Explore Chapter 2 of 'Camel Xiangzi' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
Elated, his courage swelled. Since buying the rickshaw, Xiangzi ran even faster. Of course, he took extra care with his own property, but when he looked at himself, then at his rickshaw, he felt it wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t run fast.
Since arriving in the city, he had grown over an inch taller. He felt as if he still had more growing to do. It was true, his skin and features had become more robust and set, and a faint mustache now fuzzed his upper lip; yet he felt he ought to grow taller still. Whenever he had to duck his head low to pass through a small doorway or a street gate, he said nothing but secretly rejoiced, for he was already so tall and felt he was still sprouting. He seemed both a man and a child, which amused him greatly.
A man of his stature, pulling such a beautiful rickshaw — his very own rickshaw — with springs so supple they bounced and swayed, even the handles quivered slightly with the motion; the body was so shiny, the cushions so white, the horn so resonant. How could he not run fast, to do justice to himself, to do justice to that rickshaw? This wasn’t vanity; it seemed a kind of duty. Only by running fast, flying along, could he fully exert his strength and showcase the rickshaw’s grace. And the rickshaw was truly adorable. After half a year of pulling it, it seemed to have gained perception and feeling in every part. With a twist of his waist, a bend of his knees, or a straightening of his back, it responded instantly, giving Xiangzi the most satisfying help. There was not a hint of discord between him and it. When he reached a stretch of level ground with few people, Xiangzi could steer with one hand. The softly whirring leather wheels urged him on like a keen, swift breeze—fast yet steady. Upon arriving, Xiangzi’s clothes were wringing wet with sweat, dripping as if just pulled from a basin. He felt weary, but it was a pleasant, pride-worthy weariness, like riding a prized steed for dozens of miles.
If boldness didn’t mean recklessness, then Xiangzi was anything but reckless when he ran boldly. Not running fast would let others down; running fast and damaging his rickshaw would let himself down. The rickshaw was his life. He knew how to be careful. With caution and daring combined, his confidence grew. He firmly believed both he and his rickshaw were forged of iron.
And so, he not only dared to run boldly, but also seldom fretted over when to take his rickshaw out. He believed that earning one’s keep by the sweat of one’s brow, pulling a rickshaw, was the most honorable thing under heaven. He was willing to go out, and no one could stop him. He paid little heed to the rumors outside—that troops had arrived at Xiyuan, that fighting had broken out at Changxindian, that men were being press-ganged outside Xizhimen, that Qihuamen had been closed for half a day. Naturally, when shops boarded up their doors and the streets filled with armed police and security forces, he didn’t deliberately go looking for trouble and would put away his rickshaw hastily like everyone else. But he didn’t believe the rumors. He knew how to be prudent, especially with his own rickshaw at stake. Yet, being a countryman at heart, he wasn’t like city folk who believe every whisper heralds a storm. Besides, his powerful build made him confident that even if he unfortunately ran into a spot of bad luck, he’d find a way to avoid the worst. He wasn’t easy to bully—not with that great frame and those broad shoulders!
News and rumors of war seemed to sprout each year along with the spring wheat. Wheat ears and bayonets could be seen as symbols of hope and dread for northerners. Just when Xiangzi’s new rickshaw was six months old, it was the season the wheat needed spring rain. Spring rain didn’t always fall as people hoped, but war came regardless of anyone’s wishes. Rumors or truth, Xiangzi seemed to have forgotten he was once a farmer. He didn’t much care how war ravaged the fields, nor did he pay much mind to the presence or absence of spring rain. He cared only for his rickshaw. His rickshaw could produce pancakes and all manner of food. It was a magic field, a living, treasured plot of land that followed him obediently wherever he went. Because of the drought, because of the war rumors, grain prices had soared. This, Xiangzi knew. But like the city dwellers, he could only complain about the high cost of grain, with no solution in sight. Grain was expensive, so be it. Who could make it cheap again? This attitude kept him focused on his own livelihood, pushing all calamities and disasters to the back of his mind.
If city folk had no answers for anything, they could at least spread rumors—sometimes fabricated from thin air, sometimes blowing a shred of truth into tenfold proportions—just to prove they weren’t fools or idlers. Like little fish idling at the water’s surface, they would blow a few utterly useless bubbles and feel quite smug about it. Among rumors, the most intriguing were about war. Other kinds often remained mere talk, like ghost stories that never materialized. But with war, precisely because there was no reliable information, rumors could take effect instantly. They might be wildly off in the details, but concerning the simple fact of whether war would come, they were right eighty or ninety percent of the time. “War is coming!” Once those words were uttered, war would surely break out sooner or later. As for who fought whom and how, everyone had a different tale. Xiangzi wasn’t unaware of this. However, laborers—rickshaw pullers included—though not welcoming war, wouldn’t necessarily come to grief if it arrived. Whenever war loomed, it was the rich who panicked most. At the first whiff of trouble, they scrambled to flee. Money brought them here fast, and it helped them run fast. But they couldn’t run themselves, their legs too heavy laden with wealth. They had to hire many men to be their legs—someone to carry their trunks, vehicles to pull the old and the young, men and women. At such times, the hands and feet of those who sold their labor became precious. “Qianmen, East Railway Station!” “Where?” “East—Railway—Station!” “Right then, just make it one forty! No haggling, with all this war chaos!”
