Birch Fish

December2024

32.00 （CNY）

At the southern foot of the Little Khingan lies a vast forest. Itis an important part of theboreal forestbeltof Eurasia，stretchingfor hundredsof kilometers，withthe largestnatural red pine primeval forestcommunity in Asia.Itisakey state-owned forestarea and forest products industrial base in China.This book tells a coming of-agestory，aspiritual inheritance storythat transcendstimeand space，andan interpretationof thesilent dedicationand love of one generationtoanother.

WeiXiaoxi

WeiXiaoxi isawriterofchildren's literature，amemberoftheChinese WritersAssociation，acontractedwriter oftheShandongWritersAssociation，and thevice chairman ofithe Qingdao Writers Association.

Intheblinkofaneye，Xiaomai had already spent half a month living with the loggingteam.Thiswas abrand newchapterinherlife. Fromherinitialconfusionand timidnesstohercurrentcomfort andattachment to the place，all of it wasthankstoAuntQin'swarmand thoughtfulcare.

\"Aunt Qin， Iwant to go outside and playforabit，\"Xiaomaisaid.She wantedtotakeawalkinthesnow andgetsome freshair.Shehad kept inside the bunkhouse for days.

Xiaomaiwasdressedmorewarmly thanusual. The temperature in the mountainswasoverten degrees lower than on the plains， so on top ofher cotton-padded jacket， she woreadeerskincoat.Thiscoathad beenrepurposedfromadeerskin overcoatthatbelongedtoUncle BigNose.AuntQinhad spent three nights altering it， turning the oversizedcoat，originallytailored for a strapping man into two new garments：adeerskinvestanda deerskinjacket.

Thevest went to Uncle Big Nose， andthejacketwasforXiaomai.

UncleBigNosesaid that fromnow on，hewouldwearthedeerskin vesteveryday，becausehisvest andXiaomai'sdeerskin jacket weremade from the same piece ofleather，symbolizingheartsthat wereconnected.Xiaomaitrulyliked thedeerskinjacketfromthebottom ofherheart.She had neverworn aleatherjacketbefore.Shehad severalcotton-paddedjackets，all carefullysewnbyher grandmother， rangingfromthinonestothick ones.Xiaomaihadthemall，butthis Wasthefirsttimesheworealeather jacket.Anditfeltsowarm！

Xiaomaididn’tdaretowalktoo far.Shemadeherwaytoward thesunlight，walkingslowly.She stoodonasmallhillbathedinthe morningsunandlookeddownatthe snow-covered forestbefore her.

One tree， then another;One tree， thenanother.

Trees，oneafteranother，some tall，someshort;omethick，some slender stood quietly as if they were asleep. In their dreams， they hummedsoftly，wrapped inthe wind，rollingintothe snow.

In the poetry of nature， the meaning ofwinteristhemomentwhenthe northwindrushestoward youlike anicywave，andsnowflakesdrift down from thetreetops.It’sthe instantwhenyoulookupandmeet the sun's gaze， squinting slightly before slowly opening your eyes， feelingatearriseatthecornerof your eye.

Xiaomai crouched down， kneeling in the snow， and scooped up a handful， licking it.

The snow changed its shape on her tongue in an instant，until a cool， sweettastedisappeareddeepwithin hertastebuds.Thesnowinthe forestwaslikepowderedsugar，like tinygrains，eachoneasolidified speckoflight.

Thedistantmountains，blanketedin white，blockedherview.Xiaomai didn'tknowwhetherbehindthat vast，endlesswhitelaya more unyieldingforestoraplainwitha definiteend.

Xiaomai looked up at the nearest old pine tree. It was tall and sturdy， witnitsthickclusters ofneedles coveredinheavysnow.Asshe walkedcloser，shecaughtthescent of pine intheair.

Many yearslater， Xiaomaiwould packpineneedlesintohersuitcase They would eventually end up encasedinapicture frameatan artgalleryinthe southernpartof thecountry.Eyesclosed，Xiaomai Wouldbreatheinthatfresh， intoxicating scent onceagain. Herfingertipswould gentlybrush againsttheneedles.Shelovedthat pine fragrance，something she had tucked deepintothecornersofher memory.

Xiaomaicarefullytookthebirch fishfrominsidehercoat.Shelifted thebirchfishhighaboveherhead， tiltingitsmouthtowardthesun. Afterithadkissedthesunlight，she hungit on the lowest tree branch. The birch fish spun gently in the northern wind.LikeXiaomai， itwas achildwholovedthesun.Xiaomai knewthateveryfishcarriedlight initsheart，that’swhytheyalways strain to look up toward the water's surface.Thebirchfishwasno different.The fish，too，lovedthe lightandthesun.

Fish long to offer their tail fins to thesky，whilebirdswishtoleave theirwingstothesea.And so，the forestandtheocean，theheavens andtheearth，themountainsand therivers-all trade theseasons' formsthroughthelivesofdifferent creatures，through the hopesthey eachquietlyhold.

Asquirrelsuddenlydartedup the tree，startlingXiaomai.

Everyone knowsthatsquirrels love pinecones，but perhaps not everyone knows thatwhat they loveevenmoreisbaskinginthe sunlightwhilesearchingforthem In the scent of pine cones， every squirrel tracesthe threadsof time， storingawaynotjustfood，butthe memories of the tree-its rings，its years，itsstories.

That'sright！Treeshavememories. And each tree'smemory isentirely itsown.Nomatterhowvastthe forest，you'llneverfindtwotrees withidenticalmemories.Thetree ringsbear witness to this truth. Every ring isunique， and each oneremembersthebirdsthatonce nested in itscrown，the fleeting visitorsthatpaused onitsbranches， andthesoftrustleofleaves brushing against one another. All thesememoriesaresealedawayin winter，but the shape of memory remains，unmistakably，theshapeof memory.

Xiaomaididn’tknowifgrandma could seeherfromthesky.She liftedherfaceandlookedupatthe blinding white above， thenclosed hereyes. Tearsslipped down her cheeksandfellsoftlyontothesnow

Sherose onto her tiptoes， straightenedherback，stretchedout herarms，and spun， then leapt into the air.