by Yan Lianke
You need to come here, the Elder said to the dog. I’m too tired to move.
The dog crawled forward a couple of paces, then became as still as death. Only its eye sockets continued to well up with tears.
I know you’re hungry and thirsty, the Elder said. It’s hard enough just to survive.
Without a sound, the dog faced the Elder.
The Elder shuddered, and he asked whether the cornstalk had died. The blind dog lowered its head, its tears dripping to the ground.
Leaving the buckets at the top of the ridge, the Elder headed toward the stalk. He kicked up a cloud of dust as he staggered along, and when he reached the shed, his heart began pounding loudly. Under the sun’s searing rays, the stalk’s leaves didn’t have a trace of green left. Even the ribs of the leaves, which had previously been light green, were now dark brown. That does it, the Elder thought, regretting that he had not been able to bring the water in time to save the stalk. It was not you who defeated that pack of wolves, but rather it is they who defeated you. They must have known that the cornstalk had died, which is why they finally decided to leave. It turns out that they were not trying to devour you, but rather they held you up for an entire night precisely in order to ensure the death of this stalk. Just as he was about to collapse, he looked at the tip of the stalk and saw that in the center of a circle of dry leaves there was a drop of green that struck his gaze with a thump.
The stalk was still alive, and even under the blazing sun it retained a trace of green. The Elder turned over one of the leaves, and saw that on the back there was a thin silklike layer of green, and a starlike array of green dots were visible in the areas between the dry spots. The leaf’s ribs were like a bent bow, and there was a trace of steam slowly emanating from it.
The Elder returned to the top of the ridge, where he grabbed a bowl and used it to ladle out some water. Then he placed the water in front of the blind dog’s mouth, and said, The cornstalk is still alive, so leave me this bowl after you finish. Then the Elder carried a bucket of water to the stalk. He leaned over the bucket and took a mouthful of water, pulled open the top of the cornstalk, then spit out the water. Immediately, a green bead appeared under the searing sun, and as the droplets the Elder spit out landed on the red-hot sunlit area, they produced a sizzling sound. The sunlight devoured the drops before they fell to the ground. The Elder spat seven mouthfuls of water onto the tip of the cornstalk, washing it as clean as though it had rained continuously for seven days and seven nights. After some of the green areas began to regain their original color, the Elder placed the bucket beneath the stalk, and used the bowl to ladle out water and carefully washed each of the leaves. As he did so, he used the bowl to catch the excess water, then poured it back into the bucket. The sound of dripping echoed through the thick sunrays. He washed one leaf after another, and by the time he was on the fourth leaf he saw the blind dog returning from the ridge with a bowl in its mouth. The dog placed the bowl by the shed, then walked over and stood next to the Elder’s leg. The Elder asked, Are you thirsty? There is a spring and plenty of water for you to drink. The blind dog shook its head, then ran its paws over the surface of the leaves.
The Elder said, These leaves are still alive. You can relax.
Standing next to the Elder’s legs, the blind dog let out a long sigh, then lay down. It had a gentle and relaxed expression.
As the Elder was going to fetch more water from the pond, he noticed that behind the blind dog there was a black mass resembling a rotten eggplant. When he went to look closely, he saw that the black mass had a reddish tint, and when he tried to kick it, he discovered that it was actually a dead rat. He turned around and saw that there were several more rats inside the enclosure, and when he went back outside he discovered that there were seven or eight more rats lying around, and each of them had red splotches and what looked like bite marks. Obviously, the blind dog had killed them. The Elder called over the blind dog and asked it whether or not this was true. The dog took the Elder’s hand in its mouth and pulled him over to the roots of the cornstalk. The Elder saw that rats had gnawed on the stalk’s roots, and sap was seeping out. Illuminated by the sun’s rays, the sap resembled a bluish-yellow blob. The Elder sat down in front of the stalk’s wound and caressed the ball of dried sap, then he patted the dog’s head, and said, Blindy, I’m very grateful to you. In the next life, if I become reincarnated as an animal, I want to become reincarnated as you. And if you become reincarnated as a human, I’d like for you to be reincarnated as my child, and live peacefully your entire life. At this point, the blind dog’s eye sockets filled with tears again. The Elder wiped away the tears, then brought another bowl of water and placed it in front of the dog’s mouth, saying, Go ahead and drink as much as you want. When I go fetch more water, you’ll need to stand guard beside the cornstalk.
