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墨書 Inktalez
Water is the source of life, and humans are naturally drawn to it. Although I was taught by my mother not to play in the water and had once faced the danger of drowning, I still feel a special closeness to water. In the summer of 1982, this feeling led to a brand new experience.
Entering middle school, classmates were no longer just familiar faces from my courtyard or nearby ones; they came from several platoons in the Xizhong Village Committee. Our homes were sometimes separated by five or six miles, or even ten miles. Even though we all lived in hilly areas, the difference between living near the mountains and near the water was particularly significant. Through interactions with my classmates, I discovered a completely different living environment—the families residing by the Tiao Shui River—and I became fascinated by their way of life.
Finally, one day, I got my mother's permission to take advantage of a Sunday off and planned to visit a classmate who lived by the river. Interestingly, I cannot recall that classmate's name at all, nor can I remember the name of their courtyard. Based on what I know now, they should belong to what is now called Mogi Village, and my classmate's surname was likely Deng.
On that Saturday, the anticipation of getting out of school was stronger than ever. It seemed the teacher sensed my excitement, as she announced the end of class just as the bell rang. I immediately grabbed my backpack, called out to my classmates, and dashed out of the classroom, heading towards the small path by the back mountain of the school.
As we jogged along, slightly out of breath, we soon arrived at the Tiao Shui River. Seeing that I hadn’t prepared a change of clothes, my classmates didn’t choose to wade through the river as usual. Instead, we walked upstream for several dozen meters until we reached a makeshift dock.
A small boat was quietly resting on the water's surface across the river. A tall, slender man whistled loudly, and an elderly man slowly emerged from a nearby thatched hut. He jumped into the boat and gently pushed off with a bamboo pole, guiding the small boat toward us.
Although it was my first time on a boat, the joy brought by the novelty completely overwhelmed the fear of capsizing. The river was relatively calm, without a single wave, and the river was not wide. Apart from almost falling when we reached the shore, I arrived safely at the riverbank in front of my classmate's yard.
We continued to run and arrived at my classmate's house. The sun was still hanging over the western peak, about ten meters high. Perhaps because my classmate had informed his family in advance that I would be coming along, both of his parents were at home and had prepared a steaming hot meal for us. Although there was no extravagant food, the eggs and vegetables that could be found in the rural household were abundant. They even specially stir-fried a plate of preserved vegetables that had not been finished since the New Year, even though it was already midsummer, several months after the New Year.
After finishing this sumptuous "lunch," my classmate did not receive any exemption from household chores due to my arrival. He immediately picked up a bamboo basket from the house, saying that he was going to cut pig feed. At that time, cutting pig feed was a habitual labor for rural children. What struck me as strange was that they used the term "cut pig feed," which is closer to formal language, unlike us who always say "pull pig feed," as if the pig feed was rooted in the ground and required a lot of effort to "pull" out.
Until he took me to the riverbank, stripped off his clothes, and jumped into the water completely naked, diving in with a splash. Soon, he surfaced with a handful of water plants, and I finally understood that they were genuinely "catching pigweed," using the technique of "dredging." Back home, we simply "pulled pigweed," relying on the method of "pulling."
Since they were using the dredging technique, I couldn't help much. I could only run along the riverbank, chasing after my classmate's figure while holding a basket. Whenever he tossed out a handful of water plants, I would quickly gather them up and put them in the basket.
In this way, we quickly filled a basket with water plants and carried it home.
In the early 1980s, there were no entertainment activities in the countryside at night, and even few families had dinner. After returning home with my classmates, we pretended to do homework for a while, and then went to bed to chase after the Sandman.
The next day, without the task of feeding the pigs, I followed my classmates and began a real "water feast."
First, I tried to do as my classmates did, taking off all my clothes and slowly walking to the river. At that time, my classmates "jumped" in and swam to the middle of the river in one go, while I had to grab the weeds on the river bank, slowly immerse myself in the water, and could only move within a few meters from the shore.
This experience gave me a particularly comfortable feeling. It was completely different from the occasional times at home when I would sneak away from my mom to soak in the pond: the bottom of the pond was muddy, the riverbed was rocky, the pond water was stagnant, while the river water was flowing. Even if I accidentally swallowed a mouthful of water, the pond water felt so murky, whereas the river water had a sweet taste.
Seeing me hesitant and not daring to move much by the riverbank, my classmates also didn’t frolic too much in the middle of the river. They quickly swam back to the shore and helped me, who had slowly adapted to the temperature of the river water and the rocky riverbed, carefully walk towards a downstream area filled with pebbles. There, we began another playful activity—catching fish.
Speaking of catching fish, I have always enjoyed it, but my skills have remained quite clumsy. At that time, the only fish I could catch were loaches, and my methods were rather limited. I could only catch them in three situations: first, when the production team spread lime in the fields, stunning the loaches; I would catch them with my hands or simply scoop them up; second, after harvesting the late rice, there were many holes where loaches hid in the semi-wet fields. If I dug along these holes slowly, I could always find some; they had nowhere to escape and would become our delicious meal; third, in early spring when there was plenty of rain, all the rice fields would be drained during heavy rains. By scooping at the drainage openings with a shovel, I could sometimes catch several loaches if luck was on my side.
This time my classmate took me to catch fish, but it was river fish. Thinking about it, I always feel uncertain. My classmate confidently said, "Just follow me, and you'll catch them."
The fishing spot my classmate chose was a cobblestone area. In fact, only a few cobblestones were exposed, and most of them were still submerged in the water, some even forming small pools. There were often fish swimming around in the water, but every time I reached out to catch them, they quickly escaped. Even when one or two fish clearly bumped into my hand, I couldn't catch them. My classmate, on the other hand, had some success. Seeing my disappointed empty-handed look, he smiled and said, "You can't catch this kind of fish, watch me!"
I saw him lift a heavy cobblestone weighing twenty to thirty pounds and fiercely smash it against another large cobblestone, half exposed above the water and half submerged. The nearby clear river water was even disturbed and muddied by the impact. After waiting for a while and the water cleared, he said, "Move that big stone and take a look."
The stone was really too big, but fortunately it wasn't the kind of "rooted stone" that grows in the riverbed. With the combined effort of two of us, after two attempts, we finally managed to move it. Inside, there were actually two pale black fish lying quietly there. Although they didn't show their white bellies, they looked quite dizzy. I reached out to immediately harvest the first fruit of the day, but my classmate stopped me, saying, "Be careful, this kind of fish has spines on its back, you can't just grab it, you have to pinch the part of its head without spines."
Following his instructions, it took me a while to pick up a poor little fish. Upon careful examination, there were several saw-toothed fins on its back. If you accidentally touched them, it would definitely cut the skin.
It was then that I remembered that in our area, during the spring rain, we occasionally catch this kind of fish. The adults call it "duck fish," which in our place is a derogatory term, meaning that the person is too stupid and lacks any intelligence.
Upon careful reflection, it truly is the case that although this fish possesses a dangerous appearance that seems to warn off mortals, complete with serrated spikes, it always resides in shallow waters and particularly enjoys hiding beneath stones. Fishermen only need to lift another stone and strike; dazed, the fish has no choice but to end up in the frying pan and on the dining table.
Many years later, this fish became a famous dish in our provincial capital, Changsha, earning the vivid and resonant name "Yellow Duck Call." Its fate was reduced to being merely a "delicacy."
With hands I consider not too clumsy, I caught this awkward duckfish, and before I knew it, a day had passed. My first experience by the water gradually faded from memory.
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