“Tell my mother we searched for her everywhere,” Lao Er said. “Tell her it is bad luck that we cannot find her before we go.”
“I will,” his father said. He would not tell his son what he now felt to see him go out of this house to a place unknown and the time of his return unknown and perhaps never, for who could say what would happen before they met again and whether or not they would meet? He followed his son and Jade out of the gate and stood on the threshing floor to see them go, and with him were all his house except his son’s mother. It was an afternoon like any other in midsummer, hot and quiet and the sky blue except for the piles of silver thunder clouds resting upon the green mountains. Still none could say whether or not the clouds would do more than lie there. Sometimes they made a storm and sometimes they did not.
And Ling Tan, feeling all around him seem so the same, as though there were no war, wondered if it were not folly indeed to let his good young son leave the safety of this house and with him his young wife, now precious to them all for what she carried in her, and he wondered whether or not these young men had spoken the truth in all they had said. It did not seem true to him now that less than a hundred miles away the armies of the enemy marched toward this place. A bird sang in a peach tree near his door where the peaches had but just finished their ripening, and his grain stood motionless under the hot sun. Its greenness was changing to a paler green and it would not be many days before the paleness turned to yellow.
When he cut the rice he would miss sorely enough this strong son, and now it seemed to him that this second son of his had good in him which none of the others had. He was quicker than the eldest and sharper in his thoughts and he laughed more wisely and kept his laughter for what was funny and did not waste it on courtesy and placating as his eldest sometimes did, and beside him the third son was fit for nothing except to herd the buffalo. And in spite of all Ling Sao said, Ling Tan knew that Jade was the best of the young women in his house. He looked at her now and for the second time since she had come here he spoke to her directly for he was a man of dignity and he obeyed the customs between the generations. The first time he spoke had been when she came as a bride and he must greet her, and now this time he bade her farewell.
“Do your duty, child,” he said. “Remember that he is my son and his child my grandchild, and that all rests on you. Where the woman is faithful no evil can befall. The woman is the root and the man the tree. The tree grows only as high as the root is strong.”
She did not answer, but she let her lovely mouth, always straight and grave, move a little in a smile. Whether or not she believed what he said, that smile did not tell him.
And so he let them go, and he stood looking after them a long time, as long as he could see them, until their two figures were lost among the crowd.
When he came in he saw smoke rising out of the kitchen and he went and looked behind the stove and there sat his wife, feeding grass into its belly.
“Where were you?” he cried. “We looked for you everywhere.”
“I would not come to see him go,” she said. “If he must go let me not see it.”
“But you have been weeping,” he said, staring at her. Her eyes were red and down her brown cheeks her tears had left a silvery skin as they dried.
“I have not,” she said. “The smoke makes my eyes red.”
He let her say this, seeing the tears well up into her eyes again, and he stood there helpless before her. It had always been that if she wept, who wept so seldom, he felt himself turned to stone and not able to move.
… Out of a house it seemed strange that two could be so missed as Ling Tan and his wife now missed their second son and Jade. There were all these others left and the same number of children ran about the court and teased the chickens and ducks and pulled the dog’s tail until he howled with misery, and it was easier for all to sleep for Wu Lien and the eldest daughter and their children slept in the empty room, and they could put the old woman who was Wu Lien’s mother in the third son’s bed, and him out in the court on a bamboo couch, and yet they missed those two. Some sort of strength had left the house with their going, and the eldest son without his younger brother seemed too gentle and docile and he agreed too quickly with what his father and mother said, and Ling Tan felt that in the time of trouble this docile man would do what he was told well enough but would not know what to do if there were no one there to tell him, and Ling Tan felt the care was all his. Now he saw that his second son was a man of his own mind, though so young, just as Jade, though wilful, was a woman who knew what to do next without asking.
Even Ling Sao missed Jade more than she would say and yet because she was a just woman she laughed with shame after a few days and told her husband so.
“I would have said that only peace could be here after that Jade went, and I will not say I want her back again, if it were not for our son. But still I do grow weary with Orchid who does nothing if I do not tell her, and with our elder daughter who cries at me like a sheep from morning until night, ‘M-ma, what shall I do next?’ I tell her to look and see whether the floor is clean and whether the court needs sprinkling for dust or is there fuel enough for the next meal, or are the clothes to be washed or do the drying fish need turning, or if there is nothing else, then slice carrots to salt down for the winter but no, then she says, ‘Which comes first, M-ma?’ ”
Ling Tan’s little eyes twinkled at his wife as she sat combing out her long hair before she slept. “She is your own daughter,” he said, “and she still asks you what she is to do because you always told her. Jade, now, she did not grow up at your side, and so she is used to seeing with her own eyes and not yours.”
