by Yan Lianke
The dog’s well-like eyes stared at the coin in the Elder’s hand, as murky blackish-red tears welled up in its eye sockets and dripped down into the newly dug grave.
There’s no need to cry, the Elder said. If after my death I am reincarnated as an animal, I want to be reincarnated as you. And if you are to be reincarnated as a human, you may be reincarnated as my child. That way, we can continue living together.
The dog’s tears stopped flowing. It made an effort to stand up, but its forelegs collapsed and it lay back down inside the grave.
The Elder said, Go drink the final half-bowl of broth in the pot.
The blind dog bowed its head toward the Elder.
The Elder said, I’m going to toss this coin. Whichever of us still has any energy left can bury the other in this grave.
The blind dog faced the ground.
After brushing the dog’s back three more times, the Elder stood up. The sun was marching over toward the mountain ridge, and if you listened carefully you could hear a fire burning brightly in the void. The Elder cursed, Fuck your ancestors! He glanced down at the coin one last time, then turned to the dog and said, I’m going to toss it. He proceeded to throw the coin into the air. The sun’s rays were as dense as trees in a forest, and the coin bumped against one ray after another, producing a bright clinking sound. When the coin landed, it tumbled over and over, slicing those rays of sunlight into countless individual shards. The Elder watched the coin as it fell, as though staring at an enormous raindrop that had suddenly appeared before him. The blind dog stood up as well. It heard the reddish-yellow sound the coin was making as it tumbled through the air, like a ripe apricot falling onto the grass.
The Elder walked over to the coin.
The blind dog followed him.
The Elder reached a clump of earth he had dug up and, without bending over all the way, he stood up again. He sighed, and said calmly, Blindy, go finish that final half-bowl of broth, which will grant you enough energy to bury me.
The blind dog stood there without moving.
The Elder said, Go on. Do what I say. After drinking the broth, you’ll have to bury me.
The dog still didn’t leave. Instead, it bent its forelegs and once again bowed down to the Elder. The Elder said, Blindy, there’s no need to bow. It is Heaven’s will that I should serve as fertilizer for this cornstalk. Then, he picked up the coin, patted the dog’s head, and said, If you feel bad about this, I could flip the coin twice more, and if it lands heads-up two times out of three, then I die; and if it lands heads-down two times out of three, then you die.
The blind dog stood up.
The Elder tossed the coin again, and it landed in front of the blind dog. The Elder took a look, and announced there was no need to toss it again. Then he sat down limply. The blind dog went over to where it had heard the coin fall. It touched the coin with its paw, licked the coin with its tongue, then lay down, as tears streamed down its face. Instantly, two pools of mud accumulated beneath its head.
Go drink that final half-bowl of broth, the Elder said. Afterward, you can bury me. Upon saying this, the Elder got up and went over to the shed post, where he pulled out a thin bamboo pole. The hollow pole was more than two feet long, and when you blew on it, it sounded very melodious. He inserted the pole horizontally into the hole he had punched in the base of the water barrel, then sealed the area around it so that no water would leak out. Next he pressed down on the other end of the pole, and a series of jade-like drops of water dripped out of the barrel onto the soil around the cornstalk. Immediately, the soil began to produce a greenish-red sucking sound, leaving behind a large wet area.
The Elder used some loose soil to erect a ring around the base of the cornstalk, to prevent the water from flowing away. After finishing this delicate task, he brushed the dirt from his hands, then looked up at the sun. He took out his scale to weigh the sun’s rays, and found that they now weighed 1.5 liang. Then he took his whip, stood in an empty area, and whipped the sun more than a dozen times, until shards of light rained down around him like pear blossoms. Finally, exhausted, he hung up the whip, cleared his throat, and announced to the sun, If I, your Elder, want to continue raising this cornstalk, what are you fucking going to do about it?
From the sun’s rays he heard a hoarse reply, like a broken gong. The sound progressed from this hill to the next one, going farther and farther until it finally disappeared. The Elder waited until the sound had completely faded away, whereupon he rolled up one of the mats and headed toward the grave he had just dug. Then he said to the blind dog, After burying me, you should go north, following the road I told you about. When you reach the gully with the spring, you will find water, and the ground will be covered with bones left behind by the wolves. You can live there until the drought passes and the villagers return. But I won’t be able to make it, given that I’ll die either today, tomorrow, or the next day. The sun was shining on the Elder’s forehead, and the bits of dirt in his hair made a clanging sound as they bumped against one another. After the Elder finished speaking to the blind dog, he brushed the dirt from his hair and lay down in the grave, against the side where the roots of the cornstalk were. He covered his body with a mat, then said to the blind dog, Bury me, Blindy. Bury me, then go north.
The mountains were silent. The flames hidden in the searing sunlight suddenly became more energetic. In the boundless emptiness, a burning smell began spreading across the entire mountain ridge. The mountains and gullies, villages and roads, and dried-up riverbeds—they were all full of a thick and sticky sunlight that resembled a golden soup.
