Praying for Rainfall
He Qifang文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
The last flock of pigeons have also gone out of sight after doing their final circling in the soft breeze, the sound of their whistles barely audible. They are hastening back to their warm wooden dovecote earlier than usual perhaps because they have mistaken the bleak leaden sky for nightfall or because of their presentiment of a storm.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
The willow twigs, daubed with a light green by several days of sunshine, are now covered all over with the dust and look so sickly that they need to be washed. And the parched soil and tree roots have likewise been dying for rainfall. Yet the rain is reluctant to come down.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
I can never forget the thunderstorm we often had in my home town. Over there, whenever the rumble of thunder reverberated across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to sprout freely after being disturbed and roused up from their slumber in the frozen soil. Then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put forth bright green leaves and pink flowers. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy to think about the old times and my mind is as depressed as the vast expanse of North China is thirsty. A tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the murky sky, is slow to roll down.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
White ducks have also become somewhat impatient. Some are sending out irritated quacks from the turbid waters of an urban creek. Some keep swimming leisurely and tirelessly like a slow boat. Some have their long necks submerged headfirst in the water while sticking up their webbed feet behind their tails and splashing them desperately so as to keep their balance. There is no knowing if they are searching for tiny bits of food from the bottom of the creek or just enjoying the chill of the deep water.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/11709.html
Some of them stagger out of the water and, to relieve their fatigue, begin to saunter up and down with a gentleman-like swagger in the shade of the willow trees. Then, they stand about to preen their white plumage carefully. Occasionally they give themselves a sudden shake or flap their long wings to let off water drops from among their feathers. One of them, after grooming itself, turns round its neck to rest on the back, then buries its long red beak under its wings and quietly closes its small black eyes tucked away among the white find hair. Apparently it is getting ready to sleep. Poor little creature, is that the way you sleep?
The scene recalls to my mind the duckling raiser in my home town. With a long bamboo pole in hand, he would look after a large flock of gosling-yellow ducklings moving about on the limpid water of a shallow brook flanked on both sides by green grass. How the little creatures jig-jigged merrily! How they obediently followed the bamboo pole to scamper over field after field, hillside after hillside! When night fell, the duckling raiser would make his home in a tent-like bamboo shed. Oh, that is something of the distant past! Now, in this dusty country of ours, what I yearn for is to hear the drip-drip of rain beating against leaves.
When I look up at a gray misty pall of a low-hanging sky, some dust particles feel chilly on my face. A hawk, seemingly irked by the gloomy sky, swoops down sideways out of nowhere, with wings wide-spread and immovable, until it almost hits the hillock on the other side of the brook. But it soars skywards again with a loud flap. I am amazed by the tremendous size of its wings. And I also catch sight of the grizzled feathers on its underside.
Then I hear its loud cry – like a powerful voice from the bottom of its heart or a call in the dark for its comrades in arms.
But still no rain.
（张培基 译）
Before the Rain
He Qifang
Having made the last circle in the breeze, the last of the pigeons disappeared with a faint whistle. Perhaps they mistakenly thought the dark and cold sky to be the coming dim light of night, or perhaps they predicted the coming wind and rain; thus they flew to their warm wooden nest rather early.
A plaster of soft green cast on the willow branches after several days of sunlight now had become somewhat withered under the dust. It was in great need of a wash. And the cracked, parched earth and tree roots had long been waiting for rain. But still the rain was slow in coming.
I thought of the sound of thunder and rain in my home village. The violent rumbling thunderclaps echoed from valley to valley. It seemed as if spring shoots were shaken, awakened and broke out slender green from the frozen earth. The sound of the rain as soft and thin as grass fondled them with gentle hands, making them shoot up in clusters of glossy dark green branches that waved their blossoming red flowers. This feeling of nostalgia hovered about me, making me feel melancholy in my heart. The weather in my heart felt just like the immense land in the north that was also lacking rain. A soft tear drop hesitated before falling from my dull and heavy eyes just like the rain paused in the gloomy sky.
The white ducks looked a bit agitated, for their anxious cries came from ditches in the city which had become contaminated and changed colour. Some were not weary, paddling slowly along like boats; others were putting their long necks into water, stretching their red webbed toes behind and constantly stroking the water to keep their bodies balanced. I don’t know whether they were searching for small bits of food at the bottom or just lingering in the coolness of the water below.
