Chapter 13: Bending the Rainbow Channel to Draw Down Sweet Rain

After speaking, Ye Chang turned and was about to leave. He walked away briskly, without the slightest hesitation, as if he hadn’t come here to buy bamboo at all.

“Honored guest, please don’t rush off!” Tan Qinshou called after him, eager to please.

“Wait a moment!” Ye Ling could no longer restrain himself. He jumped out, shouting in a harsh voice, “What is going on here?!”

Ye Chang didn’t even pause, striding straight out. “Elder, if you want to know what’s happened, Master Tan will tell you. I still have business to attend to, so I won’t keep you company.” His voice faded into the distance, and soon Ye Chang’s figure vanished into the bustling crowd of the market.

“Master Tan, what on earth is going on here?!” Ye Ling seized Tan Qinshou’s sleeve.

“You don’t know, honored guest? Two days ago, your nephew sent someone to order all the bamboo in my shop, paid a deposit, and reserved every last stick. He only wants half delivered for now, and he said in a few days someone would come buy the rest at a high price, asking me to sell it on his behalf.” Tan Qinshou realized he’d been dragged into some family squabble, but seeing that Ye Ling had tried to scheme against his nephew only to fall into the nephew’s trap, he felt little sympathy and spoke honestly: “And today, sure enough, you showed up, insisted on buying the consigned bamboo at an exorbitant price, and refused to listen to my advice…”

“Ah!” Ye Ling felt as though six golden stars were spinning before his eyes, and a thousand frogs were croaking in his ears.

He had tried to outwit Ye Chang, but in the end, it was Ye Chang who outwitted him!

“That’s impossible—where would he get so much money to reserve all your bamboo?” A sickly sweetness rose in Ye Ling’s throat, but he forced himself to remain calm.

“Three coins per stick, three hundred sticks, that’s nine hundred coins. By custom, he only needed to pay thirty percent as a deposit.” Tan Qinshou replied sincerely, “He paid three hundred coins and said if no one came to buy the bamboo at a high price, he’d forfeit the deposit.”

Tan Qinshou didn’t mention Liu Kun’s promise to split the profits equally—he understood now that these two customers were scheming against each other, so he’d let them resolve it themselves.

“You little wretch, how dare you!” Ye Ling trembled all over and collapsed onto a mat. But he shot up again at once—he had just lost six taels of silver, and he could well imagine how his shrew of a wife, Madam Liu, would deal with him when he got home!

“Give me back my money!” He grabbed at Tan Qinshou. “You’re in league with that brat—give it back!”

Smack!

The burly man waiting nearby grinned as he slapped Ye Ling across the face, spinning him around three times and sending a bloody molar down his throat.

“Honored guest, you jest. You begged me to make this deal, and we even signed a contract, agreeing never to go back on it.” Tan Qinshou, somewhat pleased, produced the contract. “I knew you’d regret buying at such a high price. I warned you again and again, but you wouldn’t listen. Better safe than sorry!”

Ye Ling collapsed again onto the rush mat. “You…you swindler!”

“Lin Xicheng, throw him out! How dare he slander my reputation—if I weren’t in such a good mood after today’s big sale, I’d drag him to the magistrate myself!” Tan Qinshou shouted.

The burly man answered and hauled Ye Ling up, tossing him out of the shop. Ye Ling sat on the ground, pounding the earth and cursing, quickly drawing the attention of the ward official—the very same one who’d acted as a middleman earlier and pocketed a five-coin fee. He came over, listened to the story, and laughed: “What nonsense! Master Tan tried to talk you out of it again and again, but you brought this on yourself—who else can you blame? Be off with you, don’t make trouble here, or I’ll have someone slap you silly!”

Others chimed in, “Exactly! You schemed against your own nephew, and now he’s turned the tables on you—who can you blame? Besides, if someone set a trap for you, it was your nephew. Why are you making a scene here instead of going after him?”

With this reminder, Ye Ling suddenly recalled the real culprit who had brought him to ruin. He had seen with his own eyes Ye Chang pocket three taels of silver—if he wanted to settle accounts, he would have to find Ye Chang.

