Vertical Motion

by Can Xue

  =

  I awakened. It was another day. Without emerging from the ground, I felt the heat from the sun’s rays. I was anxious to know how the lion was doing. When I left him the day before, he was weeping. As soon as he wept, my brain went blank. He was so gloomy inside. Why did I care so much about him? Because he was king of the earth? Or was there another reason? Anyhow, my caring for him was connected with my faith: I hadn’t chosen this; rather, I had been born with it. I couldn’t go out yet, for my skin couldn’t stand the sunlight. I had to get a lotus leaf from the pond beside the field and cover my head with it.

  As I was swimming in the pond, I saw the corpses of many winged fireflies floating on the surface. Alas, those corpses of the moonlight nearly brought me to tears! I selected a lotus leaf, placed it on my head, and swam to shore. Something in the water pulled at my foot: it was an old fish who lived at the bottom of the pond. I was too weary to go to his home. The old fish was the most boring fellow in the world, and his home wasn’t like a home, either: it was no more than a clump of water-weeds in the silt. Most of the day, he was in a daze as he squatted in the clump of water-weeds. He didn’t think about anything; he was a fish devoid of any thought. He called me “the tiller”; I knew that was a slight. He also called my work “repairing the globe.” “The world can’t become square just because you’re repairing it,” he said. Of course, the old fish was experienced and astute, but his experience and astuteness certainly didn’t come from his thought; it came from—how to say it? A certain instinct. He was one step ahead of anything that happened in this pond. For example, when I was still in the field and he knew that I was about to arrive, he overcame his inertia and swam up, squatted in a cave beside the pond, and waited for me to pass by. I wouldn’t go to his home; he knew this, but he was still unwilling to give up. Since quarreling with him the year of the hailstorm, I had vowed I would never step foot inside his house. That hailstorm was different from ordinary hailstorms: thickly dotted, egg-sized hail fell for a day and a night, and a thick layer of it piled up in the pond. The old fish hid in an earthen cave next to the pond; the earth caved in and sealed the cave’s entrance. He slowly bored his way out; he struggled for two days before escaping. It was only because I felt uneasy that I went into the pond. That day, he and I resorted to staying in the stone cave. I was trembling from the cold; I was almost frozen stiff. In the beginning, we talked about this hailstorm, and then we began arguing, because I was well-intentioned and advised him to move into the stone cave, but he not only wasn’t grateful but cursed me for being a “coward.” He said he couldn’t imagine bamboozling himself. “Where is your home? Isn’t it under the pile of hail? Why don’t you go home? Why do you have to hide here?” I countered. At the time, he kept opening and closing his big mouth. He must have wanted to refute me, but since he couldn’t think, he didn’t know how to do that. The old fish didn’t say anything, but the expression in his eyes terrified me to the core. It was a steely, bewitching expression. I felt completely defeated by him. I can’t say for sure how he had defeated me, but anyhow, I had suffered a deadly attack. I was in low spirits for several days. Luckily, I had my work: tilling was an omnipotent magic device. It could cure any injuries to the soul.

