Ball Lightning

I grabbed a taxi to Zhongtian Gate. I had originally planned on taking the cable car up to the peak, but when I saw the long line, I headed upward on foot. The fog was thick, and the trees on either side were indistinct shadows that extended upward before vanishing into white. From time to time, stone inscriptions from past eras loomed into view.

Ever since my trip to Yunnan with Zhang Bin, I always felt a little frustrated whenever I found myself out in the middle of nature. Looking around at the natural world, its mysteries and unfathomable complexity and variability on display, I found it difficult to imagine that humanity could constrain it within the thin bonds of mathematical equations. And every time I thought of this, I would recall how Einstein once said that every tree outside, every flower attracting pollinating bees, escapes all book knowledge.

But my annoyance was soon replaced with physical exhaustion. I could see stone steps stretching endlessly into the fog ahead of me, and the Nantian Gate just below the peak seemed like it was far above the stratosphere.

Just then, I saw her for the first time. She caught my attention because she contrasted with the rest of the people around me. I had seen couple after couple stopped on the path, the woman sitting on a stone step exhausted while the man, breathing heavily, tried to get her to move onward. Whenever I passed someone, or on those rare occasions that someone passed me, I could hear their short, strenuous breathing. I pushed myself to follow a porter in whose broad bronze shoulders I found the strength to continue climbing. It was then that a white figure slipped easily past us, a woman who looked like condensed fog in her white blouse and white jeans. When she passed me on light and springy footsteps, I could not hear her breathing at all. She looked back—not at me, but at the porter—with a serene expression, no sign of fatigue on her face. Her lithe body seemed to have no weight at all, as if climbing this exhausting mountain path was like strolling down an avenue. Before long, she vanished into the fog.

By the time I finally reached the South Gate, it was already floating on a sea of clouds stained red by the sun, which was just setting in the west.

I dragged my heavy feet to the Yuhuang Peak Meteorology Station. Once the people inside learned who I was and where I was from, they acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary: meteorological workers were constantly arriving at the famous station to conduct all sorts of tests. They told me that the station chief had gone down the mountain, so they introduced me to the deputy chief. I almost cried out in astonishment when I saw him: it was Zhao Yu.

It had been three years since our trip down to Yunnan. I asked him how he ended up in this peculiar place, and he said, “I came here in search of peace and quiet. The world down there is too damn frustrating!”

“Then you should become a monk at Dai Temple.”

“That’s not a peaceful place, either. What about you? Are you still chasing your ghosts?”

I explained my reason for coming.

He shook his head. “1962. That’s too long ago. They’ve changed staff at the station so many times since then, I can’t imagine that anyone would know about it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I only want to learn about it because it was the first time someone working in meteorology personally witnessed ball lightning in this country. It’s not all that important, really. I came up the mountain as a diversion, and who knows, maybe there’ll be a thunderstorm. Next to Wudang, this is the best place for lightning.”

“Who’s got the time to sit and watch lightning? I think you’ve really gone over the edge! Still, you can’t escape thunderstorms up here. If you really want to see something, then stay for a few days and maybe you will.”

Zhao Yu took me to his dormitory. It was supper time, so he called the cafeteria to have them send over some food: thin, crispy Taishan pancakes, green onions as big around as shot glasses, and a bottle of Taishan liquor.

Zhao Yu thanked the elderly cook, but as the old man turned to go, a thought occurred to him. He asked, “Master Wang, when did you first start working at the station?”

“It was 1960 that I started, right at this very cafeteria. Those were trying times. You weren’t around then, Director Zhao.”

Zhao Yu and I shared a surprised smile.

Immediately, I asked, “Have you seen ball lightning?”

“You mean… rolling lightning?”

“Right! That’s what they call it.”

“Of course I’ve seen it. Over the past forty years, I’ve seen it three or four times!”

Zhao Yu picked up another glass and we enthusiastically invited Lao{A respectful form of address for an elder.} Wang to sit down. As I poured him a drink, I asked, “Do you remember the time it hit in 1962?”

“Sure do. That’s the one I remember the best. A guy got hurt then!”