Chapter 22: A Model Village in Thirteen Days
The tribe's first hut was a small house made of loess, built against the slope of a cliff face.
There was no yard or flowers in front of the cottage, only wormwood, thorny roses, and thistle. The ground before the door was a mess of intricate footprints, gravel, and soil. Even a small, lovely lavender wildflower had been trampled.
Inside, there was no kang (a heated brick bed), no stove, no bed, not even a chimney. The air was filled with a strange, earthy smell mixed with the bitter scent of grass juice.
Evening was falling, and mosquitoes swarmed from the grass. Grubs dug from the soil and slightly crazed bumblebees buzzed around the tribe, but none of it could dampen their excitement.
Chen Jian squatted on the roof, oblivious to the fact that his animal skin kilt offered a clear view of the early summer wilderness beneath it.
Fortunately, no one was looking at him. All eyes were fixed on the simple thatched cottage as they imagined what it would be like to live inside.
His uncle walked to the doorway and proudly touched the frame he had carved with his own hands. The old grandmother and a few others went inside. They were very satisfied with the flat ground, a welcome change from the uneven, stone-littered floor of the cave that often tripped them.
There was no need for a fire; sunlight streamed through the window frames, illuminating everything clearly. Children clambered over the window frames, giggling, while the adults patted the rammed-earth walls they had built with their own hands.
Standing unsteadily on the roof, Chen Jian pointed to a nearby excavated pit. "That's where our next house will be," he declared. "And that patch of grass will provide us with food this time next year. Our tamed wolf cubs will be grown, our dodos and geese will lay eggs in these haystacks, and our piglets will be big enough to be caught by hand for food. This is the life I promised all of you!"
He spoke of the future with inspiring words, and this time, he had the confidence to back them up.
With the bow and arrow, it took him one day to show them his promise. With the fishing nets, it took two days to bring them joy. And with this house, it took five days to give them hope.
From now on, he could finally extend his vision and his promises to a yearly cycle, from the seeds of hope and trust planted now to a future harvest.
Before this simple house, the tribe's excitement was palpable in their hopeful eyes and roaring cheers.
Chen Jian climbed down from the roof, picked up a stone hoe, and said in a very calm tone, "Alright, let's go back and eat."
The clansmen followed him, continually looking back at the hut until they reached the river.
The old grandmother watched the tribe, a smile touching the corner of her mouth. Every tradition passed down from her ancestors had been shattered by her grandson. Perhaps she truly was old now.
Not in body, but in mind. The old ways, the things handed down by the ancestors, could now grow old with her body, to one day be burned with her on a pyre and scattered upon the land by the mountain wind.
She felt the tribe's future was unfolding in ways she could never have imagined, though she also knew she might not live to see it fully.
Yu Qian'er, supporting the old grandmother, noticed her strange expression and called out to her. The old woman just laughed, stroked Yu Qian'er's braid, and said, "Let's go. Let's go back."
By the river, she glanced back at the house standing on the slope. She suddenly thought that when she died, she didn't want to be burned by the tribe. She wanted to be buried in the soil of this new village. It would be even better to plant a tree over her—a straight, tall pine that would endure for a long time—so she could quietly watch over the lives of her children and grandchildren, a life she had never imagined for them.
Yu Qian'er knew nothing of the old grandmother's thoughts as she helped her into the birch-bark boat. A young man paddled while Yu Qian'er nestled close to her grandmother, a willow-bark whistle in her mouth. She blew a plaintive, whining tune, knowing nothing of sorrow or death.
After dinner, the clansmen huddled by the fire while the women waved smoldering wormwood to drive away mosquitoes. Despite their long, tiring day, no one could sleep. Every time they thought of Chen Jian's words, they found themselves wishing for the sun to rise sooner.
They looked up at the twinkling stars, which seemed to hold all their beautiful visions for the future, appearing even more mysterious than the moon.
But Yu Qian'er was staring at the nearly round moon rising over the river. Thinking about her observations over the past few days, she ran to find Chen Jian.
"Brother Jian, I've noticed the moon becomes round about every ten days or so."
"So it takes more than ten days?"
Yu Qian'er shook her head to show she wasn't sure. She took out a piece of birch bark, on which many phases of the moon were drawn with charcoal.
Pointing to the first drawing, a crescent curved like a boat, she said, "Look, this was the first day you left. The moon appeared where the sun sets."
Then she pointed to a nearly full moon. "This is the moon tonight. It appeared where the sun rises."
Chen Jian laughed. "Then can you tell me how long it will take for the moon to be full this time, and then full again the next time?"
Yu Qian'er shook her braids. "I don't know. Do you?"
"I don't know either," he admitted. "I want to find out too, so I'm waiting for you to tell me. Remember, you have to tell me when you figure it out. I'm curious."
"Okay!" Yu Qian'er clutched the bark and nodded firmly. She looked up at the moon, resting her chin in her hands as she pondered its story, and slowly drifted off to sleep.
The humid air made Chen Jian uncomfortable. He lay with his arms tucked under his head, unable to sleep. The house they built today was impressive at first glance—a treasure—but it still needed many improvements to become a home that could truly prolong the lives of his people.
A damp house would make people sick. Conversely, the lack of sunlight in the caves could lead to calcium deficiency and rickets. Both conditions were directly tied to life expectancy.
Humanity's conquest of nature was, in essence, a process of earning the right to die of old age. So far, no one in the tribe had ever lived long enough to suffer from the diseases of the elderly.
"In this lifetime," he thought, "I want to see at least a few of my people live to be sixty years old."
This was his great ambition. Finally, exhausted, he drifted off to sleep on the damp riverbank.