The cornstalk was finally revived. For three days in a row, the Elder used buckets of water to irrigate the stalk, and on the morning of the fourth day, he saw that the tip of the stalk was green again. The green color from the back of every leaf had seeped through to the front, and was rapidly expanding like a drop of water on a sheet of straw paper. As the green areas expanded, the dry spots shrank. After several more days, when the Elder gazed at the stalk from the road, he could once again see the green leaves swaying back and forth in the sunlight.
The Elder and the blind dog proceeded to eat the remaining food, but eventually even the days when they could have half a bowl of broth came to an end. The first day that they didn’t have anything to eat, the Elder still hauled two buckets half-full of water back from the spring. When he went to fetch more the next day, his sight grew blurry and he began to stumble as soon as he reached the ridge. The Elder knew he couldn’t fetch any more water, so he returned from the ridge and drank until his belly was full. On the third day, the old man was leaning against one of the shed posts watching the sun rise, and he saw that the moon had not yet set, even as the sun’s piercing rays were shining down on the ground. He hugged the blind dog, and said, Go to sleep, Blindy. After you fall asleep, you can sate your hunger in your dreams. The dog, however, was unable to fall asleep. The sun was shining brightly on the Elder’s face and began to produce a burning smell, whereupon he drank another half a bowl of water to sate his hunger, and then he developed an urge to relieve himself. After peeing, he became even more famished than before, so he drank several more times, until there was only a single bowl of water left in the bucket.
The Elder said, I can’t drink anymore. That last bowl is for the cornstalk.
The sunlight bore down on his head, and the sun’s rays now weighed five qian.
The Elder said, Fuck your ancestors, you blasted sunlight.
The sun’s rays now weighed five and a half qian, as the sun continued to bear down on his head.
The Elder said, Can we continue to endure it, Blindy?
The sun’s rays now weighed almost six qian. The Elder went to rub the blind dog’s belly, which was as soft as a mound of mud.
The Elder said, You’re even skinnier than I am. I’ve truly failed you, Blindy!
He touched his own belly, and found that the skin was as thin as a sheet of paper.
The Elder said, Blindy, you must sleep for a while. After you wake up, there will be something to eat.
Without saying a word, the dog lay down at the old man’s feet. Every hair on its body was long and thin, like sticks and twigs, and the tips of every strand were frayed. The Elder wanted to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he would hear a rumbling in his belly. He endured this acute hunger for another day, and when the sun once again approached the western mountains, he finally fell asleep. When he reopened his eyes, he had a bright smile on his face. Leaning on one of the shed posts, he stood up and gazed at the setting sun. After estimating that the sun’s rays now weighed less than four qian, he asked the sun, Do you think you can outlast me? Who am I? I’m your Elder, that’s who!
The Elder peed a drop of urine
in the direction of the setting sun, then said to the dog lying at his feet, Get up. I told you when you woke up there would be food to eat.
The blind dog struggled to stand. Its fur was disheveled and matted, and it gave off a brown, burning odor.
The Elder said, Can you guess what we’re going to eat?
The blind dog faced the old man, a look of disappointment on its face.
The Elder said, I’ll tell you. We’re going to have some meat.
The dog continued to face the old man, staring blankly at him with its blind eyes.
The Elder said, Really, we are going to have some meat.
After the Elder said this, the sun cackled with laughter, then sunk below the mountains. In the blink of an eye, the searing heat dissipated, and a cool silklike breeze began blowing over the ridge. The Elder fetched a spade from beside the stove, then went to dig a hole at the end of the field. He dug a large, round pit, as though he were going to plant a tree. The pit was one and a half feet deep, and the edges were as smooth as a cliff. Then he lit a fire and boiled some water. He picked a tassel from the cornstalk, mixed it with the water, and ladled it out, pouring it into the pit. By this point, it was almost dusk, and the mountain ridge was so quiet you could even hear the footsteps of the approaching night. There was damp coolness emanating from the bottom of the gully, and it surrounded the old man and the dog like mist. They sat down in the shed and listened for any movement in the pit, waiting for the night’s inky darkness to cover the field.