It was under such circumstances that Xiangzi pulled his rickshaw out of the city. Rumors had been circulating for over ten days. Prices had risen all around, but the fighting seemed still far off, unlikely to reach Beiping anytime soon. Xiangzi carried on pulling his rickshaw as usual, not slacking off because of rumors. One day, pulling into the western city, he sensed something amiss. At the west entrance of Huguo Temple Street and around Xinjiekou, no one was calling out, “Xiyuan? Qinghua?” He lingered near Xinjiekou for a while. He heard that rickshaws no longer dared leave the city, that outside Xizhimen they were seizing all vehicles—carts, wagons, mule carts, rickshaws, the lot. He thought of having a bowl of tea before heading south. The desolation of the rickshaw stand spoke of real danger. He had nerve enough, but saw no point in walking deliberately into a trap. Just at this critical moment, two rickshaws came from the south, carrying what looked like students. The pullers shouted as they went, “Anyone for Qinghua? Hey, Qinghua!”
No one at the rickshaw stand responded. Some watched the two rickshaws with faint, indifferent smiles. Others sat puffing on small pipes, not even bothering to look up. The two rickshaws kept shouting, “All struck dumb? Qinghua!”
The young bald man froze for a moment, seemingly at a loss. The others still didn’t stir. Xiangzi figured there must be danger outside the city. Otherwise, why would no one snatch up a two-dollar fare to Qinghua—a trip that normally cost just twenty or thirty cents? He didn’t want to go either. But the bald youngster seemed determined; if someone would go with him, he’d risk it. He spotted Xiangzi. “Big fellow, how about you?”
The words “big fellow” made Xiangzi smile. It was a kind of praise. His mind began to turn: such praise alone seemed reason enough to back the short, gutsy bald man. Besides, two dollars were two dollars, not an everyday opportunity. Danger? Could luck be that bad? And anyway, just a couple of days ago someone said the Temple of Heaven was swarming with soldiers; he’d seen it himself—not a single soldier in sight. With these thoughts, he pulled his rickshaw over.
Pulling up to Xizhimen, the gate tunnel was almost deserted. Xiangzi’s heart sank a little. The bald man also sensed trouble, but still managed a grin. “Onward, mate! Fortune or misfortune, today’s the day!” Xiangzi knew things were turning sour. But after years on the streets, he couldn’t go back on his word now. He couldn’t act like a sniveling woman!
Outside Xizhimen, there was truly not a single other rickshaw in sight. Xiangzi hung his head, not daring to glance left or right along the road. His heart seemed to be pounding against his ribs. At Gaoliang Bridge, he scanned the surroundings. Not a soldier to be seen, so he felt a bit easier. Two dollars were still two dollars, he calculated. It took some nerve to land such a sweet job. He normally disliked talking, but now he felt like saying a few words to the bald shorty. The street was eerily quiet. “Take the dirt path? The main road—”
Before they could reach the side path, Xiangzi and the bald shorty, along with their rickshaws, were seized by a dozen soldiers!
Though it was the season for temple pilgrimages to Miaofeng Mountain, the night chill was more than a single layer of clothing could ward off. Xiangzi carried nothing with him, save for a gray military tunic and a pair of blue cloth army pants, both reeking of sweat—they had stunk even before they came to him. In these tattered army rags, he remembered his own white cloth shirt and that set of indanthrene blue lined jacket and trousers. How clean and decent they had been! Yes, the world held many things finer than indanthrene blue, but Xiangzi knew what a struggle it had been to achieve that neat and tidy state. Smelling the foul sweat on him now, he saw his past struggles and successes as all the more glorious, magnified tenfold in his mind. The more he thought of the past, the more he hated those soldiers. His clothes, shoes, hat, rickshaw, even the cloth belt around his waist—all had been taken from him. All they left were bruises covering his body and sores on his feet! But clothes mattered little. The wounds would heal soon enough. His rickshaw, though, the rickshaw earned through years of sweat and blood—it was gone! Vanished the moment it was hauled into the army camp! All past hardships could be forgotten in a blink, but that rickshaw he could never forget!
