by Yan Lianke
The man lowered his head and followed us. “If you don’t give me the fifty yuan, there’ll be hell to pay.” We saw a few more dreamwalkers, some of whom had come outside to wander around, while others wanted to take advantage of the somnambulism to make money. Father said some things along the same lines. He said some even more startling things. “For each barrel that you move from the west side of the embankment to the east side, I’ll give you a part of a house . . . If you push two barrels, I’ll give you the majority of a house. If you push three barrels, I’ll give you a house facing the street. If you push ten barrels, I’ll give you the entire New World funerary shop.” Upon hearing this, the other people followed him. It turned out that dreamwalkers are like homeless wanderers, or a flock of sheep without a bellwether. As long as they had a leader and somewhere to eat and sleep and make money, they would definitely follow along. In the blink of an eye, we were soon being followed by five or six people, and then by five or six more. Some were empty-handed and some were pulling carts, but they all followed behind us. A large gaggle. A large contingent. A large mass. A large crowd. All gathered chaotically. The way that chickens, ducks, pigs, and dogs all follow behind their master. This is how things were, and this is how the world was. My father was a dreamwalker. But he was no mere dreamwalker, he was a dream master—a dream emperor. In the amount of time it takes to drink a bowl of water, he managed to assemble several dozen dreamwalkers. Whenever anyone approached, Father would shout out to offer a reward. “If you want money, I’ll give you money. If you want a house, I’ll give you a house. If you want a woman, then after you’ve finished moving the oil barrels, I’ll tell you where you can find the woman of your dreams.” Some ignored him, then headed straight into town. Others, however, heard him summoning them, and followed us to the cave in the embankment where the oil was stored.
They formed a large procession, a large crowd, and everyone proceeded halfway up the embankment. They went to the intersection that led to the cave. Father was sleeping, but he ran to the embankment like someone who was awake. He led those dreamwalkers to the cave. “I know how to get people to move these barrels! The more people there are and the quicker they are, the better. The sooner we can bring out the sun, the sooner the town will be saved, and the sooner the people will be saved.” Hearing these shouts, I continued toward the embankment. There were always some people wandering around there, and always some people walking up and down the road. “Do you want money? For each barrel you move from the western side of the embankment to the eastern side, I’ll give you fifty yuan when the sun comes up . . . Are you asleep, or awake? If you want the sun to appear, then you must help move the barrels. On the other hand, if you want the sky to remain dark forever, then simply keep dreamwalking in the darkness and don’t worry about doing anything.” I stood on the side of the road on the western side of the embankment. The muddy road looked as though there was a gray cloth spread out under our feet. Beneath the embankment, the villages, towns, and trees were shrouded in darkness. All that was visible was a bare light in the town, which swayed and flickered as though there were a fire burning. The sound of pounding drifted down from above, like the sound of horses’ hooves. People’s shouts pierced the darkness like arrows shot from a considerable distance. The lake water that was flowing down the embankment was calm and clear, and produced an inky-green glow—a glow that dissolved into the dark night. The night was heroic, and the sky was also heroic, and the people were like a solitary tree or a bush growing between the heroic sky and the heroic earth. Everything was swallowed up by this heroic sky, but the sky was supported by this tree and this bush. There was an array of shimmering lights all around, as though the night were full of ghosts and specters, and whenever I saw a light approach, I would stand at the top of the embankment and shout, “Are you awake or are you asleep? . . . If you are awake, do you want a house and land, and to have the sun come out? . . . If you are asleep, then do you want to earn some money, or do you want to go into town and try to steal things, and possibly get beaten to death? . . . We fled from that town, and even though many of the people who were pouring in did not steal anything, they were nevertheless still beaten black-and-blue by the townspeople, who left them with bruised noses, swollen faces, broken arms and legs, and the streets looking like rivers of blood . . . Outside town, there are piles upon piles of injured or maimed bodies, and there isn’t a single one of them who doesn’t feel regret, and there is not a single one who will not wake up and cry and shout and, bleeding profusely, attempt to return home.”
Some people came.
Some people left.
