Beneath the shade of a poplar tree Shen lifted her conical hat and wiped her brow. She tucked a lock of long black hair behind her ear then she reached into her pocket and fed some apple to the ox. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a figure walking up the road beyond the field, the silhouette dark against the afternoon sun. She looked up but did not recognise the gait. Not Chang, not the travelling pot mender or the vet with his bag of instruments and medicines. She put her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes better. The man walked closer. He waved and called out in a strange accent. “Ni hao.” Hello.
Village house, Shaanxi, China (Photo: M Griffiths)
A previous set of stories was published in 2012 in a book entitled After Oil: SF Visions of a Post-Petroleum World, available from Amazon (Amazon) or in Australia from Fishpond (Fishpond).
[Also see my new story: Beijing Private Eyes - A foreign teacher in Beijing meets an unexpected and attractive visitor in need of assistance. He offers to help and things begin to get complicated.
Read Beijing Private Eyes - Part 1 Arrival here ]
Seeds of time
1
Beneath the shade of a poplar tree Shen lifted her conical hat and
wiped her brow. She tucked a lock of long black hair behind her ear then she
reached into her pocket and fed some apple to the ox. Out of the corner of her
eye she saw a figure walking up the road beyond the field, the silhouette dark
against the afternoon sun. She looked up but did not recognise the gait. Not
Chang, not the travelling pot mender or the vet with his bag of instruments and
medicines. She put her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes better. The man
walked closer. He waved and called out in a strange accent. “Ni hao.” Hello.
Shen stood still. She looked around to see if the man was talking to
someone else; across the field to the road, along the row of trees near the
bank of the irrigation channel. There was no one but her. The man came closer.
“Ni hao.” He called again. She could
see him panting from his swift walk up the slope. He started across the field.
His face came into view. Brown hair under a ragged straw sunhat, white skin
tinged pink by the sun above a short beard. She stood behind the ox, and her
hand rested on the hilt of her knife, a long thin sharp blade she had carried
with her from the city five years before. And only once used in anger. She shivered.
He stopped 10 metres away, his
boots kicking up dust in the dry, newly ploughed soil. He held up both hands,
empty. “Ni hao. My name is Yue Han. John. I am a scientist.” he
said in Chinese.
Still she stood silent, fingers
flexing on the hilt.
“I am doing research on soil
contamination. I heard you have restored the fields here in this village using
plants. I would like to talk to you.” His breathing slowed and he dropped his
hands. He took his hat off and smiled.
Shen had never seen a foreigner before,
except on the village TV, and then only rarely. “Why do you want to talk to
me?” she asked.
“The people in the village say
you are the one who started it in this area. You are famous.”
Shen shook her head and looked
down, then looked up again, staring intently at the man’s pale face, yellow
hair, his strange clothes, his brightly coloured backpack. Finally she laughed.
“I think you are mistaken. The people in the village like to tell stories. I am just a farmer.”
“Maybe.” He smiled again. “But a
very interesting one.”
“You are wasting your time Mr
John. But I’m sure you are thirsty after your walk. I will make you some tea.
My name is Shen Jingsong.” She unhitched the ox from the plough and walked
towards the stone house.
John followed her into the
courtyard paved in stone with buildings around three sides. Above and to the
right of the gate a pile of small branches dried on the top of the wall. A
small table and stools stood near the kitchen door. A hand operated washing
machine stood on the opposite side. A line stretched the length of the yard at
head height. In a corner a handmade wooden ladder leaned against the wall
alongside several brooms, mops, a wooden bucket, old sacks and small farm
implements. A wooden plank propped up by rough cut rectangular stones formed a
seat at the northern end. Beside it a solar dish held a large kettle and faced
south, shining brightly in the sun.
Shen climbed up three stone steps
into the kitchen and pushed aside the cloth covering the door opening. John
followed her as she busied herself with cups and tea from the shelf above the
brick stove and then waved to the table and chairs in the centre of the room.
“Please sit down.”
2
Shen lifted the object carefully from its hiding place. She placed it
on the ground and slowly removed the layers of leather and rough thick cloth
wrapped around it. Inside was a large box made of wood with brass edging and a
solid brass lock. “What is this?” she whispered to herself. She looked around
to make sure no one could see what she was doing. She tried to lift the lid.
But it didn’t budge. It’s locked. That
means there must be a key.
She lifted the box clear of the
cloths and searched them all. No key. She looked around at the animal shed.
Wooden support poles. Rough boards for walls and a sloping roof, covered in
thatched straw. A foreign design. Unlike the rest of the village, in summer
they kept the animals away from the house. Sensitive foreign noses!
