Chapter 37
Chapter 37
Once all two thousand refugees were inside, the city gates behind them swung heavily shut with a deep, grating creak.
Within the city, yamen runners locked the gates. Outside, fully armed prefectural troops placed pointed wooden barricades before the entrance, their expressions solemn as they awaited the second wave of refugees.
The night deepened.
Having entered the city, the refugees felt too embarrassed to stay in other people’s homes. They spread their bedding near the porridge stalls that distributed grain at fixed locations. Once the government handed out relief grain, they intended to find some wasteland outside the city, clear it, and see whether they could grow food.
The land in their villages had hardened under the drought until grain could no longer grow. They could only wait for rain the following spring, then return home, turn the soil, and sow anew.
After laying out their bedding and settling their families, some of them headed toward the prefectural yamen as the hour of the rooster approached, eager to learn what buns and cutting through mountains and rivers had to do with one another.
The people of Jiangdu County also made their way toward the yamen. They too wished to hear how ordinary people could cut through a mountain and split a river.
Upon arriving, they discovered that a large stage had appeared outside the yamen at some point. A young, plump villager stood upon it, with a large heap of rice-and-flour buns behind him. Several villagers who knew how to beat gongs and drums sat on either side, clanging experimentally at the bronze instruments in their hands.
One refugee called hoarsely to the plump villager, “Hey, young man! We heard we could get buns just for coming to hear a story. Is that true?”
The plump young villager cleared his throat twice and adjusted his rather plain hemp clothing. He answered, “Countryman, what you heard is correct, but you are missing one thing. You must understand what my story means before you can receive a bun.”
Everyone looked at one another.
What could be difficult to understand about a story?
“Then hurry and tell it, young man!” the crowd urged, all of them eager to finish listening and collect their buns.
“All right!” The plump young man clapped his hands. The villagers behind him struck a quick, tight rhythm on the gongs and drums. Everyone fell silent as he raised his voice. “This youngster is Zhu Xiaobiao. I haven’t read many books, but I’ve always loved listening to storytellers in teahouses. Today, I’ll tell everyone a myth I heard in Yuzhou.”
A myth? Was it a story about immortals?
Everyone pricked up their ears.
“Long ago, south of Jizhou and north of Yuzhou, there stood two towering mountains. One was called Mount Taihang, the other Mount Wangwu. Their ranges stretched seven or eight hundred li, and they rose seven or eight thousand zhang high.
North of the mountains lived an old villager named Yu Gong, who was nearly ninety years old. Whenever he wanted to reach the other side of the mountains, he had to take an enormous detour. One day, he gathered his whole family and said, ‘I want to level these two dangerous mountains with all of you, so the road can run straight to the far side. Will you support me?’
The entire family agreed. Then his wife asked, ‘Where will we put all the earth and stone we dig out?’
Everyone answered, ‘Throw it on the shore of the Bohai Sea.’
So Yu Gong led his three strongest sons and grandsons up the mountain. His neighbor was a widow with an orphaned child only seven or eight years old, and even the child skipped over to help. Together, they chiseled stone, dug earth, and carried it in baskets to the distant shore of the Bohai Sea. A full change of winter and summer passed before they could make a single round trip.
A wise and learned elder in the village mocked Yu Gong. He said, ‘You are a complete fool! With your remaining years and dwindling strength, you cannot even disturb one blade of grass on the mountain. What can you possibly do to all that earth and stone?’
Yu Gong sighed and said, ‘Your mind is so stubborn that nothing can enlighten it. You are inferior even to an orphan and a widow. If I die, my sons remain. My sons will have grandsons, their grandsons will have sons, those sons will have more sons, and those sons will have grandsons. Our descendants will continue without end. But the mountains will never grow higher or larger. Why fear that they cannot be leveled?’
The elder had nothing more to say.
When the mountain gods of the two peaks heard of this, they feared Yu Gong would dig forever and went to complain to Heaven. Moved by Yu Gong’s sincerity, Heaven ordered the two sons of a mighty god to carry the mountains away. One was placed east of Shuofang and the other south of Yongzhou. From that day forward, no high mountain ever blocked Yu Gong’s travels again.”
Zhu Xiaobiao finished the tale at an unhurried pace, then asked, “Elders and countrymen, what did you learn from it?”
The crowd had listened, enthralled. Once they recovered, someone said, “I think Yu Gong was a fool. Why throw the stone so far away? He should have given it to the village masons to make tables and stools. Then if a mountain flood came, they wouldn’t be swept far away or smashed to pieces!”
Someone else said, “Yu Gong’s idea sounded fine, but if his descendants spent every generation digging mountains instead of farming or studying, wouldn’t they amount to nothing their whole lives? And they’d have to depend on the women at home to support them!”
