The Tune of the Great Wall
Lok Hei Chan, Group 3: Fiction, Heep Yunn School
t was almost dusk time and the last rays of the setting sun flickered through the swinging curtain hanging
listlessly over the window frame. Sitting in front of a greyish-silver notebook was a man with enormous
eye bags and heavy lidded eyes, a freelance writer who used to be inspired easily and wordsmith should be
the most suitable word to describe him. However, this time, he was unreasonably stuck in his writing about
a should-be-easy theme: The New Tales of the Great Wall. This man, obviously, was me. I murmured to
myself, “How difficult it can become to write a story just using the Great Wall as the background?” After some
struggling, in order to get some inspirations, I finally decided to have a go to the real spot - the Great Wall.
With cold crisp air piercing my skin, and sighing of the wind knocking my eardrums, I was on the Great
Wall. The smell of the green, the bustle of the sun-tanned and wind-weathered people, and their excited voices -
all told me that this was a place foreign to my hometown Hong Kong. It was an ancient structure built 2,000
years ago, snaking its way across five provinces. They always said that the majesty of the Great Wall was
enough to make anyone gape in awe, and at this moment, it had proved that it was true.
While I was wondering along the road, gasping at the spectacular view around, a mournful, faint,
surprising wisp of music caught my attention.
It was an old man who was playing this breathtaking tune with a Chinese flute. The first thing I noticed
about him was his clothing. The blue old Zhongshan suit he was wearing seemed so thin that it could hardly
protect him from the chilly wind. His pants were dirty, frayed and much too short, exposing part of his frost
bitten legs. The only thing to keep his face warm was a long, thick beard that looked as if it had been growing
wildly for years. His eyes were deep and hollow, filled with grief. He did look like an old man which had a story
to tell. I figured that I should go and talk to him; his story might bring me some inspirations.
His eyebrows lifted and he stopped playing the Chinese flute when I approached him. It was as if for
years he was longing for someone to listen to his stories, and before I knew it, he was already telling me his
background.
“
I used to live in a small village next to the Great Wall. I had parents who loved me and neighbours who
cared about me. I led a normal childhood like any other children did.” He was twirling the Chinese flute with his
stubby and wrinkly fingers, but then, he suddenly stopped. “I thought that I was a lucky child, yet, one day, a
ruthless, merciless fire destroyed my smile and my hope.”
A fire broke out on the eighth birthday of the boy. The fire brought away the lives of his parents, his
friends and neighbours. That was the darkest and hopeless time in his life.
“
I was the only one who was still alive after the accident. I was turned into a homeless orphan. However, I
still had to sustain my life. The only thing I knew was to play a Chinese flute. It was my father who taught me to
play so. I then decided to head towards the Great Wall, which was the only path leading to the west where many
people passed and I could earn some money for food with the marvelous tune I played.” His eyes gazed at the
flute in his hand, “This flute has become the only partner of mine.”
Each day and night, the poor boy spent his time playing the Chinese flute, hoping just to earn a few coins
to buy some food to fill his stomach. He even slept at the Great Wall in darkness and loneliness. After all, he
had no choice.
“
If you don’t mind me asking,” I interrupted. “Have you ever thought of giving up yourself?”
The old man mused over the question for a moment. “Well yes I have. Once I played the flute for a whole
day and I couldn’t even earn a cent. I felt extremely depressed and I had thought of giving my life away. I
blamed God for giving me such a childhood but then destroyed my dreams in just a few seconds.” The old
man’s eyes glittered. “Yet, she suddenly appeared and changed my life.”
One ordinary day, a girl who was originally heading towards the west was attracted by the delicate tune of
the Chinese flute. Her hair was the colour of raven's wings and cascaded like a waterfall down her back,
reaching almost to her waist, but this was no more striking than her eyes which were like sapphires set
symmetrically in her pretty face, ivory like yet radiating a peach-laden aura, to the point of overflowing, with
glamour, peace, wisdom and compassion, very rare in the region. Her figure, slender and pale like a piece of
porcelain china and seemingly as fragile, also looked to be light as a feather. She reminded him of the beauty of
the meandering Great Wall, mysterious, stunning yet breathtaking.
The girl was deeply fascinated by the wondrous tune of the flute and she began to sing along with the tune.
Her voice was tremendously beautiful. The tune of the flute and the singing of the girl made a perfect match.
That was the time which the boy heard the loudest applause and earned the most money.
I