She looked into the hole in the ground. A rectangle, covered by boards
and then a layer of dirt. Thick enough to protect it from the animals above. If
not for the stamping of the donkey digging up the dirt she would not have found
it at all. She used her knife to pick around the edges, then the bottom, hoping
for the clink of metal. Nothing. She sat, puzzled, until the huffing of the
donkey tied to a pole and the chatter of the chickens roused her.
She looked around warily for Chang from next door with his earnest
intentions. She wiped the arm of her coarse cotton short across her face,
leaving a broad steak of dirt. She realised what she had done and laughed to
herself. The old women in the village praised her pale pretty face. If only
they could see her now.
She wrapped the box in its protective cloths, gently placed it back in
the hole and covered it with the boards. She fetched the shovel from against
the wall and scraped soil over the top and stamped it down. Then she returned
to the house.
Should she tell someone? No
matter whom she told the word would get around. The village committee could
discuss it but would decide to wait until the key was found. The gossips in the
stone alleys of the village would enjoy it but that would not help. Word would
soon reach the market street, or worse attract the attentions of the government
if someone mentioned at the market in the big town. If the soldiers came again
they would take it, search the house, and perhaps worse. For now she would keep
it secret from everyone. It would be better that way.
3
John shouted at the ox in his best Chinese. It refused to move. Shen
stood by and watched smiling. Just like her when she started five years ago.
Then she was girl from the city with no knowledge except what she had gleaned
from books and tending a vegetable garden. An unwanted daughter, taken to the city
as a ‘foster’ child, in debt to her ‘parents’, and forced to work for them
until they released her, wanting nothing more than to escape and come to the
countryside for a new life. When she arrived at the village she was tired and
hungry. She had ridden her bike for two weeks, from the north across the border
into the Central Republic, until she came to this county with half its land
left fallow, growing nothing but weeds, poisoned by heavy metals after decades
of over-fertilising. She had looked around and found many empty fields and
empty houses. When she went into the village she had asked about the land and
who owned it. Was there anyone left to farm it? There was no-one. Many of
people from the village had died of disease or in the famines. Some of the men
had been called away to the wars. Few of them had returned. She had told the
people in the village about her special seeds and her plan to remove the poison
metals from the soil. The committee of Grandmothers invited her to stay.
“Use the stick.” she called out to John. He gingerly waved the stick
over the ox and then gave it a rap on the rump. Grudgingly it began to move. At
the research centre back home they still had tractors. Food research was
government funded as a political necessity. “Ha!” he yelled and rapped the
stick down again. Finally the furrow began to form under the plough and he felt
a glow of satisfaction. He looked up at Shen and smiled. She smiled back. Crazy
foreigner. There was no reason to learn to plough, and yet he insisted he
wanted to know everything about farming, not just the special plants for
removing the contamination. She had to admit he was smart. He had fixed a
problem with the irrigation gates. He helped repair things around the house,
almost as well as she could. His Chinese was getting better too. He also gave
her some new seeds to use.
The people in the village began
to gossip and ask how long he was going to stay. He slept in an abandoned house
up the road and often ate with Shen, sometimes with others in the village,
always leaving some money. He sowed some of his own seeds in the vacant fields
around the village and observed them. Occasionally he would take soil and plant
samples and transport them to the city, a two day trek. Sometimes he went on
longer trips to other areas, by bicycle or horse, always seeking out plants and
soil samples. In between he gave regular reports back to his head office from a
telephone in the big town two hours ride away. He said he had to show progress
or they would make him go home.
Eventually both Shen and he decided they didn’t want that to happen.
Shen went to the committee of Grandmothers and asked for their blessing, and
John became her husband. A year later a
daughter was born.
The years passed and another
child arrived. The research was successful. Gradually more fallow fields came
back into use. Land was distributed evenly among the families of the village
and the village committee kept a watchful eye on everything that went on. The
village paid its taxes and fulfilled its obligations to the government for
labour and animals.
The occasional drought they survived through the use of the old
irrigation system, carefully maintained each year. There had been economic turmoil forty years
before, floods, droughts and famines, the government falling and a new one
rising: China’s history compressed into two generations some people in the
village said. The world’s history in two generations John said. All this began to fade in people’s memories
and the village prospered. The people celebrated festivals and special
occasions and the new ways became established and accepted.
Only one black cloud lingered on the horizon.
4
Where is the key? The hidden
box looked strange. Perhaps left over from the old days. After dinner Shen
lifted a different box from under her bed and pulled out her collection of
books. She looked at the familiar characters on the covers. It was a year or
more since she had read the old ones and she had some new ones, as yet unread.
