The Ant Spirit

Lao Zhou runs a tiny noodle shop at the very end of the alley—three tables, one coal stove, and a photograph of his late wife on the wall.

He is a stubborn man who cannot abide dirt. Every night after closing, he scrubs the floor twice with lye water, stacks the bowls in perfect rows, and scrapes every last speck of flour back into the bag. Yet for all his cleanliness, the ants come anyway.

They pour out of a crack in the wall, form a thin line, and march straight for the sugar jar. Each carries off a single grain and turns back the way it came—no fighting, no spilling. Lao Zhou crouched there watching for a long while and named the largest one at the head "the Captain." The Captain was a size bigger than the rest and stopped now and then, as if counting.

At first Lao Zhou fought them with boiling water and chalk lines. Nothing worked. The next night the line came again. So he let them be, and took to leaving one grain of sugar by the jar each day, as toll for the passage.

That summer the rains were heavy. One night the rain fell as if the sky had tipped over, and the water in the alley crept past the threshold. Half awake, Lao Zhou heard a rustling by the board. He lit the lamp: the water had risen to his ankles, yet the sugar jar, the money box, and the photograph of his wife had all been carried, one by one, to the top of the board, set down square and steady. The Captain led a column that stood as a wall against the water, and the others climbed across its back, ferrying things up trip after trip.

Lao Zhou did not move. He crouched on the table and watched. When the water receded, he found his own cloth shoes had been moved to the highest place too.

The next day, no ants came from the crack. The sugar jar gathered dust; the photograph still stood in its place. Each night after closing, Lao Zhou sets a single grain of sugar on the windowsill. He does not expect anyone to take it. He has simply grown used to it.