  With the lotus leaf on my head, I streaked ahead. As I ran, I whooped impudently. If I didn’t shout, my body would dissolve in the sunlight: I was convinced of this. Finally, I reached the old poplar tree and concealed myself in the dense branches and leaves. This was much better for my skin. I climbed up to the highest branch. The zebra had already left. I heard that the zebras were just passing by; they were on their way to Africa. They belonged to the sun. Was it because of this that the lion was profoundly awed by their stripes? The lion was blocked by a large rock; I could see only the profile of his head. What was he thinking about? At night, did he launch an attack against the zebras? I really wanted to shout at him, but I knew that my voice couldn’t carry that far. And besides, he wouldn’t pay any attention to me. When I thought of the animals that he ate, I felt disgusted with him. I abhorred killing. I—and the earthworms, too—ate only the earth, and even that we didn’t really eat. We merely let the earth travel through our bodies, that’s all. We were benign animals. Underground, we dreamed of the moonlight and dreamed of our ancestors. Although he was disgusting, our esteem for the lion took the upper hand: after all, he was the king who dared to subdue Mother Earth. For example, right now: I was watching him with tears in my eyes. Did I fall in love with him? Nonsense—who could love a lion? He started moving. He was walking toward the riverside, and his shadow was thick and black in the sunlight, as though another lion, a black one, were walking behind him. He was drinking water; he drank for a long time. How could he drink for so long? Was he extinguishing an inner fire? An oriole dropped to his head. The little fellow began singing at once; it was such a sweet, clear sound—so resounding! Even I could faintly hear it. The lion stopped drinking water; he was listening, too. He didn’t move lest he frighten the little bird. I noticed that while the bird was singing, the lion’s shadow disappeared. When the bird stopped singing and flew away, the shadow returned. The lion squatted with his back to the sun, and the shadow circled around in front of him. His image gave me an impression of agony. I wanted to go back, for the moisture on my body had all evaporated; this was very rough on me.

  With the lotus leaf on my head again, I scampered off with a whoop. I shouted even more hysterically than I had before, because the sunlight was particularly strong and I was afraid it would spell the end of me. I ran and ran and finally got home. I plunged head-first into the dark cave and stuck my wrinkled skin tightly against the cold, wet earth. I nearly fainted. Not far from me, the earthworms were working systematically. These creatures of the moonlight in fact went their whole lives without seeing the moonlight, but they transmitted messages to me, telling me that they profoundly venerated the moonlight. And so, like me, they were looking into their ancestry. The earthworms’ skin was even more fragile than mine. If they encountered sunlight, they would melt into water. It’s said that this occurred many times in the past. Then, why did they have to hide even from the moonlight? Why? They didn’t tell me.

  =

  I regained my strength and began plunging down, down, into a deep spot in the ground. I wanted to till vertically. I had tried this earlier, but I had stopped each time I penetrated to the limestone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to continue, but that I couldn’t stand the smell. The strange thing was that no matter which direction I took in plunging down, in the end I always arrived at the layer of limestone. I couldn’t detour around it. Perhaps it was only a thin layer, or perhaps it was a very deep mineral hell. Either was possible. This time, in desperation, I resolved to risk danger and explore one time. I thought, there must be a way to get through this; otherwise, how had Grandfather and the others made their way down? I didn’t believe that he had been born underground. I heard a slight noise behind me: it was the earthworm following me. Him? Following me? This was suicidal! Just think about his skin. I was about to reach that place, and I already had a headache. My rigid eyeballs were also on the verge of softening. Following the course I had set, I circled toward the right. Circling for a long time, I put up with the odor. My eyeballs had already turned extremely turbid: I could see almost nothing. What was this? A natural cave! A tunnel stretching down! This was unexpected. Naturally, I stuck my head inside. It happened that this cave could accommodate my body, so I went on for a while and then grew frightened. Was this a journey with no return? However, it was already too late to return. I had walked so far. If I turned around, I didn’t know how many days it would take. It was great that the earthworm behind me kept making noise, as if to boost my courage; otherwise, I would have lost my nerve. Although there was also a limestone odor in the tunnel, it was better than outside. Bit by bit, as my vision was restored, I saw some strange decorative designs on the wall of the cave: they were everywhere. After observing enough of them, I concluded tha
t these were similar designs that were constantly changing places. They were dispatched and re-formed again and again, giving the eyes a constant sense of novelty. These simple, primitive designs took the edge off the dread I was feeling. How could there be this kind of tunnel? How had I happened to find it? Could it be that it was Grandfather’s masterpiece? The moisture in my body began bubbling up, and I heard that fellow behind me excitedly grow even noisier. He was beating against the wall of the cave. Each time—in fact, he was rubbing the wall with his head—the wall of the cave made a strange sound, as if it were saying, “That’s right, that’s right . . .” I felt comforted that he was there—my good friend. Otherwise, I probably would have fainted in disbelief. I don’t know how long I crept through the tunnel, because underground there was no distinction between day and night. However, I remember that in those moments the distinction between all things vanished. There was neither any sound nor any image: even the earthworm behind me didn’t move. No matter how much energy I expended knocking my head against the wall of the cave, I couldn’t make any sound nor could I see anything. Was it possible that this was “death”? But this situation didn’t last long. When my ears made a rumbling sound, my feeling came back (was it simply a problem with my feeling?). With each passage I crept along, “death” repeated itself. Later on, I grew used to this. Not only was I no longer afraid, but I even looked forward to it a little. In moments like that, my brain was transformed into an endless ocean. The lion’s incomparably huge silhouette appeared; he lay on the blue water. A nightingale flew over behind him. This scene appeared time after time, and I had the illusion that this trip wasn’t to find Grandfather, but to find the lion. How could one go underground to find the lion? This was a question that would normally be raised, but I had already abandoned normal logic. I recognized that I was looking for the lion, and planned, too, to talk with him after I found him—even if it meant being eaten by him. I wouldn’t mind.