“Is this my fault?” she asked, and held the comb, ready to be grieved. For these two were so close after all the years that she could not bear a word from him if he thought her wrong. To hear anyone else curse her and curse her mother and call her father a turtle did not touch her anywhere. She would only laugh or grow angry and curse back the bigger mouthful. But let her husband say she should have done other than she did, and though she would try to muster up her anger to flout him with, still she never could, and his words, though only two or three, would sink into her heart like a dagger, and she would carry it in her for days. So Ling Tan had learned never to speak to her to say she was wrong unless he must and he let many a small thing pass, knowing how warm and impetuous this woman of his was and how eagerly she secretly wished to do what he liked, though she would have denied she was so, and would have said what she so loved to say, that she feared no man, and not him either.
“You are the best mother in the province,” he said, “and where is there one like you beyond the seas? I would not have you a cool thin soul. I like you hot and gusty and I like your quick tongue even when it is turned on me.”
He laughed as he spoke, and she grew red with pleasure and began to comb her hair again, and to hide her pleasure she tried to be surly while she smiled.
“You old turnip,” she said, and searched for something she could do for him. “Come here, old man, and let me see that spot on your cheek and see if you are to have a boil after all these years.”
He came near to her and bent over her to humor her, knowing very well why she wanted to touch him and to do something for him.
“It is only where a flea bit me,” he said.
“Do not tell me what it is,” she said, “I can see for myself.”
She felt it and saw that it was nothing and so she gave him a small blow on his bare shoulder because she loved him so well.
“And can you not catch a flea any more, and must you be bitten like a child, you bone?” she said.
They both laughed then, and he thought to himself that if this woman died before he did, even then he would not marry another, for after her any would be like a carrot dried without salt.
“Do you know why you do not like Jade?” he asked, to tease her.
“I know all I want to know,” she said, beginning to comb her
hair again, and making her eyes mischievous.
“You do not know this,” he said. “It is because she is so much like you.”
“That Jade!” she cried, trying to be angry. But secretly in her heart she was pleased for Jade was beautiful and she knew against her wish that the girl was no ordinary one.
“Both of you are stubborn wilful women and it is the only sort I like,” he said. He put his hand on her neck and she felt it there as she had felt it when they were both young. But because she was long past forty she knew that to another it would have seemed shameful that two middle-aged people should be like two young ones, and so she tossed her head and pulled away and he knew what she was thinking and laughed and when she saw his brown face above her and his white teeth she forgot that he was the father of her children, the man she had lived with all these years, and she put her arms around his waist and held him hard against her and felt his heart against her cheek, beating so steadily and so strong that all her blood ran to the measure of that beat.
“Ought we not to understand our son and Jade?” he asked. “They are like us.”
“I always did say our second son was more like you than any of the others,” she answered. Then she let him go and went on binding up her hair, and so the moment was over, and both of them the better for it.
Yet as day followed day, they grew used to the two gone, and the rent in the house was mended and the work went on. But Ling Tan moved his third son up and let him work in the fields with him instead of herding the buffalo and in his place he hired a small lad for a penny a day to sit on the beast’s back on the days it was not needed for work.
As for Orchid, she was happier with Jade gone, for now there was no one to reproach her for too little work done, and no one to have smooth hair when hers was rough because she had not had time to comb it or thought she had not. Hers was easily the highest place among the younger women now that Jade was not there to do everything better than she did.
But Pansiao was sorry Jade was gone, for in the last few weeks Jade had taken a while in the evening to teach her to read a few characters. To the others it had seemed nothing more than a game but Jade knew what it was to the silent young girl who moved in such accustomed ways through the house that they all forgot her easily. Only Jade had seen how seldom the child spoke and to how few, for she, too, had been a silent child in her own father’s household and one of many in the women’s courts. Her father had been richer than most men, an owner of land he rented as well as farmed, and he had a concubine and so Jade grew up among two women’s children and they numbered seventeen in all. Among so many she was alone and she was always drawn to the silent rather than to the talkative. In this household where both Ling Tan and Ling Sao spoke freely and Lao Er talked easily and Orchid talked as easily as she breathed and the third son was away all day she saw the quiet gentle girl and wondered if she were lonely. And so out of this wonder one day, not knowing what else to say to the child, she had asked:
“Would you like to learn a few characters? Then you could read my book instead of sitting alone.”
“Oh, I am not able,” Pansiao had answered quickly. “How can I remember the letters when I forget what my mother tells me so easily?”
“It is easy to remember the characters because they tell you something you want to know,” Jade said, and so she persuaded Pansiao and it was true that the young girl did remember and Jade had never to say a character’s name twice, for every character spoke for itself to her.
Now that was over again, and Jade was gone, and Pansiao could only go over and over the characters she knew, until one day in her great hunger to know what others said, she drew near to one of the women students who passed by so often and asked her for a letter or two, and by this means she learned to read a little. Then one day a kind student gave her a book out of the few she carried.
“Take care of it,” she said, “for in these times books are dearer than food.”