Some had climbed on to the banks and were walking back and forth under a willow tree just like some gentlemen relieving their fatigue of paddling. Then they stood there irregularly, pluming their feathers carefully with their beaks. Sometimes, they swung their bodies or stretched their broad wings out to shake off the water drops in their feathers. One of them had finished the pluming, curling its neck upon the back with its long red beak buried within its wing and little eyes (which were among the fine white soft hair) closed, as if it were going to sleep. Poor small animal, are you dreaming in this way?
Thus I recalled the duckling tenders in my home village. A great swarm of yellowish crane ducklings floated in the streams, the shallow blue water beneath, the green grass on both banks, and the long bamboo pole in the hands of the tender. How merrily when his small army was chirping and how timidly when it was passing by one field to another hill slope! When the night fell, a tent-like bamboo cover was erected on the ground as his home. But how far away these images appeared! In this dusty land I could only hope for a bit rain pattering on the tree leaves. Here the coolness of a drop of rain dripping into my anxious dreams would grow into a round and shady tree to cover myself.
Lifting my head, I saw the sky hung like a grey curtain of mist, and some chips of coldness fell upon my face. An eagle from afar kept on flying down with its wings inclined, as if it were expressing its angry feelings against the heavy weather. When it nearly touched the earth on the other bank of the ditch, and then shaking its wings violently, it soared high. Its two huge wings made me surprised, for under which I saw its greyish feathers.
Then I heard its vigorous cry, just like the cry of a big heart or a call in search of its companion in the dark.
But still the rain was late in coming.
（张梦井、杜耀文 译）
Before the Rain
He Qifang
With a faint whistling, the last flock of pigeons etched a circle in the light breeze, then disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the darkness of this chilly, lowering sky for the onset of night, or perhaps they sensed the arrival of a storm, and so returned early to the warmth of their wooden pigeonry.
The few days’ sunlight had splashed the willow twigs with the tender green of new growth, but the dust that now covered them made them seem tired and withered, in need of a wash. And the parched, split earth and tree-roots had long since been awaiting rain. But the rain hesitated.
I remember fondly the sounds of my birthplace – the sounds of thunder and of rain. Those mighty crashes rumbled and reverberated from mountain valley to mountain valley, as if the new shoots of spring were shaking in the frozen ground, awakening, and bursting forth with a terrifying vigour. Threads of rain, soft as fine grass, would then caress them with a tender hand, so that clumps of glossy green leaves would sprout forth and red flowers burst open. These fond recollections lingered with me like a kind of homesickness, leaving me dejected. Within my heart, the climate seemed as parched of rain as this northern continent; and like the raindrops, still hesitating in this leaden sky, for a long time not a single tear of tenderness had fallen from my arid eyes.
Even the white ducks seemed a little unsettled, their anxious cries rising from the dirty city stream. Some had not yet wearied of their gentle boat-like paddling. But others had stuck their long necks into the water, their red webbed feet stretching out behind their tails, continually thrashing at the water in an attempt to keep their bodies balanced. Perhaps they were searching for morsels of food on the stream-bed; or maybe they sought the chill cold of the deep water.
Some had come up onto the bank. They swaggered back and forth under the willow trees, enjoying a rest from the fatigue of paddling. Then they stood still, in ungainly disarray, smoothing each white feather carefully into place with their beaks; now and then they would shake their bodies or spread their wings, scattering the drops of water caught in their feathers. One that had already finished preening curled its neck up over its back, buried its red beak under its wing, and quietly closed its little black eye, surrounded by soft white down, as if it were preparing to sleep. You poor little creature, is this the way you dream your dreams?
I thought of the person in my birthplace who used to release the ducklings. A great crowd of light-yellow ducklings would be taken to the waters of the creek – limpid water, lush green grass on the banks, and a long bamboo staff in the herder’s hand. How happy his little army was, cheeping with noisy delight! And how meekly they followed his staff, over a field and then a mountain slope! When night came, the bamboo shelter propped up on the ground like a tent was his home. Yet what a distant image this is now! In this country of dust, all I hope for is to hear the sound of raindrop on leaves. The dark cool of the sound of raindrops, dripping into my parched and weary dreams, might grow a rounded canopy of tree-green shade to cover me.
