Yan Lianke - The Four Books

The Child asked, “You’re not going to obey?”

He shook his head.

The Child asked, “Why won’t you water the corn with your blood?”

He was silent.

“Why?” the Child repeated, “Do you really want to remain here your entire life?”

The Scholar laughed bitterly and said, “God is watching us.”

After the Scholar mentioned God and the spirits, the Theologian stopped speaking of God.

The spirits were clear. The spirits had said, “Humans are unbridled. Have them bleed in vain as a form of labor.” As a result, everyone throughout the district had cut open their fingers every day and sprinkled the corn sprouts with their own blood. Those corn plants grew as tall as trees. In autumn, when they would normally produce ears of corn, they produced only a green finger-sized growth.

Within several months everyone’s hands were wrapped in bandages, but the sun, the wind, and the rain all stayed the same. But by the end of the ninth lunar month, however, nothing was the same. Instead, it was overcast for days on end, raining all day long. The entire world was flooded, and the Yellow River flowed furiously.

The Child also planted his own blood corn. He planted it outside the district, next to the steel-smelting furnaces. At the time, the furnaces were no longer smelting steel. The Author would go there to watch the unlit furnaces and recuperate, and it was there that the Child went to plant his blood corn. Every three to five days, the Child would follow the Author’s example and cut his finger to irrigate his corn with his own blood. As long as they ended up with one ear of corn as thick as a man’s thigh, they would be able to wrap it in red silk and donate it to the capital. The Author watched the empty furnace, in case the higher-ups, during a lull in the farming, were to ask them to start smelting again. Naturally, he also watched the Child’s cornstalks. Whenever he noticed that the leaves were wilting, he would irrigate them with his own blood. This cornstalk grew as tall, strong, and luscious as those in the courtyard. But come autumn, when it should have grown an ear, it merely produced a green stub.

When the Author returned to the district courtyard to eat, everyone, their hands bandaged up, asked him,

“Why didn’t the stalks produce ears?”

The Author went to take a look, and found a swarm of blood-fed mosquitoes that were even larger than flies, and flies that were the size of small birds. Everyone pointed at the Author with their bloody fingers, asking, “Why?” Some people spit on the ground and asked “Why?” Others spit at the Author’s face and threw stones at his back.

Seeing this, the Child asked the Author, “Please explain, why is it that these corn plants, after drinking human blood, have stems as thick as trees, but haven’t even produced ears as thick as a man’s finger?”

The Author couldn’t answer. The crowd standing in front of him spit in disgust.

The spirits observed all of this, and resented the people’s absurdity. Then it began to rain, producing torrential floods. It rained through the night, and when everyone woke up the next morning they ran to their respective plots of corn and found that their stalks had toppled over and were now floating in puddles. The signs with each of their names on them were now drifting in the water like little boats. The people were not upset by this discovery, however, given that they already knew that the stalks would not produce ears of corn that were thicker than a man’s leg. They simply thought it was too bad that they had spent the past several months cutting and bleeding their fingers for nothing. Only the Child cried. A dark cloud hung over his heart, as he wailed,

“How will I go to the capital?”

“How will I go to the capital now?”

At this point the Child was still in his room, and when he emerged, everyone around him began wailing as well. They cried inconsolably for what seemed like an eternity, whereupon the Child suddenly stopped and began running through the rain to somewhere outside the district. Alone, he ran to the steel-smelting furnace to the south of the district, to check on his own corn plants. Their stalks had been as thick as a man’s arm, with leaves as wide as banana leaves. Standing more than three meters tall, they had been veritable corn trees, though like the others, they hadn’t produced any ears of corn. Now these thick cornstalks were floating in puddles. The Author stood in the rain as the water ran down his face and body. He looked at the floating cornstalks. He picked one up and leaned it against the furnace, then turned around. He saw the Author run over and stand behind him, as though he wanted to say something, but instead fell to the ground and began to wail.

He sobbed inconsolably, for what seemed like forever.

The Author said, “I know why these corn plants only grow stalks and no ears — it is because this land is actually an imperial tomb.” He added, “That sand dune over there is not only an imperial mausoleum, it is probably an ancient imperial grave. Don’t worry, by autumn we should plant radish, cabbage, and sweet potatoes. I promise you that I can grow radishes over there that are thicker than a man’s leg. If I grow sweet potatoes, I don’t know how many I will be able to produce, but I can guarantee that there will be at least one as large as a basketball. People collecting the sweet potatoes will look like they are collecting large stones.”

The Child stopped crying and gazed at the Author without saying a word, his eyes beaming.

The Author said, “If I am able to accomplish this before winter arrives, you should give me five large stars. I’ll return home, and you can take this produce to the capital. But when I leave the ninety-ninth, you must protect me, escorting me to the town, where I can get a ride.”

The Child beamed, as though his eyes were panes of glass that had been washed clean by the rain. The rain continued to fall for several more days, drenching everything on both sides of the river.

3. Heaven’s Child , pp. 397–406

The downpour continued for forty days, leaving the entire land completely inundated.

Noah had completed construction of his ark, and in this way had managed to save the world’s humans and animals.

The Yellow River flooded, and water poured into the ditches that had been dug into the riverbanks when everyone was smelting steel the previous winter. The Yellow River burst its banks. This had been the river’s old course, and the salt fields were now completely flooded. The crops were completely drowned, the cornstalks were washed away, while the peas, melons, and other vegetables were all floating in the water. The buildings in each of the Re-Ed districts were flooded. Shoes were floating down the street, as were books. Everyone was trapped by the water. Finally, the rain abated and the sun came out, its light reflecting off the water’s surface. The water sparkled as if it were a sheet of metal, with the grain, building rafters, and dead livestock floating on it like so many boats.

After another seven days, the water receded and the sun shone brightly.

After another seven days and seven nights, the sandy banks were drained dry, and people could once again walk along them. The hot sun shone for yet another seven days, and the muddy ground was baked into a thick crust. There were cracks as large as a man’s finger or two. No one had anything to eat. The higher-ups donated some grain, consisting of equal amounts of flour and unrefined grain. Everyone was issued one jin and two liang of grain a day, or thirty-six liang of grain a month. But once the famine started, the amount donated by the higher-ups decreased from one jin and two liang per person a day to only eight liang a day, consisting of six liang of unrefined cornmeal and only two liang of flour. As a result, everyone in Re-Ed went from having three meals a day to only two.