了他指頭看去，眼光便到了前面的墳，這墳上草根還沒有全合，露出一塊一塊的黃土，煞是難看。再往上仔細看時，卻不覺也吃一驚；——分明有一圈紅白的花，圍著那尖圓的墳頂。
　　
他們的眼睛都已老花多年了，但望這紅白的花，卻還能明白看見。花也不很多，圓圓的排成一個圈，不很精神，倒也整齊。華大媽忙看他兒子和別人的墳，卻只有不怕冷的幾點青白小花，零星開著；便覺得心里忽然感到一種不足和空虛，不愿意根究。那老女人又走近幾步，細看了一遍，自言自語的說，“這沒有根，不像自己開的。——這地方有誰來呢？孩子不會來玩；——親戚本家早不來了。——這是怎么一回事呢？”他想了又想，忽又流下淚來，大聲說道：
　　
“瑜兒，他們都冤枉了你，你還是忘不了，傷心不過，今天特意顯點靈，要我知道么？”他四面一看，只見一只烏鴉，站在一株沒有葉的樹上，便接著說，“我知道了。——瑜兒，可憐他們坑了你，他們將來總有報應，天都知道；你閉了眼睛就是了。——你如果真在這里，聽到我的話，——便教這烏鴉飛上你的墳頂，給我看罷。”
　　
微風早經停息了；枯草支支直立，有如銅絲。一絲發(fā)抖的聲音，在空氣中愈顫愈細，細到沒有，周圍便都是死一般靜。兩人站在枯草叢里，仰面看那烏鴉；那烏鴉也在筆直的樹枝間，縮著頭，鐵鑄一般站著。
　　
許多的工夫過去了；上墳的人漸漸增多，幾個老的小的，在土墳間出沒。
　　
華大媽不知怎的，似乎卸下了一挑重擔，便想到要走；一面勸著說，“我們還是回去罷。”
　　
那老女人嘆一口氣，無精打采的收起飯菜；又遲疑了一刻，終于慢慢地走了。嘴里自言自語的說，“這是怎么一回事呢？……”
　　
他們走不上二三十步遠，忽聽得背后“啞——”的一聲大叫；兩個人都悚然的回過頭，只見那烏鴉張開兩翅，一挫身，直向著遠處的天空，箭也似的飛去了。