That same little wind was at Lim's back as he traveled the path to his house after work. He arrived before sunset and in good time to prepare his dinner: a watery soup, dried fish and rice, and half a raw onion to liven the meagre fare. In rapt expectation, Lim's tail-less cat watched from her seat on the window sill, her patience soon rewarded, when Lim finally gave up on the half-eaten meal and placed the remaining portion on the floor. The night was simply too hot for eating.For a while, Lim tried to study a book of old verse that had once belonged to his grandfather, but the fading light had become to weak to read by, and his eyes began to ache with the strain. He felt empty and tired, partly wishing he had gone with the foreman to Ngong Ping. However, it was too late to begin reconsidering and there was still a duty to be performed.
As soon as the sun had passed below the horizon. Lim stepped back outside and walked to the north wall of the hut where he knelt to prepare the ceremonial offering. First, he scooped up the loose soil into a low, narrow mound, then carefully placed incense sticks into the soft earth surrounding it, one for each year since his father's passing. Two tallow candles were set at the top of the mound, where they might burn the night long like a dragon's eyes, beckoning his father's spirit to the earthly home he had left behind.
Working intently, Lim thought of his father as he had been in his youth, meticulously designing mounds for his own father's ghost. Then for a moment, Lim imagined his parents bending beside him, happily watching their son and knowing he honored their memory. Filled with a longing and loneliness he had all but forgotten, he finished the preparations by lighting the candles and the incense, then murmured a prayer for his father's contentment. The two little flames wavered ever so slightly in the still air. At last, Lim returned to his room, latched the door and quietly retired to the reed mats which served as his bed. Sleep quickly followed him there.
That night until dawn, he dreamt of the mountain, Fung Wong, where spirits supposedly danced on a moonlit plateau. He climbed ever upward, encircled by fir trees and purple butterfly orchids, and many times he called his father's name. But the only sound to be heard was the playful wind as it toyed with the pine needles high above. Lost in careless slumber as he was, Lim failed to notice when the real wind carried traces of smoke into his room, just as the sun was breaking over the tea fields. The fire had already begun.
Immediately sensing the danger when the smoke became thicker, the cat scrambled up on the table and out of the window, overturning cups, bowls and books as she left. Stirred by the noise and then the acrid fumes, Lim felt his nose twitch and his eyes begin to water. Suddenly, he was fully awake and choking on the bluish-gray smoke which was now rapidly filling the room. Lim stumbled to his feet and crossed the room to the door; then half-overcome by the thickening air, he fumbled with the latch and the door swung back with groan. A wave of swirling heat flooded the room, driving him from the exit to the center of the hut. His lungs fought for air. Although he could see sunlight pouring in through the charred doorway, the flames were already too high to permit safe escape. Turning, Lim saw the smoke flowing in through the window on the opposite side of the house. There was no time to waste. He quickly made his way across the room and climbed up on the table. Then, smoke-blinded, shielding his face with his arms and abandoning all other thoughts, he dove head-first out of the open window.
Stunned at first from the shock of hitting the ground full force, Lim took a moment to come to his senses. He coughed deeply and his throat was raw and aching. His forearms were scraped and bruised, but at least he was still alive. Finding his feet once again, Lim moved cautiously through the smoke to the north side of the house, where he found the wall singed and the brush crackling. Apparently, the wind had reversed itself in the night, blowing sparks from the mound, igniting the dry grass near the house. Then the flames had crept to the porch while the smoke had encircled the defenseless little hut. The fire was now raging out of control.
Knowing he could do little, but refusing to stand idly by as his home went down in ashes, Lim grabbed a canvas sheet from the woodpile and began beating at the fiery porch. Though the heat was broiling, Lim swung the tarpaulin with a fervor to match the hungry flames and he almost had them checked, when his weary arms and lungs suddenly gave out together and he fell to the ground completely exhausted. Unhindered, the flames grew large once again, rapidly engulfing the unprotected house.
In the meantime, the wind had picked up and blown steadily southward, driving the blaze to the grassland nearby, where new fuel was greedily devoured. Only gradually did Lim become aware of this second menace. If the fire continued to spread unabated, it would soon reach Ngong Ping where more than a single old hut would be lost. Tired as he was, Lim staggered back to his feet and headed for the village at a trot. The foreman was just waking when Lim arrived at his gate.
"A fire!" Lim gasped, even before the door had opened. "In the fields, it comes. A fire!" Then, tearful and short of breath, he collapsed in the foreman's arms.