The Elder asked, Do you think the rats will fall into the pit?
The blind dog pressed its ear to the ground and listened carefully.
The moon shone onto the ground, and the ground along the mountain ridge was bathed in watery moonlight. In the silence, the blind dog did indeed hear the rats kicking the moonlight. The Elder quietly felt his way toward the pit, and found that inside there were three rats fighting for food. He quickly covered the pit with a sheet, as the rats stared up in astonishment.
That night, the Elder and the dog caught thirteen rats, and in the light of the moon they skinned, cooked, and ate them, as a fragrant stench wafted in all directions. They went to sleep just before daybreak, and woke when the sun was three rod-lengths high in the sky. The Elder tossed the rat pelts into the gully, then hauled the bucket to the pool forty li away.
From that day on, there was a period during which the Elder and the blind dog enjoyed a peaceful and uneventful existence. They dug several bottle-shaped pits—each with a narrow opening, a wide base, and smooth walls, such that after the rats fell in they wouldn’t be able to crawl back out again. Every night, the Elder and the blind dog would bring back a dozen or so corn seeds from the fields, which they would grind and boil until a golden fragrance wafted in all directions. Then, they would pour the broth into the pits and retire to the cool shed to sleep. Sure enough, the next day there would be several rats—sometimes even a dozen or more—trapped in the hole and crying in terror, which would provide the Elder and the blind dog with enough sustenance for another day or two. Every other day the Elder would go to the pool to fetch more water, and in this way their schedule became as smooth as a river without any waves or ripples. About half a month after the crisis, the cornstalk, still alive within the enclosure, produced a thumb-sized bud of an ear. Finally able to relax, the Elder would sit in front of the ear and speak to the blind dog. Once he said, Blindy, do you think tomorrow this ear will become as large as a rolling pin? Seeing that the Elder was happy, the blind dog licked his leg. The Elder patted the dog’s back, and remarked that normally a cornstalk needed a month and ten days from the time the ear first appeared until it was ready for harvest, so how could this one possibly mature overnight? Another time he said, Look, isn’t this ear already as thick as a finger? The blind dog went to look at the ear, and the Elder said, You’re blind. How can you see? This ear is already thicker than my thumb.
One day, the Elder returned with water, and after irrigating the cornstalk he proceeded to hoe part of the field, whereupon he noticed that the ear had already started producing milky-white silk that resembled an infant’s fuzzy hair. The Elder stood in front of the ear and stared in amazement, then laughed and said, It’s almost ready for harvest. Blindy, do you see that? It’s almost ready for harvest!
Hearing no response, the Elder turned and saw that the blind dog was next to the gully eating the previous day’s leftover rat pelts. There was a horrendous stench, and the ground was covered in rat fur. The Elder exclaimed, Blindy, isn’t that filthy? The blind dog didn’t respond, and instead headed toward the pit. The Elder followed the dog to the edge of the pit, and his heart began pounding as he saw that this time there was only a single rat inside. This was his smallest yield since he began trapping rats half a month earlier. The previous day there had been four rats, and the day before that there had been five. But now there was only one. The Elder proceeded to dig several more pits along other ridges, and in each he placed several corn tassels, but the following day half of the pits were still empty and the remainder had only one or two rats each.
Never again did the Elder enjoy the good fortune of having a dozen or more rats fall into a single pit, and consequently the days of abundant food and water had come to an end. The Elder went up the mountain ridge and, after using the scale to weigh the sunlight, he stood there facing the sharp light, as a feeling of terror welled up inside him. This feeling started as a single bud but quickly grew into a vast forest covering the entire mountainside.