I raised my head. The sky loomed like a grey curtain of fog, dropping a few cold shards upon my face. A lone hawk from afar swooped down from the sky, as if angered, angered by these leaden skies, its spread wings unmoving, until it almost hit the earthen slope of the stream’s opposite bank; then it beat its wings and soared back up with a savage stridor. Those huge wings startled me. I could see the greyish feathers of its flanks.
And when I heard its piercing cry, it was like a terrible cry from the heart; or perhaps it was calling its mate amid the darkness.
Yet still the rain didn’t come.
（Robert Neather 译）
Before the Rain Arrives
He Qifang
After circling and whistling softly in the breeze, the last flock of pigeons is also gone. They have flown back to their warm, wooden cote earlier than usual, perhaps because they have mistaken the bleak, grey sky for the color of nightfall, or have sensed the imminence of the storm.
Clad in dust and dirt, the tender green shoots, having sprouted in the sunshine of the last few days, look somewhat haggard on the willow twigs, and hence need a wash-up. And the chapped earth and the dried tree roots have also long been expecting this rain. But the rain withholds itself.
I miss the thunder of my hometown and its patter of rain. Those powerful rumbles and rolls of thunder resound in the valleys, and they shake, wake, and burst open the buds of spring, dormant in the frozen soil. Then the patter of rain, as soft as fine grass, begins to caress the buds with its gentle hands, pulling out from the buds the oily green leaves, opening up from among the leaves the red flowers. These reminiscences, like nostalgic sensations, frequently ring in my heart and depress me. The climate in my heart is like the one of this northern land – lacking rainfall. Just as the raindrops hang in the gloomy sky, a tender teardrop lingers in one of my dry eyes, persistently refusing to come down.
The white ducks also seem restless. From the turbid creeks in the city come their anxious quacks. While some of the ducks are happy with their own slow, boat-like gliding, others are doing headstands, plunging their long necks into the water and stretching their red webbed feet out behind their tails, continuously thrashing the water so as to balance themselves. No one knows if they do that for the purpose of looking for crumbs of food at the bottom of the creeks or just to indulge themselves in the cool water deep down there.
A couple of the ducks have already climbed onto the bank. After waddling back and forth like gentlemen under a willow tree, to dispel the weariness that results from their swimming, they then stand there, each in its own pose. Using their beaks as combs, they begin to meticulously preen their white feathers, sporadically shaking their bodies or flapping heir wide wings to get rid of the drops of water hidden between their feathers. Done with its grooming, one of the ducks twists its neck to the back of its shoulder and tucks its long, red beak into one of its wings. It quietly closes its small dark eyes, set in downy, white eye sockets, and looks as if it is going to have a nap. Oh, poor little duck, is it in this way that you have your dreams?
This scene reminds me of the duckling-herder in my hometown, where a large flock of light-yellow ducklings swims in the streams. The clear, shallow water, the green grass flanking both banks, and a long bamboo pole in the herder’s hand – how tamely his little team waddles over the ridges and slopes of the hill and how exultantly the ducklings chirp! When night falls, the herder makes a home by setting up a tent – like bamboo hut. But what a distant image that is! In this dusty and muddy land, all I hope for is to hear a little patter of rain on the leaves. If a cool rain could break its hesitancy and drip into my wrecked dream, it can perhaps grow into a green bower to shade me.
I raise my head. From the drooping sky, as grey as a pall of mist, some cold drops fall onto my face. As if in a rage – a rage over the heavy grey color of the sky, an eagle coming from afar, with its wings stretched out motionlessly, slants down from the sky, almost touching the earthen hill on the other bank of the creek, before it flaps its two wings with a roaring noise and soars back into the sky. I am astonished by the size of its broad wings, under which I can see the mottled white feathers on the underside of its chest. Then I hear from it a powerful cawing, like a shout from its tremendous heart or, perhaps, a call in the darkness for a companion.
Yet, still no rain.
（徐英才 译）