It was generally assumed that if it didn’t rain in autumn, it would definitely snow the following winter. This year, however, winter came late, and it proved to be very dry. The drought continued unabated until the end of the following summer, at which point, rain clouds finally appeared. For half a month, the clouds repeatedly accumulated and dispersed, until finally it began to rain. A darkness then hung over the mountain range for forty-five days, as though the sun had been covered by a shroud. The rain blanketed the earth, flooding the entire land, and by the time the rain stopped and the skies cleared, it was already the autumn sowing season. Villagers gradually began to return to the ridge, bringing back their bedding, dishes, and children. At night, their halting footsteps resonated brightly under the moonlight. During the day, the mountain ridge once again became fully populated, with the jumbled sounds of people pulling carts, carrying loads, and talking; and over the mountain ridge, every now and then, there would be the sound of trees and vegetation coursing down like a river.
By this point, the autumn sowing season had arrived, but the villagers were shocked to discover that their autumn seeds were missing. In fact, there were no seeds at all in the entire several-hundred-square-li area of the Balou Mountains.
Suddenly, one of the villagers remembered how the Elder had stayed behind to look after a corn seedling. The villagers rushed out to the Elder’s plot of land, and from a distance they could see that in the entire field there was only a solitary shed. When they reached the shed, they saw that the area the Elder had hoed was now full of grass that looked as though it had been planted, producing a thick layer of green that emanated the blue scent of fresh barley and a light white odor. Throughout the entire mountain range, they heard these smells clanking together, the way that on a quiet night one might hear the sound of a river flowing. In this green field, the villagers saw the cornstalk that had already matured the previous year. Its tip had been broken off and its stem was now as thick as a small tree. The stalk was next to two reed mats that were leaning over, and its leaves were covered in mold. Some of the leaves had fallen to the ground, while others were still growing. The stem, meanwhile, looked as though it were covered in paper that had been soaked in water and then dried out again. Hanging from the stalk there was an ear of corn as large as a wooden club used for washing clothes, and it was swaying in the wind. When the ear’s jet-black tassels were touched, the
y would fall to the grass like wilted flower petals. The villagers picked this ear and quickly shucked it, and discovered that inside this enormous ear, which was as thick as a man’s calf and as long as an arm, there were thirty-seven rows of corn. But out of those thirty-seven rows, there were only seven fingernail-sized grains that were as bright as pieces of jade, and all the rest had dried up before they had a chance to ripen.
These seven grains of corn were arrayed against a desiccated backdrop, like stars in a night sky. The villagers stared at this ear with only seven grains. They stood silently in the shed looking around, until finally they saw that the mat that had once been on top of the barrel had been blown over to the stove. Inside the barrel there wasn’t a single drop of water, merely a thick layer of dirt. The thin bamboo pole that had been inserted into the base of the barrel was already cracked in multiple places. A bowl and spoon were still sitting on one side of the barrel, and a whip and scale were hanging from one of the shed’s posts. About five feet from the barrel, on the grass right next to the cornstalk, there was a grassy mound. There was also a trench about half a foot wide, five feet long, and three feet deep. A dog was lying in the dense vegetation at one end of the trench, its scraggly body full of maggot holes. Its eye sockets were as empty as dark wells, and its entire body had been dried up by the sun. Gently, the villagers kicked the animal out of the trench as though it were a bundle of kindling, after which the grave-like shape of the trench became obvious. The villagers’ hearts pounded, as they realized that this must be the Elder’s grave. In order to move the Elder’s body to the cemetery, the villagers dug up this pit. With the first shovel, they heard a bright clanking sound, as though they were digging up a metallic joint. They carefully removed the grass from the pit, and turned over the loose earth. Then every villager stared in shock, as they saw that the Elder’s underpants had decomposed into soil. His entire body had disintegrated and every joint had come apart. There was a pungent white mist rising like smoke. The Elder was lying in the grave, with one arm in the process of reaching out to the cornstalk while the rest of his body huddled around the base. His corpse was riddled with maggot holes, which were much more numerous than the dog’s. Each of the stalk’s roots resembled a long and thin vine, and had a pinkish tint. The roots were growing into the Elder’s body through the holes in his chest, thighs, wrists, and abdomen. There were several red roots as thick as chopsticks growing right through the Elder’s decayed body and into his skull, ribs, and arm and leg bones. There were several reddish-white tendrils growing into his eye sockets and poking out through the back of his skull, gripping the packed earth along the bottom of the grave. Every joint and every piece of flesh had been transformed into a web of roots, tightly linking his body to the cornstalk itself. It was at this point that the villagers noticed that the cornstalk now had two stems, which had managed to survive the previous winter and summer and still retained a trace of green.
