Colors of the Mountain (25 page)

The knee-high rice plants with needle-sharp leaves got in the way of my face and neck as I bent down. The fuzzy blades needed only to brush my skin to leave behind a red kiss. Soon the summer sun turned from gentle to glaring. Sweat beaded my forehead and trickled down my eyebrows. My skin began to itch as though it were being attacked by thousands of slimy, crawling creatures angry that I had invaded their world with my sickle. I unbuttoned my drenched shirt and peeled it off, wiping my cut, sweaty face with it before tossing it behind me. I clenched my jaw to keep from yelling out loud at the pain of my burning skin. I didn’t want my sisters and brother to think that their little brother wasn’t farmer material. As I stretched my sore back, feeling like the old hunched merchant next door who didn’t know what the sky looked like anymore, I saw that they were already thirty yards ahead of me, tirelessly bending over the rice that only seemed to end where the sky launched a rainbow.

My sisters and brother had grown up farming. I had seen them carry on their shoulders over a hundred pounds of animal manure, to be used for fertilizer in the fields. Their skinny legs had trembled beneath the weight, but they dared not slow down for fear of criticism by the commune leaders, who were especially harsh to them. They had all endured, their teeth gritted. Brother Jin had once had a rusty nail go through his right foot. It took two months to heal. Huang had once become so dehydrated under the baking sun that she had passed out. And
they all complained of constant back pain, but they had to push themselves on, for the commune would not allow any leaves of absence. Their food ration would have been withheld until those absences were made up. They had all grown tall, thin, and tanned like coconuts.

As I stood there watching them, I felt respect and fear. A future as a farmer stretched out before me like the brutal fields. There would be endless toiling under a cruel sun, all for a meager existence that consisted of rice porridge and pickled vegetables. There would be hunger for at least three months a year, during which even the moldy yams became treasures on the dining table.

“Have a rest, brother,” I heard Jin shout at me. His voice sounded tiny in that enormous field. “You don’t have to hurry.”

“Put your shirt back on or the sun will kill you,” Ke said, standing up to take a look at me.

“I’m fine, you guys.” But my mind was saying,
let me go home.
I was sick of it already. I dropped my sickle and drummed my back with my fists, imitating my dad when he had had a hard day. I sighed at the narrow stretch of rice still before me, standing proud and nodding lazily in the occasional breeze. Slowly, I bent my cracking back to pick up the sickle again, this time resting my elbows on my knees like a pregnant woman, and hacking the plants stem by stem. I wished the sun would go down faster, so that we could all go home and rest, but it stayed eternally motionless, a taunting fireball in the cloudless sky. Then I wished the rice would all fall on its back by itself.

I thought about the great future Mao had promised China, the machines and the modernization. Where was all that when I needed it? I had seen beautiful propaganda pictures of good old Russians using fancy combines to harvest their wheat and rice. Dad was right again. He said that we were farming the land the same way we had done thousands of years ago, the only difference being that we got paid less.

My friends’ faces lined up at the gate of my mind. I thought of how lucky bowlegged Yi was, sitting in his office somewhere, crossing out each item on the inventory sheet and having juicy meat for lunch. He would no doubt be brewing his bitter tea there. Then there was Siang, probably smoking his Flying Horses at his penthouse home, where there was always a breeze even in the motionless summer noon, when the whole universe seemed to be frozen by the white heat. That lucky
dog. I wished a long life to his old revolutionary grandpa, who had made it all possible. Then images flooded my mind of Sen being chased by his mom with a huge stick, while he ran like a dog, one hand holding his pants, the other carrying the bowl of lard he had just stolen. Mo Gong was probably ogling beautiful girls passing by his dad’s shoe stand. He leered at anything that moved. His famous saying was there was always something to look at on a girl’s body, it didn’t always have to be a pretty face.

