Can Xue - Vertical Motion

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.

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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.

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?

As it happened, one Sunday I was buying stationery in the vicinity of Gaoling. After doing that, I took a small, narrow alley to Gaoling itself. The sun was strong that day, and people were all taking cover in their houses. I saw no one on the narrow asphalt road. I was perspiring. I walked straight to the end of the road and still didn’t see anyone. After I climbed the hill, the road turned and became a downgrade. I hesitated a little and then decided to turn into the area of small, narrow dilapidated houses. It was next to an adobe house that I walked in, and then I immediately saw a filthy public toilet. After passing the toilet, I came to a home where a mourning hall had just been erected. Hanging in the hall were photos of the deceased: it was a sweet-looking girl wearing a red scarf. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. The coffin hadn’t been carried in yet. I was confused: I’d never seen a funeral for a child. I wanted to stand there and watch, but someone drove me off. Someone’s heavy palm struck me on the back. Enduring the pain, I ran off, almost crying.