Someone who was awake passed by and asked me if I was dreamwalking, to which I replied that if I were awake, why would I be shouting like this? “What a joke! If you were awake, would you be claiming that you could make the sun come up? Would you be claiming that you could bring back the daylight?” The joker walked away, and as he swaggered off, I shouted at his departing shadow, “I’m not going to argue with you . . . Just wait and see . . . Just wait and see!” People who were dreaming were standing around me. There were ten or more, or even several dozen, and they all stood in a group—a heroic group. They were going to accompany me to the cave, to help move the oil barrels. They were going to help us bring out the sun, and to transform the night into day.
There were several, a dozen, or several dozen of these dreamwalkers. I led them to the entrance of the cave in the middle of the hill.
3. (6:00–6:00)
As I was summoning one group of dreamwalkers after another, the neighbors arrived. Uncle Yan, the author, arrived. He had been summoned by all of the shouts up on the embankment. Such an extraordinary person, he was like a lamb that can’t find its pen, or a chicken, cat, pig, or dog that can’t find its home. Standing one-point-seven meters tall, in the deadly black night he resembled a wounded carp in a storehouse. He was wearing leather sandals, oversize underwear, and a wrinkled T-shirt. His face was pressed flat from having been slept on, looking as though it had been hit with a hammer. His face and his body were flat. Even his heart had been flattened.
I took a path back from the western side of the embankment. The light from my flashlight resembled dead fish eyes watching the world. “What’s wrong with you? . . . What have you been shouting about for the past half night?” The neighbors walked over and shone their lights in my face, and over my body. They shone their lights onto my words, as though shining them onto an unbelievable pearl. I stared at Uncle Yan’s light, and at his face . . . “Uncle Yan, are you awake or are you dreamwalking? Do you want to make the sun come up, or do you intend to spend your entire day here in the dark? The whole town is in tumult. Everyone has gone crazy. Countless houses and stores have been robbed, yet you are here and don’t know about it? Both sides of the main street are drenched in blood and full of screams, and the ground is covered in flesh and blood, yet you are here and haven’t seen it?”
Then, he came over. He stood there, gazing down at the town—gazing at a point in the distant sky that was beginning to heat up.
“What time is it now?
“The town is truly in tumult.
“Can you really find the sun, and replace the dark night with daylight?”
I looked up at the sky, then down at the ground. Finally, I looked at Gaotian Village, sitting at the base of the embankment. I didn’t know how Father, while dreaming, had managed to organize all those dreamwalkers to move the barrels in the cave. How was he able to arrange for the dreamwalkers to roll them out of the cave? The first group of dreamwalkers had already emerged from the cave pushing the barrels of corpse oil, and they were followed by one group after another. They followed Father, who was holding a lantern to lead the way. The rumbling of the barrels cut through the dark night and gathered the darkness that blanketed the earth and sky of that summer day. It was as though the wind were blowing the dark night hot and cold. As the dreamwalkers pushed those barrels uphill, their labored breathing was as coarse and heavy as a ro
pe, but once they reached the flat road along the top of the embankment, they no longer had to work as hard. Their breathing became more regular, and as the barrels rolled along the muddy road, the thudding sound they had been making was replaced with a soft jingling. Meanwhile, the oil inside the barrels was initially thick and viscous, but after the barrels had rolled for a while the oil became thinner and could be heard sloshing around inside. There was a long procession, with several dozen barrels and several dozen dreamwalkers pushing them. “Come with me, come with me.” Father stood in front of the dreamwalkers and shouted, as though someone were driving a lead car, or as though a general were leading his troops on a nighttime expedition. All the dreamwalkers and all the barrels were rumbling along evenly and heroically, like carriages following a lead car. They rolled downhill, around a corner, then arrived right in front of us. “As long as we can get this oil to the east side of the embankment, I’ll issue everyone’s money . . . Together, we’ll roll out this year’s, this month’s, and this day’s daylight, and everyone who has helped roll the oil will be received as a hero . . . As soon as daylight arrives, everyone will thank us and toast us . . . Quick . . . quick . . . The sooner we can roll out the sun, the fewer townspeople will be killed, and the less blood will be spilled . . . Hey, you . . . quick! . . . If you slow down, it slows down everyone behind you . . . If you slow down, it may very well mean that yet another head may be chopped off and end up lying in the streets of Gaotian . . . and there will be yet another person with a bloody hole in place of a head.”
