by Shen CongWen
Now that the brothers had grown up, it was time to test their characters in every different line of work. The father had sent each boy in turn on journeys to distant parts. When taking a boat downstream, they suffered the same hardships as the rest of the crew. When it was time to man the oars, they chose the heaviest one, and when it was time for towing, they took the lead place among the trackers. They ate the same dried fish, hot peppers, and putrid pickled cabbage as the others, and they slept on the same stiff, hard deck planks. On the land route upriver, taking the East Sichuan trade route, they did business in Xiushan, Longtan, and Youyang, always on schedule, even while wearing straw sandals in heat and cold, rain and snow. The young men were armed with knives. They could unsheathe them in a flash, but did so only when forced. They’d move to a clearing and wait for the opponent to make his move, then let their muscles decide the outcome. Gang ritual decreed that “it takes a knife both to fend off adversaries and make blood brothers,” so when a knife was needed, the two boys were not shy about putting it to its intended use. All their education—in the ways of trade, social manners, living in a strange environment, using a knife to defend their persons and their reputations—seemed aimed at teaching these two boys the courage and sense of duty to be a man. And this very education made both of them as strong and tough as tigers, yet also friendly and approachable, never lazy and arrogant, ostentatious, or bullying. When anyone at the Chadong frontier brought up the character of Shunshun and his boys, they always spoke their names with respect.
Since his boys’ infancy, their father had seen that the elder would resemble him in all things, yet he seemed slightly partial to the younger son. This unconscious preference led him to name the elder son Tianbao (Heaven-protected), and his younger brother Nuosong (Sent by the Nuo Gods). He who was protected by Heaven might not be so favored in the worldly affairs of humans, but he who was sent by the Nuo gods, according to local understanding, must not be underestimated. Nuosong was exquisitely handsome. The boat people of Chadong were hard put to find words for his good looks. The best they could come up with was the nickname Yue Yun. None of them had ever seen Yue Yun, that most handsome warrior of the Song dynasty a thousand years earlier, but they thought they saw a resemblance to the dashing Yue Yun figure who appeared onstage in local opera.
CHAPTER THREE
For ten years and more, the local military commander at this provincial border had emphasized maintaining the peace and keeping things as they were. He handled things quite deftly, so there had been no unrest. Commerce on land and water never had to stop on account of warfare or rural banditry; good order was the rule, and people were satisfied. They felt grief at such misfortunes as the death of a cow, the capsizing of a boat, or any other fatal catastrophe, but the disasters suffered by other places in China due to the awful struggles going on there seemed never to be felt by these frontier folk.
The most stirring days of the year in this border town were the Dragon Boat Festival, the Mid-autumn Festival, and the lunar New Year. These three festival days excited the people here exactly as they had fifty years before. They were still the days that meant the most.
At the Dragon Boat Festival on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, women and children put on new clothes and painted the character wang, or “king,” on their foreheads using wine mixed with realgar. Everybody got to eat fish and meat this day. By eleven o’clock in the morning, all Chadong was sitting down to lunch, after which those who lived in town locked their doors and went down to the riverside to see the dragon boats race. If they knew people on River Street, they could watch from the houses on stilts overhanging the river. Otherwise, they watched from in front of the customs house or from one of the many piers. The dragon boat race began downstream at the Long Depths stretch of the river. The finish line was in front of the customs house. The local military officers, customs officials, and all people of importance gathered at the customs house this day to take in the excitement. The oarsmen had prepared for the race days in advance, with each competing team selecting its strongest and nimblest young lads to practice their maneuvers in the deep part of the river. The dragon boats were longer and narrower than ordinary wooden boats, with upturned ends and a long vermilion stripe painted on the hull. Most of the year they were stored in dry caves by the river. When it came time to use them, they were towed out into the water. Each boat sat twelve to eighteen oarsmen, a helmsman, and two men to beat the drum and gong. The oarsmen’s short paddles rowed the boat forward to the rhythm of the drumbeats—first unhurried, then urgent. The red-turbaned cox sat in the prow waving two little signal flags left and right, directing the motion of the boat. The men who pounded the drum and beat the gong usually sat amidships. The moment the boat launched, they started up the single-minded booming and clanging that governed the speed with which the boatmen thrust their oars into the river. The boat’s speed had to follow the sound of the drum and gong, so whenever two boats got to the climax of their competition, the thunder of the percussion, added to the encouraging cheers from both banks, recalled novels and stories about Liang Hongyu beating her drum in the historic naval battle at Laoguan River, and the cacophony when Niu Gao fished the rebel Yang Yao out of the water. All who rowed their boat to victory were rewarded at the finish line in front of the customs house with red silk and a little silver badge, not just for their individual efforts but to acknowledge the boat’s glorious teamwork. Soldiers used to taking things into their own hands felt compelled to congratulate the victorious boat by setting off strings of five-hundred-pop firecrackers.
After the race, the garrison soldiers and officers in town, to make common cause with the citizenry and increase the merriment of all concerned, released green-headed drakes out on the river with red ribbons tied around their long necks, so that the best swimmers, be they soldiers or civilians, could jump into the river and catch them. Anyone who captured a duck got to keep it. Thereupon the river at Long Depths hosted a unique spectacle: a stream simply covered with ducks—and people swimming after them.