My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a huge mother of a green frog. She stared at me, flickering her long tongue. Her head looked like a turtle’s, and her skin was like that of a grass snake. Her eyes were popping kind and curious, rolling within teary sockets. A white pouch of skin hung under her neck, and her thighs looked meaty enough to decorate tonight’s dining table. We stared at each other for a good long minute before I threw the sickle at her. The silly thing jumped like a world champion and landed on my chest. The frog’s wet webs and sticky skin sent chills down my spine, but I grabbed it and wrapped it up in my discarded shirt. It weighed at least half a pound. I could already smell the fragrance of its juicy thighs getting sautéed with fine soy sauce, fresh garlic, and plenty of ginger to kill the fishiness. I would give my brother half the meat to go along with the bottle of liquor he had every night before sleep. He needed it to calm his bones, Mom said.

The sun hung high above my head, and my back felt hot. Even the wet mud in the field was lukewarm, and the proud rice stems began to droop beneath the blaze, tired and sleepy. The day was only half done, but I was totally exhausted. My back hurt, my legs trembled, my face was covered with cuts, and my hands were a mass of raw blisters. I was so miserable I even didn’t feel the walls of my stomach rub against each other. There was a burning in my throat that would take a whole fire brigade to snuff out. I felt angry, belittled, and pathetic. I could not beg to get out of my duty. It was just not done in the Chen family. We all worked hard together and played together. Mom and Dad would never approve of my giving up in the middle of my task. I hung on a few more yards, then the blisters burst. The raw flesh looked red and stung like needles. I heard my sister call my name.

“Little brother, come eat.”

I saw my mom stumbling along the edge of the field, carrying our lunch on a long bamboo pole. Her face was red beneath her straw hat. I was so grateful to see her.

“Come wash your hands and eat, young farmer.” Mom smiled at me as I dragged my feet toward her. The beautiful smile on her face was the highest praise she could give us. My sisters and brother gathered around Mom, who was pouring water from a bucket and passing out wet towels.

“You’re not doing too bad at all. With your help, we will finish before dark.” My brother beamed, slapping my back.

I screamed before I could stop myself.

“What’s the matter? Did you burn your back?” Huang asked.

I was silent.

“I told you to leave your shirt on,” she said.

“It was wet.”

They looked at me.

“Let me see your hands,” Jin said. I held them out. The blisters continued to ooze. “Pack up and go home after lunch, okay? I’m sorry, it must hurt like hell.”

Mom and my sisters were upset. My mother hurriedly cleaned my bloody hands with a wet towel.

“I’m sorry, guys. But I can finish my share.”

“No, go home and take care of your hands.”

I was ashamed, feeling like a defector.

“It happened to me too, when I started out.” Jin extended his hands. “Now look at them. They feel like iron. Go home and try to be a good student. Maybe someday you’ll go to college and won’t have to do hard work like this anymore. You can still shoot for it. The rest of us are too old for that.” He looked at my sisters.

On our way home, I trailed behind Mom in silence, holding both my hands gingerly stretched out.

“Do you still want to be a farmer?” Mom asked.

I shook my head.

“Then study hard. You can choose your future, your sisters and brother can’t. You’re lucky. If they had blisters like yours, they would still have to be there till the last stem was harvested. It’s their life.”

Mom’s words stayed with me for a long time.

The smell of soil and a vague scent permeated the endless, brutal fields. I wouldn’t miss it if I were never to return. The beauty of nature and the muddy fragrance at harvest used to fill me with emotion. Now it looked like a graveyard, filled with hungry ghosts that grabbed at my arms and legs. I didn’t want to have my youth and future buried here.

As I followed Mom home, I felt a strong desire to start lessons with Professor Wei, to go back to school. There was a future somewhere for me other than hoes and sickles. There should be no hardship at school that I couldn’t overcome. I was never more determined than at that moment. I felt fortunate. As Mom and Jin had said, I still had a chance. The pain in my back and hands throbbed, but all I felt was gratitude for my family and a desire to succeed at school.

After I failed at filling the spot for Si, Dad thought of another option. I was sent off to work Si’s job at the canned food factory for the rest of the summer while she returned home for the harvest.

I happily rode a borrowed old bike, carrying a small saddlebag of rice and a larger one of sweet potatoes. A few changes of clothes were packed in another bag that I carried on my back. The road to Han Jian was narrow, and ran along the curvy Pacific Coast. White waves chased up the beach like a large serpent’s tongue, stretching out and curling back rhythmically. You could occasionally see sails, glistening in the sun. The fresh breeze carried a salty tang. I loved the deserted, lonely sea.

