Chapter 13: A Writer Emerges from the Mountain Village

A brewing storm was gathering in the peaceful mountain village, yet neither the postman nor Li Lanyong realized what this letter truly meant to Liu Yimin.

Li Lanyong himself found it hard to believe. He knew Liu Yimin used to enjoy reading magazines and would sometimes jot down a few things. But for his work to be published in a magazine? That was difficult to imagine. Still, if it were true, he would naturally be happy for Liu Yimin.

The postman checked the time, saw there was no point in waiting any longer, and so entrusted the letter to Li Lanyong with a solemn warning. “Lanyong, this letter is very important. It must be opened by Yimin himself. When he returns, you must hand it to him personally.”

Li Lanyong readily agreed, his hands caressing the envelope. The red seal confirmed its authenticity; it truly had been sent from the editorial office of People's Literature and Art. He hadn’t gone out to work today because he had gone to the commune to request the film projection team.

In these times, it was extremely difficult for a rural village to watch a film—there were usually only two opportunities in a year: after the wheat harvest and after the autumn harvest, during the slack season when watching a movie wouldn’t interfere with farm work.

After the wheat was brought in, each production brigade would send someone to the commune to request the projection team. The team would arrange a schedule for each brigade. This year, the Maiji Brigade was low on the list; the neighboring brigades had already had their screenings.

Showing a film cost ten yuan each time, and the production teams would take turns collecting the money.

The members of the projection team, led by him, were already resting in the brigade. Around five or six in the evening, he would take them to the drying grounds to find a patch of open land, help hang the screen, and ensure the film would start punctually at eight.

He glanced at the letter in his hand, feeling as restless as an ant on a hot pan, pacing anxiously before the gate of Liu Yimin’s house. Every so often, he scratched his head, nearly overcome with the urge to open the letter and see what it said inside.

After squatting at the door for a while, he decided waiting was pointless. He took the letter and ran to where the third team was working, hoping to hand it directly to Liu Yimin’s father, Liu Fuqing.

The Maiji Brigade was nestled in the mountains, split down the middle by a river called the Withered Leaf River. The river had earned its name because, as it flowed down from the mountains, leaves and weeds from both banks would float atop its surface.

On either side lived the second and third teams, with their farmland likewise divided. Farther upstream, the Withered Leaf River was revealed to be the union of two smaller rivers, forming a “Y” shape as it descended from the ridge. The land above the “Y” belonged to the first team, so the river effectively split the brigade into three parts.

Li Lanyong’s family belonged to the second team, which was dominated by the Li clan. His father, Li Dashan, was both the brigade secretary and the small team leader. The third team was largely made up of the Liu family, while the first team was dominated by the Han family. Though the brigade wasn’t large, it was rife with subtle struggles for power.

Smaller surnames had no chance of joining the brigade’s committees. Liu Fuqing and Li Dashan were on good terms, and this amity extended to their respective teams. The first team wanted to compete for the secretary’s position, but the Liu and Li families kept them firmly suppressed.

There was another layer to this: the Han family’s political background was less than ideal. The old Han patriarch had once been a notorious landlord—not only in the Maiji Brigade but also in neighboring villages.

The elders used to joke that in these parts, even to pass gas one had to get the Han family’s permission.

After Liberation, this jest became a heavy burden, pressing down on the Han family like a mountain.

That day, all the third team members were weeding the cornfields behind the slope. As the team leader, Liu Fuqing worked at the forefront, bent over his task. The corn wasn’t very tall yet, so weeding was easier than it would be later in the season. When the stalks grew thick and high, moving through the field would be like pushing through a wall—corn leaves would lash at your skin, leaving it stinging and raw.

Liu Fuqing gripped the hoe, its handle slick with sweat. The dirty sweat from his forehead and neck dripped onto the blade, mixing with the soil and then evaporating into the air.

Working in the production team was like attending a mass meeting; despite the punishing heat, the members still managed to chatter away.

Liu Fuqing straightened his back, laboriously stretching his arms behind him and pounding his sore waist, feeling a burst of relief. He looked ahead and realized no one was in front of him. Glancing back, he saw the nearest person was at least five meters away.

“You bunch of lazy mules! You barely eat at the end of the day and still won’t work. At this rate, how can you expect to have enough food? Keep this up and, when we can’t get relief grain, you’ll all have to beg for your supper!”

“Don’t be mad, Captain. Whether we work or not, we still get ten work points. Work hard, go hungry; slack off, still go hungry.” Someone muttered feebly from behind.

“I know what you’re all thinking. It’s not your own land anyway. If you go hungry, there’s relief grain—the higher-ups won’t just let us starve, right? But tell me, is living off relief something to be proud of? Where’s your sense of duty? I’m telling you, anyone who doesn’t work hard, I’ll dock your work points come New Year’s. Don’t think I won’t do it!”

Liu Fuqing glared, furious. The team members, seeing he was angry, sped up their work, but soon slowed down again.

Since the field was on the far side of the slope, by the time Li Lanyong arrived, he was out of breath. Waving the letter, he ran toward the third team, shouting, “Uncle Fuqing, something big has happened! Something big!”

His shout drew every eye in the production team.

“Lanyong, what’s happened? Is there a new directive from the commune?” Liu Fuqing called.

“No, it’s about Yimin!”

At these words, Yang Xiuyun, standing nearby, felt her legs turn to jelly. She nearly collapsed in the field, quickly threw aside her hoe, and rushed to Liu Fuqing’s side, panicking. “Husband, is Lanyong saying something happened to Yimin? Did I hear wrong?”

Liu Fuqing dropped his hoe without a word and rushed to Li Lanyong. “What’s wrong with Yimin?”

“Uncle, Yimin...”

“Oh, you’ll be the death of me! Just tell me, what’s happened to Yimin?”

“Yimin... Yimin might become a writer!” Li Lanyong finally blurted out, slapping the letter into Liu Fuqing’s hand. Clutching his stomach, parched and breathless, he kept swallowing hard.

“A writer?” Liu Fuqing shouted. His sweaty hands left a large damp print on the envelope.

Li Lanyong swallowed again, his face twisted with exhaustion. “I’m not sure myself. Look, this is a letter from the editorial office of People’s Literature and Art in Yanjing. The postman just delivered it. Yimin must have submitted something to the magazine—they replied!”