These competitions, of boat against boat and man against duck, went on until the day was done.
Dragon Head Elder Brother Shunshun, now boss of the riverfront, had been an expert swimmer in his youth. When he dove into the water to catch a drake, he never went home empty-handed. But it came to be that during one festival, when his younger son, Nuosong, had turned eleven and was able to hold his breath long enough to swim to a drake under water and catch him by surprise, the father said to his son, a little defensively, “All right, it’s up to you two now, no need for me to dive in anymore!” And that was the end of his jumping into the water to compete in catching ducks. Diving in to save a life, of course, was a different matter. He would jump into fire itself to save a person from calamity. You could be sure he would consider it his bounden duty even when he was eighty!
Now Tianbao and Nuosong were the best rowers around, the top picks.
The Dragon Boat Festival on the fifth of the month was about to come around, so a big meeting was held on River Street on the first. The neighborhood decided then to launch the boat that belonged to their street. It happened that Tianbao was on an upcountry journey that day, accompanying merchants on the land route to East Sichuan to sell festival goods in Longtan. Only Nuosong could attend the meeting. Sixteen strapping young men, strong as oxen, journeyed upriver to the mountain cave where the boats were hidden, carrying incense, candles, firecrackers, and a drum on legs, whose rawhide drumheads had the circular yin-yang symbol painted in vermilion. Ceremoniously, they lit incense and candles and pulled their boat into the river. Then they boarded it, exploding firecrackers and beating the drum. The boat swept downstream, swift as an arrow, to the Long Depths.
That was in the morning. After noon, the dragon boat of the fisher folk on the other shore was launched, too; the two boats began to practice all sorts of competitive maneuvers. The very first drumbeats coming from the river brought joy to those who heard them, a sign that the fest
ival was close at hand. Denizens of the houses on stilts near the river began to think of their man’s return, or began to hope for it, or at the very least were stimulated by the drumming to remember him. Many boats would be home for the festival, but others would have to pass the day away from home. This was a time when you could see feelings of delight and sorrow you ordinarily didn’t get to see. Along the River Street of this little mountain town, some people were beaming; others were frowning.
When the booming of the drums skimmed over the water and crossed the hills to the ferryboat, the first to hear it was the yellow dog. Startled, he ran wildly around the house in circles, yapping all the way. When someone ferried across the stream to the eastern bank, he followed and ran up the hill with them, barking toward the town.
Cuicui was sitting on the great rocky bluffs outside her door, weaving grasshoppers and centipedes from palm leaves to amuse herself, when she saw the yellow dog suddenly awaken from his sleep under the sun and run around as if possessed, then cross the stream and come back. She scolded him,
“Hey there, dog! What’s gotten into you? Stop it!”
But soon she made out the sound herself. She, too, ran around the house, then ferried herself and the dog across the stream, where she stood with him on the hilltop and listened for the longest time, letting those entrancing drumbeats carry her away to a festival in the past.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was two years earlier: at festival time, on the fifth day of the fifth month, Grandpa found someone to replace him at the ferry and took the yellow dog and Cuicui into town to see the boat race. The riverbanks were crowded with people as four long, red boats slipped across the river depths. The “Dragon Boat tide” that raised the waters, the pea-green color of the stream, the bright, clear day, and the booming of the drums had Cuicui pursing her lips in silence, though her heart swelled with inexpressible joy. It was so crowded, with everyone straining to see what was happening on the river, that before long, though the yellow dog remained at Cuicui’s side, Grandpa was jostled away out of sight.
Cuicui kept watching the boat race, thinking to herself that her grandfather was bound to come back soon. But a long time passed and he failed to return. Cuicui began to feel a little panicky. When the two of them had come to town the day before with the yellow dog, Grandpa had asked Cuicui, “Tomorrow is the boat race: if you go into town by yourself to see it, will you be afraid of the crowd?” Cuicui replied, “Crowds don’t scare me, but it’s no fun to watch the race by yourself.” At that, her grandfather thought it over and finally remembered an old friend in town. He went that night to ask the old man to come tend the ferryboat for the day so he could bring Cuicui to town. Since the other man was even more alone than the old ferryman, without a relative to his name—not even a dog—it was agreed that he’d come over in the morning for a meal and a cup of realgar wine. The next day arrived; with the meal finished and the ferry duty handed over to the other man, Cuicui and her family entered the town. It occurred to Grandpa to ask along the way, once again: “Cuicui, with so many people down there, and so much commotion, do you dare go down to the riverbank to watch the dragon boats alone?” Cuicui answered, “Of course I do! But what’s the point of watching it alone?” Once they got to the river, the four vermilion boats at Long Depths mesmerized Cuicui. She forgot all about her grandfather. He thought to himself, “This will take some time; it’ll be another three hours before it’s over. My friend back at the ferry deserves to see the young people whoop it up. I ought to go back and trade places with him. There’s plenty of time.” So he told Cuicui, “It’s crowded, so you stay right in this spot. I have to go do something, but I’ll be sure to get back in time to take you home.” Cuicui was spellbound by the sight of two boats racing prow-to-prow, so she agreed without taking in what her grandpa had said. Realizing that the yellow dog at Cuicui’s side might well be more reliable than he, the old man returned home to the ferry.