The old bike rattled along the rough surface, which had been left bumpy by torrents of rain, then baked dry by the sun. The footprints of various shoes and bare feet that had struggled through the rain remained imprinted like miniature models of high mountains and deep valleys. I stopped at midpoint in Bridge Town, which lay between Han Jian and Yellow Stone, two hours’ travel time each way. It was a small, lonesome village, perched at the tip of the bay overlooking the sea.

On the narrow cobbled street, clustered with a dozen little white houses, a few women moved slowly, baskets on their heads, looking suspiciously at me. Some toddlers were playing in the dirt with empty shells, while a couple of old women dozed beside them. I looked around, but didn’t see a man in sight. No wonder people called this
fishing village “Widows’ Town.” The men spent weeks and months on their fishing trips. Some came back; others never did.

I got off the bike and pushed it along the short street. I passed the barbershop. Not surprisingly, inside there was a lady zapping away at another lady. A cat sat on an empty chair meant for customers. I passed the fish store next. It was empty, manned by a lady smoking a water pipe that bubbled like a brook. A large wooden sign at the door read
FRESH CRABS, OYSTERS, CLAMS. MORE WILL COME AFTER THE TIDE IS OUT
.

The lady with the pipe smiled at me, her hair bound up in clouds of smoke.

It was a funny town, with narrow gaps between each house that offered slices of the sea in the background. At the end of the street, my front wheels brushed by and scared a few roosters that gargled at me before running off to perch on a dead tree. Those were the only living male creatures I encountered. Bridge Town ended at an ancient archway. Beyond it was a stone bridge that stretched over the now-muddy Dong Jing River. The virgin Dong Jing had lost its chastity somewhere along the way and changed its color after being seduced by the sea. It flirted, tangoed, and winked at the powerful waves before finally burying its head in the strong embrace of the Pacific, not knowing its fate. The bridge was about eighty years old. As a child, Grandpa used to catch a ferry to cross the Dong Jing at this point, collecting rents and lease payments for the farmland we had owned along the delta area.

At the head of the bridge stood two lines of stone sculptures of heavenly guardians, wearing ancient war robes and holding fighting swords. They stood fifteen feet tall, gazing at the sea, aloof and mute. One of the stone men had lost his head during the air bombings by the Japanese in World War II. The guy next to the headless fellow was leaning against his neighbor, toppled by the Red Guards during the height of the Cultural Revolution because they symbolized blind, superstitious worship. They had wanted to throw them all into the sea, but that day a jumpy Red Guard was squashed to death when the stone man fell on his neighbor. The rest of the Red Guards fled the site, not wanting to come near the giants again. Silently, they had beaten the Japanese and the Red Guards. They were our gods of the sea and land.

I parked my bike against the foot of one stone man and sat on his
toe, fishing out a piece of rice cake from my bag. I was right at the spot Grandpa had told me about, the third man from the left, looking to the east. It was the best place from which to see one of the twenty-four supreme sights of Putien, known as “The Morning Sun at Sea.” Local folklore had it that on one particular clear morning in May, the sun, in the form of a fireball, jumped a few times on the horizon before its ascent. At present, that part of the sea appeared to be red.

Ancient scholars had made trips to all corners of Putien, writing poetry about their favorite spots, leaving the following generation to wonder what had been in their crazy minds at that moment. Grandpa confessed that he had come here each year with his friends, following the seasons. None of the places matched up to the poetry meant to portray them. Surely none of his companions had seen the sun jump, he would say with a chuckle. He said he only came to this spot for the fresh oysters dipped in vinegar, and the clams served on seaweed.

As I looked at the sea, I thought about the fabled mirage and the many sunken boats that had belonged to the men of Bridge Town. Seagulls echoed the lonely tune of the village. Two rice cakes later—I guessed it to be around three in the afternoon, for the sun had cast a shadow over the shoulder of the stone man and the sea breeze had begun to gather speed—I picked up my old bike and tailed a biker with a tall pile of dry hay on his backseat, who sheltered me from the wind.