Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Ancient Path of the Yellow River

Tong Xiaomeng asked again, “After that turtle shell was dug up from the river, nothing happened in the village?”

“What could have happened? If something really had, people wouldn’t have waited a whole year to find me just to sell the thing. Besides, think about it: how could a flood be connected to some turtle shell? Look at you, a college student, yet your awareness is worse than mine.”

Jin Yitiao had long forgotten the days when he traveled the country with the exploration team, digging for oil for the nation. He had seamlessly adapted to the role of the old hand at Yudongmen. If he hadn’t once shown me his old work permit and a group photo with the team, I’d have believed him completely.

Hearing his words, Tong Xiaomeng and I exchanged a knowing glance.

When we arrived in Kaifeng, our first stop was a local university. Professor Gu had a close friend teaching there, who arranged a car for us and then sent us on our way. He hadn’t even attended Professor Gu’s funeral, and when Tong Xiaomeng talked about it, she was gritting her teeth.

Our first segment was from Kaifeng to Shangyu County, a journey of over 200 kilometers, winding westward in an S-shape, following the ancient course of the Yellow River downstream.

The car sped along the mountainous roads, jostling us fiercely. Jin Yitiao’s driving skills had been honed in his exploration days, but out of consideration for the women in the car, he refrained from smoking. Instead, he’d drive for a while, then pull over by the river when his craving kicked in, smoke a cigarette, and gaze at the surging waters of the Yellow River.

Tong Xiaomeng was exuberant the whole way, chattering about this and that, prodding me and Jin Yitiao for stories about the ancient Yellow River.

As for the river itself, I had indeed done some serious research, focused mainly on the relics dredged from its depths. There were rare treasures and things that defied belief.

In the 1950s, farmers near Kaifeng dug into the ancient riverbed of the Yellow River and unearthed a rusted iron pipe from several meters of silt. The pipe was as thick as an arm and extended downward. The farmers followed it, digging seven or eight meters deeper, and the pipe grew even thicker—eventually as wide as a water vat, gleaming and smooth as if polished by sandpaper, still plunging downward with no end in sight.

Pressing their ears to the pipe, they could hear a scratching, crackling sound inside—like something with claws scrabbling at the metal, or the static of a telegraph. They discussed it for ages but came to no conclusion.

Helpless, the farmers reported it to the authorities. But when experts arrived the next day, they found the once-dry riverbed now full to the brim—overnight, the turbid waters of the Yellow River had returned, and the strange iron pipe was lost, swallowed by the current.

Stories like this are common for those of us who dig in the Yellow River—tales of transparent coffins made of glass, rootless iron trees that bleed when sawn, ancient river bells guarded by yellow snakes. I once heard a southern runner from Yudongmen, after too much to drink, tell a tale of a flood. He swore it was true, recounting every detail vividly.

He said that during the great flood of 1982, ferries on the Yellow River in Shanxi were frequently wrecked. Witnesses claimed they saw a monstrous blue fish, as big as a truck cab, in the waters. Whenever a ferry crossed, the beast would ram it, capsizing the boat. Strangely, all who fell in vanished without a trace—no bodies were ever found. People speculated the blue monster had eaten them. With no solution, the locals reported it to the Yellow River Water Conservancy Committee, who sent for river engineers.

The engineers brought an iron-hulled boat, but instead of fishing gear, they filled its holds with live fish, each about the size of a palm. They sailed to the monster’s haunt, dumped the live fish into the river, clapped their hands, and left.

Some things are just that strange. After the engineers departed, that stretch of river grew peaceful again. The giant blue fish was never seen, as if it had sunk with the swirling silt into the unfathomable depths of the Yellow River.

After hearing this, Tong Xiaomeng concluded, “If someone ever digs a flying saucer out of the Yellow River, I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

Two hundred kilometers of mountain road passed with my stories. When things got exciting, Tong Xiaomeng would break into applause and shrieks, completely immersed in the tale. Jin Yitiao, meanwhile, kept casting ambiguous looks at me through the rearview mirror, just as he had when I’d first seen the photo of that enormous turtle shell.

When we reached Shangyu County, the mountain road eastward was no longer fit for cars. At the market, we hired a donkey cart driven by a young man in his early twenties. At first, he flatly refused to take us to Shixia Village, but Jin Yitiao’s stack of cash persuaded him in the end—though he warned us, “Even if I get you to the river mouth, you might not find a single boatman willing to take you across.”

Jin Yitiao was puzzled. “Why would we need a boatman? Isn’t there a bridge?”

The driver replied, “There was, but that stretch of river is cursed. The government built a footbridge for the villagers, but within two years, it was washed away three times. But there are several villages and thousands of people on the other bank. They can’t just leave them stranded. Only last month, the bridge was destroyed again, so the government plans to relocate everyone to this side. If you’d come half a month earlier, you wouldn’t have this trouble.”

I turned to Jin Yitiao and asked, “Could that be why someone’s in such a hurry to sell off the thing?”

He nodded. “Possibly. But if it’s really as big as they say, it won’t be easy getting it across the river.”

“And it’ll be hard to keep it hidden,” I added coolly.

Jin Yitiao lit a cigarette, grinding the butt under his heel. “Like the old saying goes, ‘Since we’re here, we might as well take a look. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll think of something else. I don’t believe three living people can’t handle one turtle shell.’”

The Yellow River has two flood seasons: one in April, one in September.

It was late September when we arrived at the river. The water was high and mighty, and during this time, villagers rarely crossed. Most boatmen had tied their boats to the wooden docks, stripped to the waist, gathering to play chess, cards, or smoke, idly waiting for business.

From a distance, when they saw the donkey cart turning out from the foot of the mountain, the men tossed aside their cards and swarmed toward us.

“Where to, boss? Sancha Crossing? Three people, one hundred and thirty. Deal or not?”

“I’ll do it for a hundred and twenty—my boat’s sturdier, just had new nails put in. I guarantee you a fast, safe crossing.”

“Those are new nails because you had a leak. Ninety! Sancha Crossing, Old River Bay, Yellow Fish Village, I’ll take you wherever you want. If you agree, I’ll even lead your donkey back for you—half price on the return. What do you say?”

The men were all brawny, sun-darkened from years of labor, their waists girded with yellow sashes symbolizing the river—and also handy for mopping sweat. In this modern age, seeing a group of men from a trade on the verge of extinction was a rare sight.

I glanced at Jin Yitiao, who cleared his throat and addressed the crowd, “Shixia Village—how do we get there?”

The noisy scene fell silent at once.

The men’s eager faces changed instantly, hesitancy replacing enthusiasm. They looked at one another, then began drifting away.

The three of us on the donkey cart looked at each other, baffled by what had just happened. Then the young driver turned and chuckled, “See? Didn’t I tell you? At this time of year, no one will take you to Shixia Village. I’ll just take half your fare and bring you back.”

“Why won’t they take us?” Jin Yitiao asked with a scowl. “A friend of mine stayed here just a few days ago—why is it a problem for us?”

He turned to me and suggested, “Should we offer more money?”

“Money’s no good if it costs you your life,” the young man replied with disdain.

“Not even if I offer ten times as much?” Jin Yitiao was reluctant; after days of travel, no one would want to see all that cash left unclaimed just because the journey ended here.

“No,” the driver shook his head.

Just as everyone was at a loss, a deep voice sounded behind us, “Six hundred. I’ll take you to Shixia Village.”