Thinking thus, he didn’t even call his loyal servant, but hitched up his robes and hurried after him. But Ye Chang, having achieved his aim, had left at once without looking back, and when Ye Ling reached the ward gate, not even a glimpse of his nephew remained.

“Master, master!” His servant came panting after him.

“After him! Catch him for me!” Ye Ling barked.

But however they searched, they found no trace. Back in Wu Ze, they learned Ye Chang had gone to the construction site.

“Keep after him…” Ye Ling growled through clenched teeth.

By now, though, he had calmed down. His buying the bamboo, he told himself, was merely to spite Ye Chang, not to sabotage the irrigation project—otherwise, the families with fields on that slope would be out for his blood. He pondered how best to handle Ye Chang, and then it struck him: without the bamboo, Ye Chang couldn’t finish his project, and in the end would have to come crawling to him!

At this thought, Ye Ling regained a measure of pride: “If you used mine, give it back; if you ate my food, spit it up!”

He wasn’t usually so foolish, but greed had clouded his judgment, and he was used to bullying Ye Chang, so adjusting his thinking so suddenly was difficult for him. Eager to force Ye Chang to return his money, he hurried to the worksite.

Along the way, he saw that the canal was nearly complete, and people were tamping the bottom with wooden posts to prevent seepage. Ye Ling sneered—without enough bamboo, where would they draw water from? These people were in for a bitter disappointment.

From a distance, he saw Ye Chang standing among a pile of stones, directing several men who were gathered around a fire, engaged in some mysterious task. Judging the location, Ye Ling realized this was precisely the spot he’d thought impassable.

“Careful, careful, don’t break it... If it snaps, we’ll have to start over. We’ve only a dozen bamboo poles left, we can’t afford to waste them,” he heard Ye Chang say.

Hearing “only a dozen bamboo poles,” Ye Ling was delighted. He straightened his clothes, clasped his hands behind his back, imitating Elder Ye Dan’s stately gait, and sauntered over.

He saw two men holding a bamboo pole over the fire, heating the middle, and then, working together, gently bending it.

This was nothing unusual—basket makers often bent bamboo this way to form curved frames. Ye Ling curled his lip and mocked, “So what if you bend it? You can’t make water flow uphill!”

“Who says I can’t?” Ye Chang glanced at him.

“People climb up, water flows down—that’s the simplest truth!”

“Well, if someone insists on going downhill and refuses to turn back even after repeated setbacks, then making water flow uphill isn’t so hard after all. Just watch, Elder,” Ye Chang said.

Ye Ling heard the mockery—clearly a jab at his defeat in the marketplace—and his anger flared, but seeing the unfriendly looks from the men around Ye Chang, he decided to settle scores later. For now, he sneered and found a stone to sit on, waiting to see the outcome.

It wasn’t long before the bamboo pole was bent into a bow shape, then the second, then a third—five in all, each bent to the proper degree. Then a village carpenter joined them together, sealing the joints tightly.

Thus was formed a long, arch-shaped pipe, seven zhang in length. Even now, Ye Ling had no idea what it was for.

“Bring the water over,” Ye Chang ordered.

Soon the sluice was opened, and water gushed out—more than Ye Ling expected, though he didn’t know Ye Chang had found two more springs and diverted all three streams together. Stones and earth had been piled beside a huge boulder to form a small pool; the water collected there, and Ye Chang had everyone submerge one end of the long pipe in it.

Soon the pipe was full. Ye Chang plugged both ends, checked for leaks, and, finding none, called everyone over to lay the pipe to the other side, making one end short at the pool and the other long to reach the far side.

“Hahaha…”

Watching them struggle with the heavy, water-filled pipe, stumbling and falling several times, Ye Ling felt a surge of glee. He clapped his hands. “What a clever plan! Truly the work of a sage! With this, dozens of you can carry a pipe full of water each time—busy all day, you might manage a few stones’ worth. Hahaha!”