  =

  How could I drop down? I thought back on this over and over, and I was still at a loss. At the time, it seemed I had come to the end of the tunnel, for I saw a vast expanse of white. I couldn’t grasp whether I had emerged from the ground or whether I was still underground. Much less could I figure out where “up” and “down” were ahead of me. By then, even the earthworm had vanished without a trace. Turning back had become even more impossible. I’ve already said that this tunnel was so narrow that it was really lucky it could accommodate my body, so there was no way I could turn around at the cave entrance. This was really dangerous, almost the same as finding a pretense to “drop down.” Of course, after a long trip, I reached my goal. Was this place really my goal? Where was the lion? Now, even the lion didn’t appear on the ocean. It had become a dead sea.

  Time kept passing, and I was still in the same place. But how could I stay in the same place forever? I couldn’t eat the earth here, for it had a very strong limestone odor. I had never fasted for such a long time. Now, utterly weakened, I was about to faint. Maybe it was in that moment that I made up my mind that I was in for a penny, in for a pound, and I might as well drop down. Just as I was falling, the lion appeared. So large, and yet so agile, he filled my entire field of vision. His mane—ah, his mane . . . Whatever happened afterward, I don’t remember. I seemed to be in a murky, rocky hole. Something was swaying in the air—sometimes a foot, sometimes a skull. That was my last memory. Maybe I just couldn’t bear to look back at what was happening, and so I forgot it. Sometimes I think that maybe what happened was truly death? Could that rocky hole have been Grandfather’s tomb? What could be so unbearable to remember?

