Spring in Jiangnan was always wrapped in a layer of damp, soft mist. Just as dawn was breaking, the ridges of the fields were already imprinted with footprints of various depths. The most relentlessly hectic days of the year in the countryside thus emerged from the morning dew.
The seedling nursery shed was the first place to become lively. Inside the shed, constructed with bamboo frames, the seedling trays were arranged in neat, orderly rows. In the moist soil, the rice seeds had just sprouted, their tender white shoot-tips topped with a hint of green, resembling green stars scattered all over the ground. The adults squatted inside the shed, their fingers gently nudging the seedling trays to straighten any crooked sprouts. Occasionally, they would stand up to pound their aching lower backs, their eyes sweeping past the outside of the shed. In the distance, the rapeseed fields were already a blinding shade of yellow. Whenever the wind blew, petals rustled downward, clinging to passing straw hats like a layer of finely shredded gold.
A few days later, the harvesting sickles were sharpened until they gleamed. In the rapeseed fields, the men bent their waists as the sickle blades cut “swish-swish” against the ground. The rapeseed stalks collapsed with a damp chill, and the women followed closely behind, tying the harvested rapeseed into small bundles and leaning them slantwise against the field ridges to dry. The golden seedpods cracked open slightly under the sun, and even the wind carried a bitter yet fragrant scent of oil. Before the rapeseed over here had dried thoroughly, the paddy fields over there were already plowed. Oxen pulled plows through the fields, churning the muddy water into dark, shiny waves. The men stepped barefoot into the mud with their pant legs rolled up to their knees. The clumps of mud sticking to their legs turned white under the baking sun, but they couldn’t bother to wipe them off, focusing entirely on packing the field ridges firm so they could channel water and transplant the seedlings.
Transplanting seedlings was the most time-sensitive chore. Just as the sky brightened, the adults carried the seedlings on shoulder poles toward the fields. Bending down, separating the seedlings, and inserting them into the muddy fields—their movements were so swift it looked like a dance, and a neat expanse of green soon stood upright in the fields. The children didn’t stay idle either, squatting along the field ridges to pick up fallen seedlings. Even when muddy water occasionally splashed onto their faces, they simply wiped it away and kept their eyes glued to the fields. By the time all the fields were fully planted, the willow leaves by the river had already turned a dark green, the chill in the wind had long vanished, and the sun baked everyone’s backs until they were scalding hot. Only then did the frantic rush of spring work finally come to a temporary close.
However, just as the seedling transplantation was finished, the issue of water sources closely followed. The paddy fields were like an extremely thirsty child, unable to survive without water for even a single day. The small river ditch in the village was the primary water source. Whichever family’s field was closer to the ditch could channel the water first; those farther away had to dig a small opening in someone else’s field ridge to borrow water. If they encountered days with little rain and the water in the river ditch hit rock bottom, the atmosphere in the village would turn tense. The men went to guard the edges of their fields every day before dawn, their eyes staring fixedly at the water level in their own fields, terrified that it might drop even by an inch. Sometimes at night, footsteps could always be heard along the ridges. That was someone taking advantage of the cover of darkness to stealthily dig open another family’s water inlet to channel the water into their own field. The next morning, one would invariably hear people quarreling on the ridges. Their voices grew louder and louder, moving from mutual accusations to raking up old debts, and in the end, they might even start shoving each other. The women would pull them apart from the side, shouting “stop fighting,” but the strength in their grip never loosened, and their eyes carried an anxious desperation for their own paddy fields.
What was even fiercer was the fight for water between different villages. The village was divided into several settlements, mostly with one surname occupying one settlement. For example, in Yuan Settlement where Lixia lived, almost everyone in the settlement shared the surname Yuan. Across the river was Chen Settlement, and the fields of both settlements relied on the exact same river. Whenever there was a water shortage, the riverside became boisterous. The people of Yuan Settlement would build a dam on this side of the river, while the people of Chen Settlement would dig a ditch on that side. Just as this side blocked the water, that side would channel it away. Sometimes, a conversation would turn into an argument, the young men would roll up their sleeves and charge forward, and the elderly would shout from behind, “We can’t let them take advantage of us!” while holding shovels in their hands. If a real fight broke out, shovels and hoes could all become “weapons,” and incidents involving bloodshed were not unheard of. Lixia had witnessed it once: a Second Uncle from Yuan Settlement had his arm gashed by someone from Chen Settlement with a shovel. Blood flowed down his arm onto his hand, yet he still clutched his shovel tightly and wouldn’t let go. In the end, the village chief hurried over to pull the two sides apart before things could escalate any further.
Yet, all these tense matters seemed to have nothing to do with Lixia. She was only three years old, and her greatest daily joy was following her older brothers and sister to play by the river. It was exceptionally cool under the willow trees by the riverside. The older boys stripped off their clothes and jumped stark naked into the water, sending up splashes that slapped against the rocks on the bank. The fourth child was the most mischievous among the brothers; he flipped and rolled around in the water, purposely splashing water onto the girls. The girls didn’t get angry either, stepping into the water while wearing their patched clothes. Once the water reached just past their knees, they began gathering snails in the river, occasionally shrieking with excitement when they caught a glimpse of a small fish.
Lixia sat on a large rock by the river, her feet dangling back and forth, but she didn’t dare enter the water. She actually knew how to swim, but she didn’t dare swim in the wild. Across the river were the children from Chen Settlement, who were also playing by the riverside. However, the children of the two settlements never played together. On the rare occasions their eyes met, they would glare at one another. Lixia had witnessed it several times: without knowing who started it, the children from both sides would begin hurling insults at each other across the river. “Why should your family’s fields take up so much water?” “You people from Chen Settlement are the most shameless!” As they hurled insults, they would start dragging in eight generations of ancestors, even spouting things like, “Your grandmother secretly picked my family’s vegetables yesterday,” or “Your mother is messing around with so-and-so.” Their tone and expressions were identical to how the grandmothers and mothers in the village behaved when they quarreled. Lixia could only cover her face, feeling that it was simply too embarrassing to watch.
When the sun was about to set, the horizon was dyed an orange-red, and the river’s surface shimmered with golden light. As if by a tacit understanding, everyone emerged from the water one after another. The boys put on their clothes, while the girls wrung the water out of their garments, packed up their belongings, and prepared to head home. Lixia’s eldest sister walked over and picked her up, because the path leading to the riverside was very narrow and full of potholes, and she was afraid Lixia might fall. Only when they reached the wide dirt road of the village, which was easier to walk on, did the eldest sister set her down and hold her hand to walk home.
When they arrived home, the courtyard was quiet. Father Yuan had not yet returned from the fields, and Mother Yuan was cooking at the stove in the kitchen. Hearing them enter the door, she merely poked her head out to ask, “You’re back?” before turning back to her chores. No one asked where they had gone to play, nor did anyone ask if the riverside was safe, as if children playing by the river was an absolute matter of course that required no worry about danger at all!