The Knocking
Mao Dun

Tap, tap, tap.

I awoke from my dream with a start.

“Who’s that knocking at the door?” I wondered, at a loss to know. I strained my ears and listened intently. There wasn’t a sound. The lamp overhead gave out a pallid glow, shining dimly on my face, still half asleep. The paper windows and hanging scroll remained as still and silent as before.

I turned over, and was about to drift back hazily into my dream when suddenly the sound awoke me again. This time, besides that slight tap-tapping, I could hear also a great howling sound. Was it the angry roar of the North Wind? Or the awakening of Man? I couldn’t be sure. But my blood surged with exhilaration, as if I had already flown out of the room, straddled the neck of the North Wind and galloped off into space.

Yet that great sound became indistinct again, became fainter, and disappeared; all that remained from this metamorphosis was a lonely void.

“That great sound only happened precisely because there was this void for it to fill in the first place,” I laughed, realising that I’d been fooled.

Eyes wide open now, I became immersed in thought. A multitude of faces danced randomly before my eyes, whilst in my ears, a cacophony of voices fought to be heard. Then, suddenly, everything vanished, and there was that little tap, tap, tapping again, coming from over by the window, as if someone was knocking at the door.

“Who’s there? What’s the matter?” I shouted impatiently. But there was no reply.

I put out the light. Outside the window, a few cold stars shimmered in the blue-black sky. No-one should be knocking at my door at this time of the night, I thought. And even suppose someone really were doing so, it must surely be an ignorant good-for-nothing—waking people up like this yet giving no reply.

Yet these musings were cut short again—this time, the sound from outside my door was a rumbling, like the sound of thunder. Naturally, it couldn’t be the thunderous din of mosquitoes. Certainly, there were mosquitoes around, but they were all hidden in dark corners, long since having lost any impetus to make such a sound. I knew too that it wasn’t real thunder, for it was still too early for that just then. I turned over under my quilt, pressing my left ear firmly into the pillow, suspecting that this rumbling was nothing more than a ringing in my ears. Yet suddenly, there it was again: that tap, tap, tap!

This third time, the knocking seemed to spread through the cold air, more penetrating than ever, bringing with it a sense of mournful desolation. I could stand it no longer: I leapt up, flung open the door and stared outside.

There was nothing. The faint light of a sickle moon shone cold and dim in the pond beyond my door, whilst a row of cherry trees, bare and denuded, trembled slightly in the frozen air.

There was nothing; nothing except a black dog cringing in the doorway, its head cocked, as if eavesdropping son something. Now it hung its head, as if abashed, sidling slowly off to the floor under the eaves, burying its muzzle in its soft furry neck, withdrawing into a heap.

I felt a momentary sense of pity for this ashen beast, but then my mind was seized by a furious reproach:

You wretched cur—only fit to follow the rest of the pack. You wake people up, startling them in their deep sleep like an apparition; and yet all you leave them with is a void.