When he woke the next day, his uncle was already squatting by the fire, carving wood. Beside him lay several logs with mortise and tenon joints already cut.
Looking around, he found that he was the last to wake. The water in a pottery pot had boiled away. His mother and sisters were carrying fish in wicker baskets near the reed pond. The hillside on the opposite bank was already bustling with activity. The wooden framework for another house was complete, and the tribe was busy filling in the walls.
He casually grabbed a cooked tuber, stuffed it in his mouth, and headed for the opposite bank. After a quick look, he saw that everything was proceeding in an orderly fashion. The only flaw was that the wall boards were slightly tilted.
And so, Chen Jian introduced a new concept: the plumb line. Following his instructions, the tribesmen tied a stone to a thin rope and held it against the wall, only to find that the boards were indeed crooked.
"Remember to use the line next time. And where's Wolf Fur? Have him continue leading the team to cut down trees. There's no need to hunt today. I'm going to see my cousin, Acorn."
This was the most primitive form of specialized labor. The clansmen saw nothing wrong with it and simply motioned for him to go on his way.
In the pottery area by the river, Acorn and seven or eight others were busy making pottery, waiting to fire their creations together at night.
Seeing Chen Jian arrive, Acorn knew something new was about to be introduced.
"What are you planning this time?"
"A simple thing," Chen Jian said, drawing a rectangle on the ground. "I need you to make some molds with a bottom this shape. Not round, but rectangular. Once the mold is formed, cut it in half lengthwise before you fire it."
He gestured with his hands; it would be about two feet long and one foot thick. This wasn't too difficult for the increasingly skilled Acorn.
Acorn didn't ask what it was for. A mold like this couldn't be made on a potter's wheel, but his technique of coiling and smoothing clay had improved significantly in recent days.
He rolled out a flat sheet of clay, cut it to size with a wooden ruler, and formed it into a hollow, lidless rectangular box.
"Like this?"
"Yes. Now cut it down the middle."
Acorn took a stone knife, dipped it in water, and sliced the box in half. "How many do you need?"
Chen Jian figured Acorn might not be able to count very high, so he broke off dozens of small sticks. "This many," he said. "Fire them as soon as you can."
As he was about to leave, Acorn called out from behind him, "Jian, why does some of the pottery always break when I fire it? And look at this—what happened here?"
He hurried to catch up and showed Chen Jian a broken pottery bowl. The outside was different from the others; it was extremely smooth, like ice on a winter day.
Perhaps from the high temperature or some other reason, a simple glaze had formed on its surface. It was the only one out of hundreds, but it had cracked during firing. Acorn felt it was a great pity and hoped Chen Jian would have an answer.
Chen Jian thought for a moment. "Focus on firing these molds first. We'll talk about this after the houses are built."
Acorn said nothing more and returned to making the strange, rectangular molds. As he finished each one, he placed a straw on it to keep count.
Early the next morning, Chen Jian was holding a finished two-piece rectangular mold. He ran his hands over it; it seemed fine.
The day before, the tribe had built the houses much faster, their movements growing more proficient. They had built one and a half houses, and someone had even suggested working through the night to finish the second one, but Chen Jian had persuaded them to rest.
The tribe was up early again today. Chen Jian walked into the crowd holding the strange pottery mold, stopped their work, and announced that they would be doing something different.
"Is anything more important than building houses?" one asked.
"Yes," Chen Jian replied. "Making the houses better."
The clansmen asked no more questions and followed Chen Jian to the pottery area by the river.
This time, they were familiar with the process: digging clay, mixing mud, and clearing a site. The only difference from their previous pottery making was that this time, they didn't need pure clay.
Sand, gravel, and blades of grass were mixed in. The mud was piled into a volcano-like cone, water was added to the "crater" at the top, and the strongest men climbed up to knead it with their feet.
They moistened the inside of the rectangular mold with water, then poured in the mud mixture of grass and stones.
They tamped it down firmly, then two people lifted the mold to a leveled piece of ground. When they separated the two halves of the mold, a rectangular mud brick was left behind.
Chen Jian knew that to build kangs, stoves, and chimneys, he couldn't rely on rammed earth alone. Those more delicate structures required bricks.
Firing proper bricks wasn't impossible, but it was too time-consuming. They would first have to dig a kiln, and the kiln itself would need to be reinforced with the first batch of fired bricks to control the temperature. Ten days wouldn't be nearly enough time.
Chen Jian decided to wait until the tribe was more established.
These mud bricks were easy to form and just needed to be dried in the sun. They would be reasonably strong. But the work was exhausting—it was the job he'd hated most as a rural plasterer in his previous life.
Dozens of molds were distributed among the tribe. Working in groups of three to five, the sound of their feet squelching in the mud echoed along the river.
All day long they worked, producing hundreds of mud bricks that were left to dry in the sun.
Five days later—the tenth day of the project—the mud bricks were finally dry. It took another morning to carry them all to the hillside.
Thirteen simple thatched houses now stood on the hillside. The tribe's building speed was accelerating as they grew more skilled. Even so, Chen Jian calculated that with a hundred people, they were only building two foundationless houses per day—an outrageously low efficiency by his standards.
The thirteen houses stood in a straight line, and from a distance, the settlement finally looked like a village.
Ten people would have to be crammed into each house, so it would be crowded.
But looking at the fish-scale clouds in the sky, he feared a heavy rain would come within two or three days. If it rained hard, they wouldn't be able to stay on Reed Island.
Chen Jian put down the last mud brick he was holding and shouted to everyone, "Tonight, we'll live here! Song, take some people and bring back all the pots and supplies. We're not building any more today."