There's a twilight zone in Flushing Chinatown—where I picked up the following story:
In 1968, a 19-year-old Red Guard stumbled through the dense forest, his uniform torn and mud-stained. The fervor that had driven him into these remote mountains, he hoped, could overcome fatigue and doubt. He told himself that he was lost in direction, not in purpose. His Little Red Book kept him going. There was no way he would just drop dead.
As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the treetops, he caught sight of something unusual. Red banners fluttered in the breeze, their bold slogans proclaiming, "Serve the People!" and "Revolution is not a Dinner Party!" His heart leapt. Could it be a hidden commune, deep in the mountains, living out the ideals of the Great Helmsman?
He pushed through the undergrowth, emerging into a vast clearing. Everything before him took his breath away. Rows of simple, yet well-kept houses stood beneath blossoming peach trees, their pink petals carpeting the ground like soft snow. Men and women in Mao suits moved about the commune with a sense of purpose, their faces serene, illuminated by an inner glow.
The Red Guard approached cautiously, unsure of how he would be received. To his relief, the people welcomed him with open arms, offering food, water, and a place to rest. They spoke little of the outside world, but he could feel their shared dedication to the cause. Here, in this secluded sanctuary, was the true heart of the revolution.
As night fell, the Red Guard was led to a small hut near the edge of the commune. Inside, he found a simple bed and a bookshelf filled with works of Marx, Lenin, and, of course, Chairman Mao. He felt at home, thanks to his faith in the revolution.
That night, as he drifted off to sleep, strange dreams haunted him. He saw the faces of the villagers, not as comrades, but as something else—something older, more ancient. The peach trees outside his window seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly luminescence, their petals whispering secrets in a language he could not understand.
The next morning, he awoke to a changed world. The banners and posters were gone, replaced by hand-painted scrolls of poetry and art. The villagers, too, looked different. Their Mao suits were gone, replaced by flowing robes of silk, and their expressions, once stern with revolutionary zeal, now radiated a peaceful, timeless enlightenment.
Confused, the Red Guard confronted one of the villagers. "Where are the slogans? The banners? What happened to the revolution?"
The villager smiled gently. "The revolution you speak of is but a fleeting moment in the river of time. Here, in the Peach Blossom Paradise, we follow the natural way, free from the turmoil of the outside world."
The Red Guard recoiled, his mind struggling to grasp what he was hearing. "But...the revolution is everything! How can you live without it?"
The villager's smile deepened. "Revolutions come and go, young one! But true peace is found in harmony with nature."
The Red Guard could not accept this. Now his revolutionary zeal burned brighter than ever. He resolved to "revolutionize" the paradise, to bring the villagers back to the true path. He began to organize meetings, trying to reintroduce the slogans, the struggle sessions, the fever pitch that had defined his life.
But the villagers, now unmasked, refused to follow him. They had no interest in the dogma that had consumed the outside world. The Red Guard's attempts to impose his ideology were met with gentle resistance—doors were closed to him, voices grew silent, and the peace of the paradise remained undisturbed.
Alone and aloof, the Red Guard decided to leave and find a way to bring outside forces to this place, to transform it by any means necessary. But as he reached the edge of the clearing, the path he had taken was no more. The forest seemed to close in around him. Then he simply vanished, leaving behind no trace.
Author / Illustrator: renqiulan