Father was up in front yelling at the sky and at the dreamwalkers. The dreamwalkers passed noisily in front of us, rolling the barrels of oil. Without looking at anyone, they followed Father’s lead and rolled barrel after barrel of corpse oil from the west side of the embankment over to the east side. It was as though a string of railway cars hauling oil went rumbling past. This midday night was pitch-black, and the water was clear and murky. The air was muggy but there was also a breeze. The oil from the barrels had a greasy, foul odor that mixed with the scent of warm summer, as though some grease had been heated on a stove. No one said a word, and no one paused to rest. Instead, there were just those dreamwalkers bent over oil barrels, and countless pairs of eyes that appeared to be staring off into space. Rumbling along, the dreamwalkers walked past us. Like Zhuge Liang’s legendary fleet of handcarts, known as the Wooden Oxen and Gliding Horses, these figures walked past us transporting vast amounts of oil. The sound they were making gradually faded away, the same way that the seasons progress from summer to winter, or from spring to fall.
“What kind of oil is this?” I heard Uncle Yan say this in his sleep.
“It’s not any kind of oil.”
“Really, what kind of oil is it?”
“It is machine oil, gasoline, and oil that we use to cook our food, all of which is prepared year in and year out here on this embankment.”
“Ah . . . ah . . . ah.”
This was the last time Uncle Yan ever said “Ah” to me. As he was sighing, he saw that in the procession of dreamwalkers, there was a man in his sixties who was rolling a barrel as though attempting to roll the entire mountain. Uncle Yan placed his flashlight in his pocket and went to help the old man, and in this way he, too, joined the procession of dreamwalkers who were attempting to make the sun rise and to bring about daytime. It was as if he wanted to reach out and see whether the dream was hard or soft, hot or cold. It was as if he wanted to personally confirm whether the story was true or fictional.
The sky was black and murky.
The world was silent, but also contained some hidden sound.
The embankment and the village and the forest located between one hill and another resembled murky black masses. The light that flickered up from the town at the base of the embankment was chaotic and scintillating. The shouts people made as they beat one another continued to pierce the gap between the atmosphere and people’s ears. Meanwhile, the barrels were being moved from the west side of the embankment to the east side, and after everyone walked away, the sound became as faint as that of someone grinding his teeth in his sleep.
4. (9:01–9:30)
In this way, the dreamwalkers transferred all of the barrels of corpse oil from the western side of the embankment to the eastern side. They made seven or eight trips back and forth—I can’t remember exactly how many. Perhaps it was eight or nine. At any rate, they took all of the barrels to a peak on the northeast end of the embankment. After placing the barrels there, they faced in the direction of Gaotian and looked, and listened. They saw those lights flickering on and off, and it seemed as though they could also see the slaughter. They could see people with broken arms and legs, and the streets were completely splattered with human blood and tissue. They could hear screams of “Attack!” and “Kill!” It seemed as though they could also hear people moaning as they bled out and died. The dreamwalkers’ faces were pale—as pale as the white blossoms that New World would sell to grieving families. Their eyes increasingly revealed a sense of disquiet. In fact, as they dreamwalked, the muscles in their faces would twitch and convulse. Their faces were covered in sweat, and had a terrified expression. As they stared straight ahead, their eyes revealed a feeling of confusion and bewilderment. They followed my father and imitated him, while at the same time muttering to themselves,
“Is the sun about to come up? Is the sun about to come up?
“Quick, make the sun come up!
“Quick, make the sun come up!”
They frantically followed my father to the west side of the embankment, where they rolled and pushed the barrels of corpse oil. They were endeavoring to summon the sun and the daylight. They made one trip after another, carrying one load after another. One trip and a load, followed by another load and another trip. Eventually, it was no longer necessary for my father to tell them what to do, and instead they rushed around of their own accord, rolling the barrels from the west side of the embankment to the east. They were like a machine or a procession of cars. They were like a flock of geese, and if the one in front flew into a sunlit mountain, the others would inevitably follow. It was as though they were sentient draft animals running back and forth along the mountain, and if the one in front jumped off a cliff, the ones behind would surely follow.