She settled down on her bed, leaned back against the pile of blankets folded
neatly at one end, and opened one.
For days she read and read
whenever she had time. Stories of adventure on the great oceans of the world,
heroes and heroines on quests - she especially liked the heroines, famous
rulers from times past, and the incredible energy burning machines of the old
days. The reading brought back memories and she allowed herself to be enfolded
by them. They also prompted some ideas about where to look for the missing key.
Her own Treasure Island adventure.
She began to search everywhere
around the farm. If the key was not here then it must be lost. But if it was
here then she would upturn every stone, remove every board, tile and thatch
until she found it.
She began in the animal shed. She
removed the thatch and boards on the roof. Then replaced them all again. Making
sure they are ready for the summer rains she told everyone. She dug up the dirt
in the shed and filled it in and stamped it flat. Nothing.
She went to the greenhouse, open
for the summer, growing legumes to fertilise the soil for the winter planting.
She scoured the bricks of the rear, heat absorbing, wall looking for a nook or
cranny that might conceal the key. Nothing.
Then she moved to the house. She
looked for secret hiding places in the stone walls, in the furniture and then
looked up at the steeply sloping roof, traditional Henan style. She went to
village and bought some new tiles, leaned the ladder against the wall, climbed
up and began to examine and replace the broken tiles one by one. Half way
through, alongside the solar hot water heater, she noticed a gap between the
boards under the tiles. And in the gap something looked out of place. She
replaced the tiles and waited until the next opportunity.
The next time she removed the tiles around the suspicious area, then
carefully levered up the boards. Underneath was a long thin compartment. In it
was a flat panel wrapped in the same leather sheet and rough cloth as the box.
She searched in the compartment but there was no key.
She lowered the panel slowly to
the ground and took it in to the store room, slipped it behind an old trunk and
covered it with a cloth.
The next day when her work was done and no one was around she went to
the storeroom and unwrapped it. A long rectangular panel, black with a metal
frame and some slots on one end. The box contained a small square metal box and
some wires. But no key. She returned it all to its wrapping stacked up a few
boxes in front of it and wracked her brain. Where
is the key?
She looked every day. The number of places around the house and the
farm was not infinite and she had surely tried them all, but still nothing.
When it was dark she lit a lamp by her bed and continued to read.
Finally she had read all of her books, some of them twice. The key still eluded
her. She retrieved the storage box from under her bed and organised the books
to place them into it once again. As she
stacked them tidily something caught her eye. A small tear on the bottom where
the lining material met the side wall of the box. She picked at it with a
broken, darkened finger nail. She cast around for her knife. Slowly she peeled
back the material and there, in a small roughly fashioned groove in the wooden bottom
of the box was a tiny rolled up piece of red cloth. Her heart thumped
uncontrollably in her chest. She opened the cloth. Inside was the key.
5
John’s research centre tried to get him to come back as tensions
between the region’s governments rose. Each time he deferred, arguing the
importance of the research and the success of the seeds. Every country in the
world was seeking drought resistant seed, plants that could grow well without
artificial fertilisers, disease resistance, and like China, plants that could
reduce the contamination of over-cultivated, over-fertilised and polluted land.
But each year the calls got louder, as did the rumblings of conflict.
It was the last of the East Asian oil fields that prompted this ‘last energy
war’. It was called that even before it started. John could only shake his head
and laugh. He’d read about a war to end all wars over one hundred and fifty
years ago. It seemed that some things were destined to continue however much
people might want to be rid of them.
The village council deliberated at length. There were arguments for and
against. Shen spoke forcefully in his favour, for the benefits to the village,
never mind the effect on her family. Finally it was agreed that he should stay.
The villagers knew he was no spy or agent of the foreign powers. But the
government was harder to convince. John made several visits to the city to
argue his case, even to entreat the ambassador and the local department of
agriculture to intervene on his behalf. All the while he hoped the dispute
would blow over quickly and he could be left to his family and his work. He
even erected a flag pole next to the house, made from some old steel pole he
scavenged in the town, and hoisted the plain red flag of the Chinese Federation
and also that of the Central Republic, yellow along the top and bottom,
representing the Yellow River to the north and the Yangtze to the south, and
green representing the fertile lands of China’s central provinces.
Despite this show of patriotism
and the village support the government sent soldiers to remove him. He went
into hiding in the forested hills nearby, living in an old hut until the
soldiers were gone. No one in the village would admit to his whereabouts. In
frustration the soldiers ransacked the house and broke the chicken coop.