After some deliberation, the villagers reburied the Elder in his original location, and also buried the dog, which now resembled dried grass, in that grave right next to him. The smell of fresh earth was mixed with a thin layer of warm putrefaction. Finally, as the villagers were about to leave, someone noticed that in the shed, under the Elder’s pillow, there was a rain-soaked calendar. In the grass outside, someone found a coin covered in rust. When they wiped away the rust, they noticed that the coin had text on both sides—meaning that both sides were “heads.” No one had ever seen a coin with text on both sides before. The villagers passed it around, then tossed it into the air. The sun was shining brightly, and in the air the coin collided with one bundle of sunrays after another, producing a sound like red flower petals. The coin fell to the ground, then rolled into a ditch.
The villagers took the calendar back with them.
Eventually, it was harvest season again. After the villagers of the Balou Mountains had finished the food they brought back with them, they had been unable to find any corn seeds to sow, and many of them left in search for food. Within half a month, the entire region was completely depopulated, and in the process became so peaceful you could even hear the bright sound of the sunrays knocking against one another and the moonbeams striking the ground.
In the end, the only people left were seven men from seven of the village’s households. They were all young and strong, and proceeded to build seven sheds on seven different mountain ridges. On seven nonadjacent plots of land, under the unremitting sunlight, they planted seven corn seedlings, each of which was as tender as oil.
MARROW
Chapter One
The entire world smelled of autumn.
The fall harvest season arrived before you knew it. In the mountains, the sweet smell of corn was so thick it would stick in your throat. Drop by drop, the autumn light streamed down onto the roofs of houses, onto the tips of grass, and onto the hair of the peasants out working in the fields. This sunlight, shimmering like agate, illuminated the entire village.
It illuminated the entire mountain ridge.
It illuminated the entire world.
It was a bountiful harvest. During this period of the year, a dry spell would usually be followed by a flood, and by the time the corn was ready for pollination, the balance of sun and rain would be perfect. Down in the plains the harvest was meager, while up in the mountains it was extraordinary. The ears of corn were almost as thick as a man’s leg, leaving the stalks doubled over like a hunchback. A few of the stalks were broken and lying on the ground, struggling to grow. You Village, often called Four Idiots Village, consisted of a few hills, and had abundant harvests. Between the white dew and the autumn equinox—which is to say, between the fifteenth and the sixteenth solar terms—people began harvesting corn. All the land belonging to the family of Fourth Wife You was on the mountain ridge farthest from the village. During previous years’ land reallocations, all of the families in the village felt that this field was too far away. The village chief told Fourth Wife You that if her idiot children wanted to eat, she would need to farm the field herself, and she was welcome to farm as much of it as she wished. Fourth Wife You therefore took her four children with her to sow the field. She sowed the entire ridge, amounting to perhaps eight or ten mu of land, but who knew this year would yield such an extraordinary harvest?
Fourth Wife You took her idiot children out to the fields three days in a row, and spent another three transporting everything back, but still had only harvested a third of her grain. By this point, she was exhausted, and found herself increasingly annoyed by this extraordinary harvest. In the endless cornfield, green stalks and dried leaves were piled high, and stepping inside was like entering the sea. As Fourth Wife You was carrying the baskets of corn up to the head of the field, she heard her Third Daughter calling softly out to her, “Ma, Ma! Won’t you do something about Fourth Idiot? He keeps following me around, touching my breasts and pinching my nipples.” By this point, there was already a huge pile of corn at the head of the field. The sky was high and the clouds were sparse. The purple strands of corn silk were just beginning to emerge, and they swayed back and forth in the sunlight. Fourth Wife You turned in the direction of the voice, and sure enough her son was chasing her daughter around. He had ripped open her dress, and her swollen breasts, white as a rabbit’s head, were bouncing about as though they were about to hop out of her clothes. Fourth Wife You stared in disbelief. She saw no shame on her Third Daughter’s face as Fourth Idiot grabbed her breasts. Instead, her face had a light glow, like a New Year’s painting. Behind her, Fourth Idiot giggled, desiring his sister yet fearing his mother, his mouth full of saliva and his eyes full of tears. Fourth Wife You didn’t know what exactly had led to this. Part of her wanted to get to the bottom of things, but at the same time she recognized that her children were idiots and she didn’t know how to begin to ask them. As she stood there, something flashed before her and suddenly her husband, Stone You, appeared at the head of the field. He said that Fourth Idiot had grabbed the buttons o
n Third Daughter’s dress, and that he had seen it all clearly from the field. Fourth Wife You shifted her gaze from her husband back to her son, and said, “Fourth Babe, come over here. Mother wants to tell you something.” The boy came over hesitantly, and Fourth Wife You slapped his face.
Fourth Idiot grabbed his cheek and began sobbing.
Fourth Wife You roared, “Don’t you know that Third Daughter is your own sister?”
Fourth Idiot headed into the cornfield like a dog with its tail between its legs. He sat on a pile of corn stalks, staring into the sky and bawling. Soon, the entire hillside was filled with his cries.
Thinking the storm had passed and that they needed to get back to harvesting the corn, Fourth Wife You emptied the basket on the ground and told her husband, “You can go do your thing, I’ll continue working until nightfall. You don’t need to keep returning.” She turned around and saw Third Daughter staring at her intently, as if she were dying for something to eat.