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墨書 Inktalez
The two years passed by particularly quickly. Saying goodbye to the unforgettable Class 843, I barely had time to get accustomed to the new Class 108 before the end of 1985 arrived. I welcomed the long-awaited winter vacation, a period free from the daily burden of textbooks.
Upon returning home, I noticed a quiet change in the yard: the uncles, who usually regarded fetching water as a heavy chore, had each set up their own Water Well in front and behind their houses. My mother, who farmed alone at home, was no exception; like the neighbors, she bought a pump and a pipe about ten meters long. However, our house was situated on high ground, too far from the underground water source. After several attempts to dig, my mother found no trace of water and had to give up.
Back during Collective Farming, whether due to regulations or natural circumstances, each Production Team had only one well. Most houses were some distance away from it. For daily water needs, we could only buy a water tank and fetch two buckets of water from the well each day for storage at home. When I was very young, I saw that Third Uncle's house had a large tank capable of holding four or five buckets of water; fetching water from there could last us two or three days, which made us very envious.
When our family built a new house, we chose a spot by the mountainside and moved several layers up from the Old House Yard, nearly 200 meters away from the well by Zhu Shan Bay. As I grew older, I began to understand the difficulty my parents faced in fetching water. The village was full of muddy paths with no lighting; after work each day, they had to navigate in darkness to fetch water. On rainy days, the paths were slippery, and many times when they returned home with a full bucket of water, only half remained.
After being home for a few days and seeing my uncles enjoying easy access to water without having to fetch it themselves, my brother and I discussed trying to dig a well again. No matter how deep we had to go, we were determined to find water so that our mother could avoid the labor of fetching it regularly and we wouldn't have to help out with that task when we returned from school.
To dig a well, we first needed to find a location—preferably as close to the house as possible. My mother mentioned that attempts had been made several times in the flat area directly in front of our house without success. We wondered if we could start digging in the lower vegetable garden; this would save us about two meters in depth. Although it was about ten steps away from our wall, if we could find water there, it would be much more convenient. However, my mother's words quickly dashed our hopes: she said that neighbors living both in front and behind us had already tried digging there and even hired machines specifically for well drilling but were met with disappointment.
Could we really not enjoy life with a Water Well? The stubborn part of me suppressed my desire to dig for now but didn't realize that it still burned wildly within me.
A couple of days later, after a rare light rain made the ground moist and slippery again, I looked at our half-full water tank and gritted my teeth. I called my brother over and said, "Since it's raining and we can't gather firewood, and with New Year Pig ready for slaughter soon without needing pig fodder today, let's start digging the Water Well."
My brother immediately ran off to grab a hoe and shovel, eager to join me.
Since previous attempts yielded no results above ground and there was no water below either, we decided to try digging in the empty space behind our house! I was resolute in my decision and didn’t consult our parents; my brother and I quickly got started.
Although we had done farm work for several years already, both my brother and I were still underage. Most of our labor involved planting rice or harvesting crops; we were inexperienced when it came to using hoes. My mother had not paid attention to our plans since her previous attempts yielded no results; she went out with my father to prepare for New Year’s shopping. Our younger sister had little to do; she would occasionally run over to see how wide or deep we were digging or bring us cups of water or sweet potatoes cooked in ashes.
Fueled by determination, my brother and I dug non-stop for over an hour until an irregular pit about one meter square and three feet deep appeared before us. Lacking experience, we haphazardly piled the excavated soil around the pit's edge; occasionally dirt would tumble down. With hands unaccustomed to wielding hoes, small blisters began forming on our palms—each time we paused for rest or felt the cold wind blow against us or got splashed with sweat or cool water brought sharp pain.