The others said nothing, but their faces betrayed concern. At Ye Ling’s mockery, all eyes turned to Ye Chang.

“Continue. Soon we’ll see who’s the fool,” Ye Chang said quietly.

They set the pipe in place. At his signal, others brought buckets of water to the other side, and a dozen people dug a small pit. One end of the pipe was placed in the pit, the other in the rising pool.

“All right, I’ll count to three. On three, pull out the plugs at both ends. Make sure not to let the pipe ends rise above the water.”

“We await your command, Eleventh Master,” answered elders on both sides.

“Very well—one!”

At his call, everyone unconsciously edged closer to the water, except Ye Ling, who remained seated, his face still disdainful.

He refused to believe this would bring water over the ridge—how could water possibly flow uphill?

“Two!” Ye Chang called, without even looking at him.

For some reason, Ye Ling’s heart skipped a beat, and he leaned forward, holding his breath, eyes fixed on the far end of the pipe.

“Three!”

At Ye Chang’s third call, the elders at both ends yanked out the plugs. A few bubbles rose. Ye Ling’s throat bobbed. “Ha, ha, how could water flow uphill?”

His voice was dry, but before he finished, the elder at the upper pool shouted, “Water! It’s coming in!”

The water emerging in the lower pit could have just been what was already in the pipe, but at the upper pool, a whirlpool had formed at the mouth of the pipe—proof that water was indeed flowing in!

“There’s water! There’s water!” The crowd, who had all been watching the lower pit, now rushed up the slope, but had only gone halfway when someone below cried out again.

They turned to see water overflowing from the lower pit, trickling into the newly dug channel.

“It’s true… There’s water!” Cheers broke out, echoing across the wilds—laughter, weeping for joy, shouts of disbelief, all mingled. Each person cried out, as if that alone could express their happiness.

Even Ye Chang let out a long breath of relief.

It was simply the siphon principle—something the farmers of China had mastered long ago, and by the Song dynasty, it was widely used to irrigate fields. They even had a name for it: “The Dragon Crossing the Mountain.” When Ye Chang had first surveyed the route, he’d already planned to use this method to overcome obstacles. Although he’d been confident, he was still anxious until now, when he could finally rest easy.

Now that the water had come, it was time to settle accounts—at the very least, to mock someone for his shortsightedness.

“What a clever plan! Truly the work of a sage!” Before Ye Chang could begin to taunt Ye Ling, the villagers, having recovered from their astonishment, spoke up first. They’d been stifling their anger at Ye Ling’s earlier ridicule, but hadn’t dared answer back for lack of confidence. Now, with proof before their eyes, they would not let the chance slip by. Ye Chang’s silence, in their eyes, was a mark of magnanimity and kindness, so as beneficiaries, they took it upon themselves to speak for him.

Some even mimicked Ye Ling’s earlier tone, mocking him.

But Ye Ling didn’t hear.

He stood with eyes bulging and mouth agape, gasping like a beached toad, staring at the water pit below as the water spread over the once-parched earth and trickled into the channel—a mere rivulet, but flowing steadily onward.

“This is impossible,” he thought and said aloud.

“If this is impossible, what is possible then?” someone quipped.

“This must be a dream, it can’t be real… Ow!” Just as Ye Ling was saying he must be dreaming, an elder lost patience and lashed his thigh with a bamboo switch, making him leap up with a cry.

“This is no dream—dreams don’t hurt,” the elder said with a chuckle. “Ye Fourth, are you convinced now that you’re awake?”

Ye Ling, the fourth in his generation, heard the mockery all around, and, thinking of nothing else, leapt up, covered his face with his sleeve, and fled.

“Fourth Ye, mind your step! Don’t let rage muddle your head and end up battered—your fierce wife will have another go at you!” someone called after him.

That bamboo pipe, able to bring water over the ridge, had upended everything Ye Ling thought he knew. Now his mind spun with a new fear: Could it be the little brat—no, the Eleventh Master—really was guided by a sage? And if so, what would become of him, having offended a disciple of such a one?