Suffering he did not fear; but getting another rickshaw wasn’t a matter of just saying the words. It would take years, at least! All his past success counted for nothing. He had to start over from scratch! Xiangzi wept! He hated not only those soldiers, but everything in the world. Why bully a man to such a state? Why? “Why?” he cried out.
That cry—though it brought some relief—immediately reminded him of danger. Never mind anything else; saving his skin was what mattered now!
Where was he? He couldn’t say for sure himself. All these days, he had been trailing after the soldiers, sweat pouring from his head down to his heels. On the march, he had to carry, pull, or push the soldiers’ gear. When they halted, he had to fetch water, make fires, feed the animals. Day and night, his only thought was how to muster his last ounce of strength into his hands and feet; his mind had become a blank. At night, as soon as his head touched the ground, he fell as if dead, and never opening his eyes again might not be such a bad thing.
At first, he seemed to remember the soldiers retreating toward the Miaofeng Mountain area. Once they reached the back hills, he could only focus on climbing, constantly fearing he might at any moment tumble into a ravine, his flesh picked clean by wild eagles, with no thought for anything else. After winding through the mountains for days on end, suddenly one day the mountain paths grew fewer. With the sun at his back, he saw flatland in the distance. The dinner bugle called the soldiers back to camp. A few, shouldering rifles, led several camels.
Camels! Xiangzi’s heart leaped. Suddenly, he could think again, like a lost man spotting a familiar landmark, everything rushing back to him in an instant. Camels couldn’t cross mountains. He must have reached the plains. From what he knew, he remembered that west of Beijing, places like Balizhuang, Huangcun, Beixinan, Moshikou, Wulitun, and Sanjiadian all had camel herders. Had he circled all the way to Moshikou? What strategy was this—if these soldiers, who only knew how to run and loot, had any strategy—he didn’t know. But he was certain that if this really was Moshikou, the soldiers must be unable to find their way out of the mountains and were looking for an escape route down below. Moshikou was a good place. To the northeast, one could return to the Western Hills. To the south, one could head for Changxindian or Fengtai. Going straight west through the pass was another way out. As he plotted this for the soldiers, he also charted a path for himself: this was his chance to escape. If the soldiers retreated into the tangled mountains again, even if he slipped from their grasp, he still risked starvation. To flee, he must seize this moment. From here, he believed, he could be back in Haidian in no time! Though many places lay between, he knew them all. Closing his eyes, he had a map: here was Moshikou—heavens, it had to be Moshikou!—he’d turn northeast, past Golden Summit Hill, Prince Li's Tomb, to the Eight Great Sites. From Sipingtai, east to Apricot Pass, then to Nanxinzhuang. For cover, he’d best follow the mountains, from Beixinzhuang northward, past Weijia Village; north again, past Nanhetan; north once more, to Red Hilltop, Prince Jie's Mansion; then Jingyi Garden! Find Jingyi Garden, and he could feel his way to Haidian even blindfolded! His heart was about to burst! All these days, his blood seemed to have drained entirely into his limbs; now, in this instant, it all rushed back to his heart. His heart burned hot, while his limbs turned icy. A feverish hope set his whole body aquiver!
Until midnight, he couldn’t close his eyes. Hope made him joyful; fear made him panicky. He wanted to sleep but couldn’t. His limbs lay scattered on some dry grass like disconnected things. Not a sound stirred, only the stars in the sky keeping time with the pounding of his heart. The camels suddenly let out two mournful cries, not far off. He liked the sound; sorrowful, like hearing a rooster crow unexpectedly in the night, yet it offered a strange comfort.
From afar came the sound of cannon fire, very distant but unmistakably cannon fire. He didn’t dare move, but instantly the camp was in chaos. He held his breath. The moment had come! He knew for sure the soldiers would retreat again, and surely back into the mountains. These days of experience had taught him that these soldiers fought like bees trapped in a room, only dashing about blindly. With cannon fire, the soldiers would run; well then, he should brace himself too. Slowly, holding his breath, he crawled along the ground, aiming to find those camels. He knew perfectly well the camels wouldn’t help him, but as fellow captives, it seemed they deserved some solidarity. The camp grew even more chaotic. He found the camels—like several earthen mounds crouching in the dark, utterly still save for their heavy breathing, as if all under heaven were at peace. This gave him a little courage. He lay down beside a camel, like a soldier taking cover behind sandbags. Swiftly, he reasoned it out: the cannon fire came from the south. Even if it wasn’t a real battle, it was at least a warning of “no passage this way.” Then these soldiers would have to flee back into the mountains. If they really went up, they couldn’t take the camels with them. So, the camels’ fate would be his fate. If they didn’t abandon these beasts, he was finished too; if they forgot the camels, he could escape. Pressing his ear to the ground, he listened for footsteps, his heart hammering wildly.