The Wine Worm
I
It was the hottest it had been for years. On every hand the roof tiles of the stone-floored houses reflected the sunlight dully like lead, and it seemed that, if this kept up, the little swallows and eggs in the nests under them must be steamed to death. In addition, in every field, the hemp and millet plants all hung their heads limply in the radiation from the soil, and there was not one, though they were still green, that did not droop. And the sky above the fields, probably because of the hot weather, seemed dull, although the sun was shining bright, and cloud masses floated here and there like bits of rice cake puffed up in an earthen pan. This story of the wine worm begins with three men out deliberately on a blistering flailing floor under the burning sun.
Strange to say, one of them not only was lying naked on his back on the ground, but, for some reason or other, had his hands and his feet bound up in a long cord. However, he seemed not to be greatly troubled about it. He was a short and sanguine man, fat as a pig, who somehow gave an impression of dullness. An unglazed jar of moderate size stood by his head, but it was impossible to say what was in it.
The second was a man in a yellow robe with little rings of bronze in his ears, who at a glance was recognizable as an eccentric Buddhist priest. From his exceptionally dark skin and his frizzled hair and beard, he seemed certainly to be from west of T’sung-ling. He had for some time been moving a whip of long white hairs with a red handle patiently back and forth to drive away the horseflies and common houseflies that swarmed about the naked man, but now seeming naturally to have grown a little tired, he had come to the unglazed jar and was squatting solemnly beside it like a turkey cock.
The remaining man was standing under the eaves of a thatched house in a corner of the flailing floor far from the other two. He had on the tip of his chin a mere excuse for a beard like a rat’s tail and was dressed in a long black gown reaching to the ground, tied with an untidily knotted brown sash. Since he now and then fanned himself importantly with a fan of white feathers, he was, of course, a Confucian scholar or something of the kind.
All three held their tongues as if by agreement. Moreover they did not even move freely, and it seemed as if, deeply interested in something that was about to happen, they were all holding their breath.
It seemed to be just noon. Not a dog’s bark was to be heard, doubtless because the dogs were all taking their midday naps. The hemp and millet plants around the flailing floor stood still and motionless, with their green leaves shining in the sunlight. In all the sky beyond them, a sultry mist floated stiflingly hot, and it seemed that even the cloud masses were gasping for breath in this drought. As far as eye could see, the only things that seemed to be alive were these three men. And they kept silent like the clay figures in the shrines of Kwanti.
Of course this is not a Japanese story. It is an account of what happened one summer’s day on the flailing floor of a man named Liu at Changshan in China.
II
The man who lay naked under the blazing sun was the owner of the flailing floor, Liu Tai-cheng, one of the prominent rich men of Changshan. His only pleasure was drinking, and all day long he and his cup were practically inseparable. And since “he drank up a jar of wine every time he helped himself,” he was no ordinary drinker. But as has already been intimated, he owned “three hundred acres of rich suburban fields, of which one half was planted to millet,” there was no fear whatever of his drinking playing havoc with his fortune.
And the reason he was lying naked in the hot sun was this: That day as Liu leaned on a Dutch wife of bamboo in an airy room playing checkers with Master Sun, one of his fellow tipplers (the Confucian scholar with the white fan), a little girl servant had come to him and said,
“A priest who says he’s from Pao Chang S’su or some such temple has just come and says he must see you. What shall I do?”
“What? Pao Chang S’su?” said Liu, and he blinked his little eyes as if dazzled; then raising his hot-looking fat body, he said, “Well, then, show him in here.” Then glancing at Master Sun, he added, “It’s probably that priest.”
The priest of Pao Chang S’su was a mountain priest from Hsisu. He was famous in the neighborhood for his healing ability and the administering of aphrodisiacs. For instance, there were afloat many all but miraculous rumors of the sudden change for the better of this man’s amaurosis or of the immediate recovery of that man from sterility. Both Liu and Sun had heard these rumors. On what errand could this mountain priest have deliberately called at Liu’s? Of course Liu himself had not the least recollection of ever having sent for him.
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