6
Shen’s hands shook as she lifted the mysterious box out of the hole in
the shed once more. She unwrapped it carefully and wiped it clean. Then, hardly
able to breathe she clasped the key in her fingers and inserted it into the
lock. She turned the key. The click reverberated in her ears. She exhaled and
lifted the lid. Inside, again wrapped in red cloth was a large heavy object.
She removed the cloth and lay the object down. It was metal. A
rectangular box with dials and switches and odd shapes protruding from it. She
took it into the house, covered in the cloth to avoid prying eyes. She laid it
on the table. Then she went to the store room and retrieved the panel and the
square box and wires. She took a deep breath and began to try the wires,
working out which connected to what. She had an idea what it was now. She had
seen radios in the village. Some people had old ones that still worked. New
ones were expensive and rare.
She put the panel outside facing south, like the ones she’d seen in the
big town for making electricity. There were still a few factories in a big city
somewhere making them.
She uncoiled a long thin wire. She found a hole to plug it into. The
she followed some instructions written on small piece of paper, going outside
to find a small plug to slot the other end into.
She plugged the wire from the panel into the square box, a small red
light came on. She turned on the radio. Nothing.
She fiddled dials and turned up the volume. Still nothing.
Then she remembered something from the books. Green for go, red for
stop. She turned off the radio and waited.
She went out to the solar dish
and fetched the kettle to pour herself a cup of tea. She sat outside on a small
wooden stool, sipped slowly and stared at the panel. When she had finished her
drink she went back inside.
Still red.
She went outside again and did a slow circuit of the farm checking the
animals, the green house, the irrigation ditch, and the wheat in the fields.
And then came back.
Green.
7
When it was safe to return John repaired the damage to the house and
farm buildings and weighed his options.
Their son was ten, still in the village school. Their daughter fourteen,
smart and independent, finishing junior high school in town and, if he could
persuade his wife, soon going to high school in the city. And hopefully avoid
the matrimonial attentions of the village’s young men for a good few years yet.
The farm was well set up and fertile. The irrigation system was reliable and
the rains, if not as reliable as the old people talked about, were frequent
enough to keep the river flowing. Staying would make it difficult for everyone.
If he left it would only be for a short time surely, then things would get back
to normal. And hopefully they could keep in touch while he was away.
He made several visits to the town, disguised with hair blackened, skin
darkened and a conical hat worn low over his face, and even further afield to
the city, travelling by cart instead of the weekly train. He bought supplies
and spare parts, everything he could think of to help his family in his
absence, even borrowing money from someone in the city to leave behind,
promising to repay it when he was overseas via a neutral country bank.
Then the next time the soldiers came he tearfully hugged his family and
was taken away to the coast and a waiting sailing ship.
After that soldiers came regularly to look for spies, search out young
recruits to join them, and requisition supplies. Taxes rose and the grumbling
in the countryside increased in turn. Since when had such affairs ever
benefited them?
Shen rode the donkey cart over the rutted dirt road into the town to
try and telephone John, but the government barred overseas calls. She wrote a
long letters and travelled to the town to post them. She had no idea if her
letters ever reached him. No replies ever arrived.
8
Shen turned on the radio and turned with the dials again. Static and
squeals erupted from the speaker. She turned down the volume. She looked at the
switches, read the labels and pressed another one.
“Wei? Hello? Can you hear
me?”
No response, just more static and then silence.
“Wei. Hello?”
More static then some squeals. The kitchen door swung in quietly. She
looked up hoping it was not Chang popping on another of his ‘casual’ visits.
A voice burst out from the radio. “Hello? Hello? Who’s there?”
“Father? Father?”
“Shen Minghua? Yes darling. It’s Dad. It’s great to hear your voice. I’ve
missed you all so much.”
“I miss you too.”
“I’m pleased you have been reading the English books I gave you.”
She could hear his smile. “Yes, Father. Where are you?”
“I think I can come back soon. The fighting is over and …” The static
hissed again. “…can use the radio to exchange information with my headquarters.”
More static.
“Hello? Are you still there?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes. I can hear you. Is your mother there?”
She turned to look behind her. Shen
Jingsong stood against the wall beside the stove. She tucked her hair behind
her ear and smiled through her tears.
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Promised Land – (Sequel to Robots on Mars). It’s 2050 and development threatens the rural district. Is it what they really need and if not, how can they stop it?
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Tell me what you think. Constructive comments welcome.
If you like the story share with it with your friends.
If you like the story share with it with your friends.
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