We couldn’t continue like this. Straightening up from the pit and wiping sweat from my forehead made me reconsider what needed to be done next: first off, this pit needed to be wider since our house was on high ground; we might need to dig eight or nine meters or even more before reaching water. A small pit like this wouldn’t allow enough room for maneuvering once deeper down. Secondly, we needed somewhere else to pile the soil; while we'd have to backfill once the well was completed, piling dirt next to the pit wouldn’t work—it needed to be moved further away so it wouldn’t fall back into the hole or hinder our efficiency while transporting dirt away. Lastly, we needed to prepare ourselves for long-term digging; if we kept going at this pace on day one we might reach three meters deep but it would get harder as we went deeper while our strength waned—each subsequent day might yield only one or two meters at best—we needed balance between work and rest while especially protecting our palms from bursting those blisters.
As if encouraging us brothers on Day Two of digging the Water Well, unexpectedly clear weather greeted us. The fatigue from yesterday vanished under the sun’s rays as our arms swung hoes with renewed vigor; surprisingly our digging speed matched that of Day One. By evening as I climbed up using my brother's rope tied at the well's edge and looked back at our progress over two days: it seemed about five or six meters deep now—though still no sign of water—if we kept going for another two or three days it should surprise Mom.
Seeing how steadily that pit extended downward made me think about how once finished we'd never have to fetch water again—it fueled both mine and my brother’s determination like stubborn dirt clinging onto clothes…
On the afternoon of Day Four, having reached over eight meters deep with still dry soil beneath us as I swung my hoe suddenly felt a jolt through my arm followed by a loud clang—a stone! Experienced folks told us that finding stone meant there’d likely be water not far below; finally hitting rock! I quickly shared this good news with my brother while our sister at the well's edge relayed it up to Dad.
Though he pretended not concerned about our progress Dad rushed over saying “Biaosong! Dig slowly now; don’t let your hoe slip and hurt your foot! If you hit big water you need Snow Pine here fast!” It turned out Dad feared I'd hit what they called “Yin River” or “Water Vein,” where too much water could drown me down there. Hearing Dad’s warning made me slow down carefully loosening dirt bit by bit filling up buckets for my brother above.
As dusk fell darkness crept in along with widening stone layers—I soon found myself unable anywhere left untouched by hoe—the entire bottom of what I'd dug became solid rock while all surrounding dirt had been cleared away thankfully leaving some moisture around edges almost whispering “Just break through this stone below surely there’ll be water!”
Just then Dad’s voice echoed down “Biaosong! Come up let me take a look.”
Dad descended into well armed with small hammer and larger pickaxe working diligently before climbing back up telling us brothers “Stop digging! The stones are too large—I’ll find someone who can drill first then during New Year you can have Uncle bring explosives over blow it open.”
On New Year’s Eve clear skies finally gave way snowflakes drifted into every corner of our mountain village as Dad instructed me carry an old mat covering over pit protecting what took us four days’ worth labor—the “well base.”
On Third Day of New Year afternoon Uncle arrived changing into old clothes Mom prepared bringing an iron bar along with explosives down into well. Though nothing visible below several cousins gathered around peering down into pit waiting anxiously after more than ten minutes Uncle finally emerged smiling at Dad saying “No electric detonators so tied fuse onto cigarette instead—might take awhile longer till boom happens kids stand back!”
We shuffled feet yet eyes remained glued upon well opening time seemed frozen stubbornly flowing at its own pace until several times asking Uncle “Will fuse go out? Can you light it?” finally heard muffled bang nearby rooftops snow slid off while soon after wisps of pale blue smoke billowed forth…
After waiting for about half an hour, no more smoke was rising from the well. My uncle lit another candle and lowered it down to check, saying, "It's safe to go down now."
My father stopped us eager brothers from jumping in and had my uncle pull on the rope, slowly lowering himself into the well. After a while, he came back up and said, "The explosives have blown open a large area of rock, and a few drops of water are seeping through. In a couple of days, we'll clear out the rubble inside. The rest is for the adults to handle; kids shouldn't go down to dig anymore."
Not long after the new semester started, I finally saw the long-awaited Water Well during one of my trips home. However, due to its depth exceeding the norm, every time we pressed down on the lever, it took twice the effort compared to others. The water supply wasn't abundant either; we could only draw a few buckets each day. It was usually enough for daily use, but whenever my siblings and I all returned home from school, we had to fetch water from other wells to supplement our needs.
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