摘要：My family’s ancestral graves are in Shiqiao, Lu'an. It’s said to be a place blessed with outstanding people and spiritual energy,

（2）

Some people and some things have long taken root in the hearts of the common folk; no matter how the world changes, they live on eternally in people's memories.
— Preface

The General Mountain Aqueduct and Laifu (A Novel)

As the New Year approached, I had to return to my hometown to pay respects to my ancestors.

My family’s ancestral graves are in Shiqiao, Lu'an. It’s said to be a place blessed with outstanding people and spiritual energy, a picturesque and fertile land. South of the town lies General Mountain, where there’s a site called "Guangwang City," once the garrison of Prince Guang during the Shang Dynasty. The fields here are flat, but the area has always suffered from water scarcity and poverty. Though I call it my hometown, I rarely visited. My father left home in his youth to join the revolution, drifting from place to place without settling down. My first return was in 1968 during the "Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside" movement, around the same era depicted in Mo Yan’s novel The Transparent Radish. I was sent to a mountain village called Wanglaojia, just a few dozen miles from Shiqiao.

I didn’t encounter a team leader who "cursed while clutching a sorghum pancake in one hand and a peeled scallion in the other." My team leader was Gao Dahong, a straightforward and warm-hearted man. I still remember clearly how, on my first day, he pointed to a plot of land and said, "Once we sow wheat here today, it’ll be enough to feed you for a year."

Nor did I ever meet a "Black Child." But there was an orphan in the production team named Laifu, about my age. His father died of a disease called "dropsy" when Laifu was two, and later his mother ran off with a traveling opera performer. Laifu was raised by his grandmother. The two of them were the only ones in the household. Since the dormitory for educated youth hadn’t been built yet, the team arranged for me to stay with them. His grandmother was in her seventies, toothless, with sunken cheeks. She was from Shucheng and obsessively clean, keeping the house spotless.

Laifu was clever and diligent. Due to his family’s circumstances, he’d never attended school. I loved reading, so I often read to him. I shared Journey to the West, Red Crag, and The Song of Ouyang Hai with him, and he listened enthralled. Mountain folk went to bed early, and since we shared a bed, I unscrewed the reflector from my flashlight to use as a makeshift lamp. Every night, we leaned against the headboard—me reading, him listening—while his grandmother spun yarn by the door, the wheel humming. By the time we fell asleep, she was still spinning. She could doze off while spinning, keeping at it until dawn. When we woke in the morning, she’d already have breakfast ready: thick, sticky porridge with home-pickled sour beans, deliciously fragrant.

In 1969, construction began on the General Mountain Aqueduct, and the team was required to send laborers to the site. Laifu was assigned to go. I wanted to join, but the team said I was too frail for the heavy work and kept me behind. Back then, the team often held evening study sessions. The team leader explained the "great significance" of the aqueduct: it would connect the Yangtze and Huai River systems, integrating the Pi and Hangbu River irrigation zones, channeling water from the Longhekou Reservoir to Shiqiao’s General Mountain, nourishing hundreds of thousands of arid farmland acres in eastern Lu'an.

Everyone saw participating in the General Mountain Aqueduct project as a great honor. They called the construction site the "front line" and our village the "rear." The rear had to support the front—not just by keeping up with farm work but also by sending food and supplies. As the New Year approached, the team slaughtered a pig and sent half to the front. I went along for the delivery.

Laifu was thrilled to see me. "You came at the perfect time! The county is sending a慰问 team the day after tomorrow to screen Shajiabang. You’re just in time. Stay for a couple of days." Since the kitchen was short-handed, the team leader let me stay.

Laifu had become the leader of the Youth Shock Brigade Team One. He proudly told me, "We’ve beaten Team Two three days in a row. Zheng Ming—their leader—is pissed and wants a showdown. But I don’t give a damn about him!"

The next noon, the kitchen stewed a pot of braised pork, giving each person a small bowl. Laifu ate his like radish chunks, slurping it down in no time. My appetite was poor, and after a few bites, I felt too greasy. So I gave my portion to Laifu. Overeating made him thirsty, and he gulped down a ladle of cold water. I warned him, "Eating so much meat and then drinking cold water will give you diarrhea." He laughed it off: "No problem. I’m made of iron."

That afternoon, he did get diarrhea, doubling over in pain with cold sweat. I urged him to rest, but he refused: "Zheng Ming’s trying to outdo me. I won’t let him win."

By dusk, Laifu couldn’t hold on anymore and collapsed at the worksite. We carried him to the shed and gave him warm water. When he came to, the team leader wanted to send him to the hospital, but Laifu stubbornly refused: "At this critical moment, how can I delay the project?"

Soon, he lost consciousness again. The team leader panicked and immediately arranged for him to be taken to the hospital.

Back then, there were no cars—everything relied on human labor. They carried him 15 miles to Zhangmuqiao Hospital, but by the time they arrived, it was too late. The doctors said his intestines had ruptured.

When the news reached his grandmother, she wailed in grief. I held her and said, "I’ll be your grandson. I’ll take care of you until the end." She stroked my head and held me tightly.

In 1970, I was recruited for a job in the city. A few young villagers saw me off. When we reached the small river at the village entrance, I suddenly burst into tears. They escorted me back to say goodbye to his grandmother once more before I set off again.

In the city, I didn’t keep my promise to "care for her until the end." I only sent her a few bars of soap and once, some lard, before losing touch. Years later, I learned she had passed away the year after I left and was buried beside her grandson.

Now, standing before their graves, I burned paper offerings and placed sacrifices, whispering with deep guilt: "Grandma, I’m truly unworthy. I failed to keep my promise."

From the gravesite, the majestic General Mountain Aqueduct is clearly visible. Over 50 years have passed, and the once-bustling scenes of red flags and mass mobilization have long faded into history. Perhaps no one connects the quietly resting Laifu with this grand project. Yet, this "Heavenly River" in the hearts of Lu'an’s people continues to nourish the land.

来源：小说讲坛