When he arrived, Grandpa saw his old friend standing below the white pagoda, listening to the distant sound of the drums.
Grandpa hailed him to bring the boat over so the two could ferry across the brook and stand under the pagoda together. The friend asked why the old ferryman had returned in such a hurry. Grandpa told him he wanted to spell him a while. He’d left Cuicui by the shore so his friend could also enjoy the excitement down at the big river. He added, “If you like the spectacle, no need to return, just tell Cuicui to come home when it’s over. If my little girl is afraid to come by herself, you can accompany her back!” Grandpa’s stand-in had long ago lost any interest in watching dragon boats; he’d rather stay here with the ferryman on the big bluffs by the stream and drink a cup or two of wine. The old ferryman was quite happy to hear that. He took out his gourd of wine and gave it to his friend from town. They reminisced about Dragon Boat Festivals past as they drank. Pretty soon the friend drank himself to sleep, out on the rock.
Having succumbed to the liquor, he could hardly return to town. Grandpa couldn’t very well abandon his post at the ferry, either. Cuicui, who was stranded at the river, began to worry.
The boat race achieved its final outcome and the military officers in town sent a boat into the Long Depths to release the ducks. Still Grandpa was nowhere to be seen. Fearing that her grandfather might be waiting for her somewhere else, Cuicui and the yellow dog made their way through the crowd, and still there was no trace of him. Soon it would be twilight. All the soldiers from town who’d come hefting benches to watch the commotion had shouldered them now and returned home, one by one. Only three or four ducks remained at liberty in the river. The number of people chasing them was dwindling, too. The sun was setting, in the direction of Cuicui’s home upstream. Dusk draped the river in a thin coat of mist. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Cuicui as she surveyed this scene: “Could Grandpa be dead?”
Keeping in mind that Grandpa had asked her to stay in this spot, she tried to disprove the awful thought to herself by imagining that he must have gone into town and run into an acquaintance, maybe been dragged off to have a drink. That was why he hadn’t come back. Because it really was a possibility, she didn’t want to leave for home with the yellow dog when it wasn’t completely dark yet. She could only keep on waiting for her grandpa there by the stone pier.
Soon two long boats from the other shore moved into a small tributary and disappeared. Nearly all the spectators had dispersed, too. The prostitutes in the houses on stilts lit their lanterns and some of them were already singing to the sound of tambourines and lutes. From other establishments came the raucous shouting of men drinking during the guess-fingers game. Meanwhile, in boats moored below the stilt houses, people were frying up dishes for a feast; greens and turnips sizzled in oil as they plopped into their woks. The river was already obscured by the misty darkness. Only a solitary white duck was still afloat on the river, with just one person chasing it.
Cuicui stayed by the dockside, still believing that her grandfather would come to take her home.
As the strains of song coming from the stilt houses grew louder, she heard talking on a boat below, and a boatman saying, “Jinting, listen, that’s your whore, singing to some merchant from Sichuan while he downs his liquor! I’ll bet a finger on it, that’s her voice!” Another boatman replied, “Even when she sings drinking songs for other men, she’s still thinking of me! She knows I’m in this boat!” The first added, “So she gives her body to other people, but her heart stays with you? How do you know?” The other said, “I’ll prove it to you!” Whereupon he gave a strange whistle. The singing above stopped, and the boatmen had a good laugh. They had a good deal to say about the woman after that, much of it obscene. Cuicui was not used to such language, but she couldn’t leave the spot. Not only that, she heard one of the boatmen say that the woman’s father had been stabbed at Cotton Ball Slope—seventeen times. That uncomfortable thought suddenly seized her again: “Could Grandpa be dead?”
As the boatmen continued conversing, the
remaining white drake in the pool swam slowly toward the pier where Cuicui stood. She thought to herself, “Come any closer and I’ll catch you!” She kept waiting there quietly, but when the duck came within ten yards of the shore, someone laughed and hailed the sailors on the boat. A third person was still in the water. He grabbed the duck and was slowly making his way to shore, treading water. Hearing the shouting from the river, a man on the boat yelled back into the murky haze, “Hey, No. 2, you’re really something! That’s the fifth one you’ve bagged today.” The one in the water replied, “This character was really clever, but I caught him anyway.” “It’s ducks for you today, and tomorrow women—I’ll bet you’ll be just as good at that.” The one in the water fell silent and swam up to the pier. As he climbed up onshore, dripping wet, the yellow dog at Cuicui’s side yapped at him as a warning. It was then that he noticed Cuicui. She was the only one on the dock now.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Cuicui.”
“And who might that be?”
“The granddaughter of the ferryman at Bixiju, Green Creek Hill.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my grandpa. He’s coming to get me.”
“It doesn’t look like he’s coming. Your grandfather must have gone into town for a drink at the army barracks. I’ll bet he passed out and someone carried him home!”
“He wouldn’t do any such thing. He said he’d come get me, so that’s what he’ll do.”