“Exactly!” someone agreed. “In the end, immortals still helped Yu Gong! How does that count as cutting through a mountain? I thought we could truly level Mount Yuji!”
The villagers argued among themselves until a handsome scholar in the crowd suddenly spoke. “This humble scholar sees it differently. The story is meant to tell us that we should act with the resolve never to surrender or fear hardship. As the saying goes, perfect sincerity can split metal and stone. Mount Yuji may be vast, but if the people of every county help, sooner or later we will finish digging through it.”
Zhu Xiaobiao immediately burst into applause and exclaimed, “Well said, young sir! Please come up here!”
The scholar gently parted the crowd and stepped onto the stage. Bian Yangchun and the others, who were mingling in the audience, recognized him. “Oh, isn’t that Brother Jing Ze?”
Ouyang Jiu chuckled. “Interesting. Most interesting indeed. Let us see what those two are really planning.”
Once Jing Ze reached the stage, Zhu Xiaobiao scurried to the pile, picked up two buns, and stuffed them into his hands. “Young sir, if you know how to speak, say more!”
Jing Ze nodded, turned to the audience, and said, “Because Mount Yuji blocks the river, the eastern counties of Yizhou can only rely on Heaven’s mood when farming. If Heaven sends rain, they reap a fine harvest. If Heaven sends none, they gather not a single grain. If a channel truly could be cut through Mount Yuji, river water could irrigate the fields, and people would never again need to live at Heaven’s whim.”
“Some may say we cannot finish digging it with our abilities. But as this young mas – ah, young man beside me said, if we cannot finish, our descendants will continue. If they cannot finish, their descendants will. Once the work is complete, those later generations will never again need to depend on Heaven’s mood when they farm.”
A villager immediately challenged him. “What good does that do us if we never benefit?”
Anyone would hesitate at the thought of spending an entire life digging a mountain. They were farmers, people born to work the land. If they suddenly went to excavate a mountain, even setting aside whether they had the strength, could they still feed their families?
If everyone starved to death, how could there be descendants?
At those words, Zhu Xiaobiao stepped forward and solemnly addressed the crowd. “This youngster, Zhu Xiaobiao, is no famous person. Like all of you, I’m an honest commoner. All I want from life is a mouthful of food for myself, then a mouthful for my children and grandchildren. Better yet, I’d like to send them to school, let them study, pass the examinations, and become minor officials. Then they could honor their ancestors and bring benefit to ordinary people. Isn’t that right?”
Everyone nodded, feeling that he had spoken straight to their hearts.
“But Heaven is not benevolent. One great rain, one great mountain, one great river – and ordinary folk on both east and west are driven toward death. One side suffers drought, the other floods. We are given no path to survival at all. Every year, the court sends disaster relief to Yizhou, but what use is it? It cannot solve the root problem!”
Zhu Xiaobiao shook his head and sighed. Behind him, the gongs and drums began playing a sorrowful, indignant rhythm, drawing lamenting sighs from everyone present.
“Exactly! The land remains dry and the waters still flood. If my roots weren’t here, I’d have fled long ago!”
“Ah, fleeing isn’t easy either. When other places hear we’re from Yizhou, they won’t let us settle within their walls. They’re afraid every person in Yizhou will come seeking refuge! Weren’t plenty of people driven back the year before last?”
“Why did we have to be born in Yizhou…” someone sighed, tears falling with grief.
Zhu Xiaobiao continued, “Exactly! Why did we have to be born in Yizhou, rather than some fine place without floods and drought? Why weren’t we even born into wealthy official families in the capital, surrounded by dreamlike prosperity?”
“Were we born fated to suffer?” Zhu Xiaobiao stepped forward, his face full of grief and outrage. “Were we born destined to endure disasters like these?”
“Were we born without Heaven’s protection or the protection of immortals? Were we born sinners, condemned to a lifetime of suffering to redeem crimes from a previous life?”
His voice surged, impassioned, sorrowful, and furious. Those listening remembered every hardship of their flight from famine. They covered their faces and sobbed, bodies shaking with grief.
Were they truly cursed with bitter fates? Had they been sinners in a previous life?
Zhu Xiaobiao’s tone suddenly changed. Grave and resolute, he said, “No. We were not.”
The crowd froze.
“Do you truly believe immortals exist?” Zhu Xiaobiao smiled faintly. “In the tale of Yu Gong moving the mountains, Heaven was moved by his sincerity and sent mighty gods to carry the two peaks away. But do you know the truth?”
The truth?
The crowd grew even more confused. What other truth could there be? Had immortals not moved the mountains?