The Elder collected a rat from one of the pits and took it back to skin and cook, then wrapped it in cloth. Next, he patted the blind dog’s head and told it to guard the field while he was away. The Elder departed, and after walking aimlessly for a while, he passed five villages and finally reached the tallest peak in the area. He stopped and faced the sun, then took out his scale and weighed the sunlight. He sighed, sat down, and rested in the shade at the base of a cliff. The cliff was as steep as a wall, and clumps of dirt periodically fell from the top. The Elder saw that the fields in front of him were so dry and cracked that they looked as though a net had been thrown over them. He peered farther into the distance, and saw that the serpentine mountain ridge resembled an endless series of bonfires. After staring for a while, his eyes began to ache from the heat. He took a cloth bundle from his pocket, unwrapped it, and removed the dead rat. When he had initially cooked the rat, the meat had been bright red, but after only half a day it had turned as black as sludge. The Elder sniffed it, but found that its original fragrance had disappeared and all that remained was a foul gray odor and a faint moldy smell. However, after having spent all day walking through the mountains, he was absolutely famished. He tore off one of the rat’s legs and was about to eat it, when he noticed that there were several tiny white objects moving around in the meat. He shuddered and was about to throw the meat away, but changed his mind.
The Elder closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and stuffed the rat inside. He bit off two-thirds of it, chewed vigorously, and swallowed the entire thing in two bites.
When the Elder opened his eyes, he saw that on the ground in front of him there were a couple of maggots, which instantly dried up.
As dusk fell, the Elder returned to his field and proceeded to sit beside the cornstalk all night without sleeping. Regardless of how much the blind dog tried to cozy up to him, the Elder remained unresponsive. He gazed at the sky, then looked at the corn ear that was in the process of turning red. Finally, after the sun rose, the Elder suddenly got up and headed back to the village.
The mountains appeared vast and silent. The blind dog followed the Elder for a few steps, then went back to stand guard by the cornstalk.
The dog waited for the Elder to return.
At midday, the Elder returned. He had rolled a large brown barrel back from the village, and positioned it next to the cornstalk. Then he went up the ridge to catch a large rat. Holding the rat by the neck, he took it to the shed and killed it with a cleave
r, collecting the blood in a bowl. He fed the pelt to the blind dog, while he stewed the blood and cooked the meat. He drank the stewed blood, then wrapped up the meat, collected his buckets, and headed out.
The Elder wanted to bring back enough water to fill up the entire barrel.
The Elder calculated that there were a total of nine rats left in the thirty pits he had dug. Given that he and the blind dog would need to eat at least one rat a day to avoid starvation, that meant they would run out of food in nine days. Of all the corn seeds the villagers had planted a few months earlier, there was nothing left. The harvest season was approaching and the sunlight was becoming progressively heavier, and this was precisely when the cornstalk most needed water and nutrients. The Elder decided he had to fill the barrel within the next nine days, so that even if he and the blind dog died, the cornstalk would still have sufficient water and nutrients to produce an ear of corn. The Elder walked over from the mountain road, as one bundle of sunlight after another beat down on his body. He again smelled the stench of burning fur, so he put the rat in the bucket and covered it with his straw hat. He wiped the sweat pouring down his forehead with his finger, then licked it. He felt sweat dripping onto his knee, so he squatted down and sucked that, too. He did everything he could to prevent his sweat from evaporating in the sunlight. The good thing was that every morning before dawn he would take his buckets and proceed north, and by the time the sun came up and sweat started pouring from his body, he would be within five or six li of the pool, and therefore it would only be during these final five or six li that he would have to resort to drinking his own sweat. By the time the sun was directly overhead, he would have reached the pool, where he would drink until his belly was full, eat the rat meat, then carry a couple of buckets of water up the hill. On the way back, when he was thirsty, he would drink directly out of one of the buckets. At this point, the sunlight would weigh eight or nine qian. He would periodically hear the sound of his sweat pouring down. He didn’t hate the sunlight, nor did he resent the drought, but as his legs were trembling he would ask himself, Am I old now? In the village, there have been men in their seventies who were still able to father a child, so why can’t I manage to carry a couple of buckets of water? His legs were trembling uncontrollably, so he had no alternative but to put down the buckets to rest for a while. He leaned over one of the buckets and drank until his belly was engorged. The Elder calculated that every time he went to fetch some water, he would have to stop and rest at least twenty or thirty times over the course of the forty-li trip. Furthermore, every time he stopped to rest, he would drink some water. As a result, he would drink, then sweat, then drink some more. But regardless of how often he stopped to rest and how much water he drank, by the time he got back to the field, the two buckets of water he had fetched from the pool would inevitably have been reduced to one.