On the northeast corner of the embankment, there was an earthen ridge. There, the yellow earth was so deep that it would be possible to bury villagers for years to come. Originally, this ridge had a basin with a small pool. The basin was one mu in size, but over time it gradually filled up and became home to an assortment of trees and weeds, feral cats and stray dogs. It became the home of hares and birds. People normally wouldn’t go there, visiting only after their family’s pig or child happened to die. But these days, pigs rarely died of illness, and there were few dead infants. The pit, accordingly, had been abandoned. Father, however, knew that the pit was there, though I had no idea how he knew. In the past, when you watched the sunrise from Gaotian, it would appear as though the sun were rising out of that pit. Daybreak would start from that pit. The only variation was that in winter, it would appear as though the sun was emerging from one side of the pit, while in summer it would appear to be emerging out of the other side. They rolled the oil barrels around that pit. As the dreamwalkers pushed over more barrels, Father pried open the lids with a pair of pliers, such that all of the black corpse oil flowed directly into the pit. He did this for one barrel, then another, then for a hundred or more. The contents of one barrel after another were poured into the pit. Initially, the liquid appeared black and dirty, as though it were a pit of black mud, but as more oil was added, the black, dirty liquid acquired a brown glow, and under the lamplight the pit came to resemble a greenish-blue lake. The barrels that had been brought over surrounded the pit, and some of them even fell in, producing a gurgling sound as though the pit contained hundreds of fountains spouting water. The empty barrels were tossed to the side, like countless tree trunks. It was as though there
were a field of enormous mushrooms growing on the mountain. So, it turned out that a dream could produce an extraordinary event. It turned out that while dreaming, people could accomplish countless things.
All of the oil was transferred from the western side of the embankment to the eastern side.
All of the oil was poured into the sinkhole.
The path leading from the western side of the embankment up to the top of the hill was several dozen meters long, and the vegetation on either side of the path had been crushed flat by the endless procession of barrels that had rolled over it. The grass had been stained dark by the oil, making it look like a long stretch of asphalt. Under the lamplight, this path of grass and asphalt stretched out toward the embankment’s northern peak, like hair that is combed back. The ground was covered in the smell of broken grass and the stench of corpse oil. The entire world was filled with the smell of oil and sweat, and the dry odor of darkness. The irritability and turmoil of this daytime darkness brought everyone back to a boiling point. The lampshades of the dozen or so lanterns that were hanging from the trees around the pit were covered in burn marks and water stains. The lamplight became progressively dimmer, as though this daytime night was becoming progressively deeper. Next to the oil pit, there were several chinaberry and pagoda trees. There were also two mulberry trees with trunks as large as rice bowls. The trees’ leaves, having been baked black by the lanterns, were drooping down. The insects on the leaves crawled out of their cocoons, and then stared intently at the people.
The lamplight projected the trees’ shadows far into the distance.
It also projected the people’s shadows into the distance.
In the pit that resembled a wheat-threshing ground, the oil was as deep as a man’s thigh, and the flat surface produced a dark glow and an astringent odor. When you leaned over to look in, you could see countless fish-scale-like lights. The process of relocating the oil barrels took two or three hours. After rolling the barrels, everyone lay down next to the pit and fell asleep. One person, after rolling his final barrel, collapsed next to it and immediately fell asleep. Another person was rolling a barrel but stopped on his way to the pit and fell asleep in the middle of the road, and the sound of his snoring was just like the sound of the barrels rolling down the road. Another, after he finished, chatted for a while, then used some grass to wipe the oil from his hand. At the same time, he didn’t forget he had been doing this for money. “Where is my fifty yuan for each barrel?! . . . Where is the house I was promised?! . . .” These questions about where he should go to get his money and his house hung from his lips like leaves from a tree, or weeds covering the ground. But even as he was asking, he fell sound asleep. His voice grew soft, and soon there was no sound at all. He slipped into a deep sleep. Next to the oil pit, Father was busy rushing around telling everyone about the compensation. “I’ll give you your money right away . . . As soon as the sun comes up, I’ll give you your money.” After he answered several people, no one else dared ask about the money and the houses that had been promised. Instead, one after another, they all lay down and fell asleep. From a state of dreamwalking, they returned to an ordinary dream state. Father, however, continued dreamwalking, while remaining fast asleep. He was dreaming and dreamwalking as he continued running back and forth through this crowd, taking the empty barrels and rolling them away. He no longer needed to attend to those people who had been pushing the barrels, nor did he need to reinstate his promise that he would give fifty yuan for every barrel that anyone rolled. He didn’t return to his promise that if someone pushed three barrels, Father would give him a house; and if someone pushed ten barrels, he would give him a street-side store. Instead, now all he did was push the empty barrels out of the way while running around and talking to himself. His pitch-black excitement was like something out of an insane opera.