Pansiao thanked her and took the book, and though she could not read enough yet to know what it said, it stood to her a goal to be reached some day, and she went through the book with a bit of charcoal and marked every character that she knew. But they were not near enough together to speak to her.
… As for Ling Tan, his only wonder was how quickly they all grew used to what was now their daily life. Day after day the flying ships came over, and they grew used to them, having said that they would stay where they were, though the enemy took the very city itself. Half of the city went away and then another third of what was left until only those stayed who had nowhere to go, or they were those who had no money at all, or those who said it made no difference to them who ruled the city so long as there was peace in it and they waited for any peace that was an end to war and these flying ships. Some end was near, all knew, for mile by mile the enemy armies drew closer and city after city fell into their grasp. There was no news of what happened in those cities because those who fled first knew nothing and after a city fell and the enemy had the land, there was only silence. None knew whether the enemy was cruel or good, and all waited.
Ling Tan waited, too, but while he waited the work had to be done, and he could not always be running into the bamboos because there were flying ships above his head, and yet he did not want to risk his head and stay alone in the fields and tempt the enemy above to see him there. So he went into the village tea shop one evening at a time when most men are glad to leave their wives awhile and sit together in peace without the noise of scolding women, and of crying children being put to bed, and at such a time he rose and spoke in the tea shop and said:
“My elder brothers, you and I are laboring men. War or no war, we must bring food out of the earth, and how can we do it sitting idle in a bamboo grove for a long while every day in the best part of the day when we are not yet tired?”
“You do not curse idleness more than we do,” a voice called out and a murmuring went over the crowd.
“Yes, but what will you say we ought to do?” another asked. “I saw a man shot beneath a flying ship, and he was dead and there is no idleness so great as death.”
This made them laugh wryly, and Ling Tan laughed too and went on.
“What I say is we ought none of us to go into the bamboos. Let us all stay in the fields and work and pretend we do not see the flying ships and if there are many of us they will decide it is not worth their while to take the time to cut off head by head and so they will go on.”
There was a clamor to agree with this, and thereafter Ling Tan and all his fellows worked in the fields without looking up when the flying ships went over them. They did only this one thing, they stopped every day about mid-morning and tied branches on their hats, so that looking down from above a man in a flying ship would see only green, for their big hats hid the blue of their trousers and the brown of their bare backs as they worked.
This village and the farms about it were now like an island in the steadily moving stream of people. Those who could go out of the city had gone, but every day brought fresh hundreds of fleeing people and how Ling Tan knew the enemy steadily came nearer was from asking these people where they came from, and day by day it was from places nearer and nearer to him, and at last cities that he knew, and this was how he knew that the armies of the enemy were winning the victory.
“Do our armies not oppose them?” he always asked, and the answer was more often rueful than not.
“Our men retreat to save themselves for a greater battle somewhere,” one man after another said, but none knew where.
And that this great battle would be beyond his land Ling Tan soon came to see, for none of these people were willing to stop here but had their eyes fixed on a far distant place, and he began to make himself and his house ready for the time when over them all the enemy would rule and under this rule they must somehow live.
Was the enemy good or evil? He could not discover, for there were more tales than he could fit together. There was Wu Lien in his own house who said that
such East-Ocean merchants as he had once dealt with on the coast where he went to buy his goods were always courteous and kind. And yet there was the tale he heard of a great crowd of people fleeing from that same coast and they were not on foot but in a train, and though they flew white flags for mercy and innocence, upon them the flying ships let down their death so that hundreds were wounded and dead. How could there be anything but evil in such an enemy?
These things he pondered hour upon hour as he worked under the green branches tied to his hat and as the flying ships came and went over his head.
“I will do my own work as I always have,” he thought, and it seemed to him the greatest thing that a man could do in these days was to live and keep alive his own. … So the summer passed into autumn, and the harvests that year were all they had promised. The rice was heavier in the head than Ling Tan had seen it in ten years and the harvest so great that everywhere in that rich valley the people were hard-pressed to reap it. They could think of nothing but the harvest, and when those soldiers came to them who were to defend the city sometime, and asked for straw for beds, or they asked for help in digging trenches about the city, the farmers were surly and they said, “We are very weary of all who are soldiers, who earn nothing, and who feed from us. Do your work yourselves, for we have our own work to do.”
When Ling Tan heard soldiers so answered, he was pleased, for he too despised all who took part in war. And yet he had cause one day to heed, at least for a moment, what one of those soldiers said, for when the man was thus repulsed, he began suddenly to weep, and he looked around on the half-harvested grain, and upon the healthy busy people and he said, “If we are not able to defend this land, we dare not dream what will happen to you, for with our own eyes we have seen the sufferings of our countrymen on the coastlands taken by the enemy.”
But still the others gave this man no heed, and the harvest waited, and the soldiers went away again.
Dragon Seed: The Story of China at War (Oriental Novels of Pearl S. Buck) Page 10