Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Deadlock (III)
Disaster relief camp, evening, clear skies.
“Xiao Yan! Elder Hui Ren said there’s no food tonight! We’ve run out of grain! All the food has to be sent to help others!”
Little Yue’er rubbed her tiny stomach and poked her head in as she spoke.
“That blasted elder! I’ll go talk to him! The children shouldn’t suffer, no matter how tough things get…” Xiao Yan shook his head, just about to stand up, when he suddenly felt dizzy and almost fainted.
He hadn’t eaten for three days, and the last meal had been nothing but rice bran.
“Xiao Yan, Xiao Yan, don’t worry… I still have some biscuits left by my mother… We can share them!” Sensible Little Yue’er tugged at Xiao Yan’s sleeve and handed him a biscuit.
“I’m not hungry. You eat it. Children need to eat more to grow.” Xiao Yan smiled and shook his head, then sat down and continued practicing his calligraphy.
“Are you really not going to eat? Alright…” Little Yue’er lowered her head, carefully examining the crooked characters on the paper. She took a bite of the biscuit and asked curiously, “Xiao Yan, what are you writing?”
“Ha… Good girl, Yue’er… Let me teach you to recite poetry…” Xiao Yan pulled Little Yue’er into his arms, pointing at the characters on the paper. “Repeat after me: ‘In spring… sow… a… single… grain… of millet…’”
“In spring… sow… a… What comes next?”
“A single grain of millet…”
“Oh… a single tree…”
“Millet!”
“Tree!”
“…”
…………………………………………………………
Under the dim oil lamp, a gentle breeze drifted through.
The young boy occasionally bent down to say something nonsensical, while the little girl always stared with curious, wide eyes, asking why.
…
As August slowly approached, the chorus of summer cicadas faded…
“Xiao Yan… I used to have a brother too… But he had more hair than you…” Little Yue’er looked up at Xiao Yan’s chin.
“…” Xiao Yan.
“My brother loved me very much… When I did something wrong, my father would scold me… but my brother would step in to defend me…”
“Mm…” Xiao Yan nodded silently.
“That was last year, during another famine… Many people died… Back then, my brother liked to hold me like you do, teaching me poetry… But…” Little Yue’er’s voice was soft, growing hoarse and slower as she spoke, “Father said my brother was the greatest person in the world, barely a youth and already a scholar…”
Xiao Yan said nothing, gently stroking Little Yue’er’s head.
“Last year, my father was wealthy, but grain kept getting more expensive. Thankfully, he sold fields and land so we could eat… But my brother wouldn’t accept it… He argued with those selling grain…” Little Yue’er’s voice trembled as she continued, “But he never came back. The next day, father and mother were crying… They said brother had gone to another place…”
“Enough, don’t talk about it… Why are you so chatty, little one… Like an old lady…” Xiao Yan reached out to wipe Little Yue’er’s tears.
“But, Xiao Yan, I know… My brother died… That night, I didn’t sleep… Brother didn’t tell a story to lull me, so I couldn’t sleep… I saw father and mother carry brother home… He was covered in blood… They dug a pit and buried him…”
Little Yue’er wiped her eyes and continued, “But I miss my brother so much… And father and mother too… Did they go to another place as well?”
---
Xiao Yan rubbed Little Yue’er’s head, saying nothing, lips pressed tight as though holding back tears. “Mm.”
“Xiao Yan, you’re very like my brother…”
“Alright, I’ll tell you stories from now on…”
“Mm.”
“Shall we recite poetry again?”
“Yes!”
…………………………
“Autumn… harvest… ten… thousand… seeds…”
“….”
“Xiao Yan, I know how to recite it now… Let me recite it for you…” Little Yue’er stood triumphantly on the table, holding the page Xiao Yan had written.
“In spring, sow a single grain of millet; in autumn, harvest ten thousand seeds. Nowhere is there idle land, yet the farmer still starves.”
Little Yue’er tilted her head and asked, “How about it? Am I clever? Xiao Yan, did you write this poem?”
“I copied it!” Xiao Yan replied without thinking.
“What does this poem mean?”
“In spring, sow a single grain of millet; in autumn, harvest ten thousand seeds. It means, you plant one seed in spring, and by autumn you reap much grain.” Xiao Yan explained.
“Wow… Is this talking about my father? He used to farm a lot of fields…”
“Mm, ‘Nowhere is there idle land, yet the farmer still starves.’ These lines mean, there’s no land left uncultivated, yet still there are farmers who starve… So, diligent farmers should live happily…”
“Haha… Amazing… Xiao Yan wrote a great poem…”
“Yes! A good poem, fitting the times…” Xiao Yan sighed.
“Xiao Yan, are you unhappy?”
“No… Alright… Little Yue’er… You should go to bed now…” Xiao Yan scooped up Little Yue’er.
“But my stomach hurts a little, maybe I ate too many biscuits… I don’t want to sleep yet! I want to hear you tell stories…” Little Yue’er shook her head.
“Alright then…” Xiao Yan nodded.
“Yay… What story will you tell?” Little Yue’er clapped her hands in excitement.
“Hmm…” Xiao Yan pondered for a moment, then said, “Snow White.”
“What’s that story? I’ve never heard it… Wonderful…”
“Once upon a time… there was a beautiful princess…”
As night deepened, the breeze brushed softly.
Little Yue’er’s breathing grew heavier.
The young monk’s voice faded as the girl fell asleep, and only then did he sigh, walking to the table to continue writing.
The grass in the camp swayed gently, and the cries of sorrow occasionally drifted in from inside and outside the city.
---
Perhaps another farmer had starved to death…
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Early the next morning, the faint light streamed through the window, shining on the young monk’s bald head.
He had apparently grown too tired from writing last night, falling asleep at the table.
Chen Shuwan arrived early, reaching out to wake Xiao Yan, but pulled back halfway.
“Huh…”
Just then, she caught sight of a sheet of white paper covered in writing and exclaimed in surprise.
What’s written here?
Chen Shuwan walked over, slowly picked up the paper, and frowned.
The handwriting was terrible… nearly illegible…
“Hmm… ‘In spring, sow a single grain of millet’? Is this a poem?” Chen Shuwan frowned, puzzled as she glanced at Xiao Yan.
But the fellow was drooling in his sleep.
“In spring, sow a single grain of millet; in autumn, harvest ten thousand seeds. Nowhere is there idle land, yet the farmer still starves.”
Chen Shuwan recited the poem in one breath, her brows furrowing as she turned to look at Xiao Yan, murmuring, “Hmph, little rascal… Has some talent, though… But… this poem… sigh… ‘Nowhere is there idle land, yet the farmer still starves’… This really is…”
She gently put the paper down, walked to Xiao Yan’s side, gazed at his profile, a faint smile at the corner of her lips: “So handsome…”
…………………………
Two hours later…
The young monk yawned, turned over, and continued sleeping.
“Ah…”
A scream rang out from the camp—Chen Shuwan’s voice.
“Little rascal! Little rascal! Get up, quick!”
Chen Shuwan’s face was pale, tears streaming down, hands frantically pushing Xiao Yan.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hurry! Go in and have a look…” Chen Shuwan pointed inside, shouting loudly.
“What is it…” Xiao Yan wiped his drool, reluctantly heading in.
…
At that moment, the sky suddenly darkened and heavy rain poured.
It drowned out the sounds of weeping…
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