  Anyhow, when I woke up, I was in my own field. There were earthworms above me and earthworms below me, earthworms to my left and earthworms to my right. They weren’t tilling the land; they were quietly waiting for me to wake up. When I woke up and let out a sound, they slowly began their activity. I heard their excitement: their supple bodies were knocking the earth, making a tili, tili, tili sound, just like the falling rain. In that instant, I was intoxicated with the sound of rain purifying the soul. I really wanted to break through the layer of earth that separated us and embrace these viscous companions. I wouldn’t care if their sticky fluid flowed all over my body. But I didn’t, because I knew that neither they nor I were accustomed to expressing ourselves this way. We were introverted creatures, used to communicating our enthusiasm in solitude. How softly and comfortably the earth was clinging to my body! I roused myself to till more than ten meters away from here. My companions were following me. It was as if we were swimming freely in the ocean (naturally, I have to admit that I’ve never been to the ocean)! Ah, let me till deeper; I wanted to double the size of my field! I tilled vertically again, and my companions kept following me. Some also tilled in front of me. Just as we were tilling enthusiastically, we heard the lion’s roar. My companions and I all stopped. It seemed that the sound was coming from a grotto. It shook the soil until it wobbled a little. Had the lion gone underground? I recalled all the scenery I had glimpsed in the moment that I fell down from the entrance of the tunnel. Could it be that the lion had been underground then, and that the lion atop the wasteland had been merely a shadow—one of his many shadows? In the midst of the roaring, we were all silent. We wanted to understand what the roar meant. But after roaring several times, he stopped: we hadn’t had time to figure it out. We could only try our best to recall it. As we tried, our brains went blank. This kind of reasoning led to no outcome at all. Then, as if we had made an agreement, we began tilling the land together again. We were dead tired from our work. As I tilled the land, I dreamed about the lion in the grotto. Always, it was that incomparably large head, the silvery mane giving off light like the sun—so dazzling that I couldn’t open my eyes. Someone whimpered in my ear: “I can’t move.” Who? Could it be the lion? Why couldn’t the lion move? It was only my grandfather who couldn’t move! Then was the lion my grandfather? Ah, my thinking was all mixed up. I couldn’t go on thinking, but I still had my feelings and I sensed that he was there, underground, holding his breath, about to explode. I dreamed for a really long time. In my dream, I ate a lot of earth. The tili, tili, tili sound enveloped me again. They were knocking again, and I was so moved that I thought I would cry.

  =

  When I emerged from the ground again, all the fireflies were dead, moonlight was spread across Mother Earth, and there was a strong funereal odor. I climbed to a limb of the old poplar tree and looked over at the plains. The whole area was deserted, except for the shadow of an occasional bird skimming past. Had the realm of lions lost its master? No. He was still present. It looked as if he were fused with the rock: he was absolutely still. His mane no longer shone; his entire body was tarnished. Had he died? The sound of thunder was gradually rolling closer, and the moon was hidden behind dark clouds. The lion’s image was a little blurred. Suddenly, he melted into a bolt of lightning and shot out from behind the rock, breaking through the blackened night air. He illuminated heaven and earth, but he lost his own form. This made me doubt whether his body had ever been real. After the explosive thunder ended, there was another bolt of lightning . . . and another! Both shot out from the rock. Now there wasn’t even the sound of thunder. These bolts of lightning turned the sky snow-bright; the moon that now and then showed its face had lost its rays of light and was about to turn almost completely dark. How presumptuous this was. I couldn’t bear to go on watching. I went under the ground. The snow-bright lightning jolted the earth. Really. It was willfully tossing the rocks on the earth, as well as the trees and hills, back and forth. I didn’t dare look at it, for if I looked again, I would faint. I closed my eyes and felt my way home. Even though I was underground, I still faintly heard the turmoil on the ground.

  I was so weary that I quickly fell asleep. In my sleep, I was plowing the familiar rich, black soil. The earthworms rapped politely toward me to transmit a message: Grandfather was alive again. Deep underground, he had regained life and was growing.
In my dream, I was feverish all over. I couldn’t hear Grandfather growing, but all of the earthworms did. They told me. This was the first time in my life that I felt profoundly that I—and my companions, too—had become one with the grandfather at the earth’s core. Was this because of the lion? I tried my best to imagine, but—no matter what—I couldn’t call to mind the lion’s face.

  THE ROSES

  AT THE

  HOSPITAL

  =

  When I was at home, I always heard people mention “Gaoling.” I got the impression that it was a hill, with several long, narrow little streets leading to it. On the hilltop was this city’s largest hospital. People said that Gaoling wasn’t far from my home. The streets were filled with small houses and dilapidated old two-story wooden buildings. The residents were mainly poor laborers. Those people could barely afford coal for cooking, so when the children had time they headed for the main street with brooms and dustpans. As soon as they saw a little coal fall from a rickshaw, they rushed over and brushed it into a dustpan. In talking of Gaoling, this is the way the adults referred to it. I grew more and more curious: What on earth was Gaoling like?