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苇岸（1960-1999），原名马建国，一九六〇年一月〖日期：农历正月廿三；公历2月19日。时辰：寅时4时43分。天况：阴，雨雪。气温：摄氏3°C－–2°C。风力：一二级。〗在二十四节气的漫漫古道上，雨水只是一个相对并不显眼的普通驿站。在我过去的印象里，立春是必定会刮风的（它是北京多风的春天一个小小的缩影），但雨水并不意味着必定降雨。就像森林外缘竖立的一块警示标牌，雨水的作用和意义主要在于提醒旅人：从今天起，你已进入了雨水出没的区域。今年的雨水近乎一个奇迹，这种情形大体是我从未经历过的（它使“雨水”这一节气在语义上得到了完满的体现）。像童年时代冬天常有的那样，早晨醒来我惊喜地看到了窗外的雪。雪是夜里下起来的，天亮后已化作了雨。（如古语讲的“橘逾淮为枳”），但饱含雨水的雪依然覆盖着屋顶和地面。雨落在雪上像掉进井里，没有任何声响。令人感到惊奇和神秘的是：一、雨水这天准确地降了水；二、立春以后下了这么大的雪；三、作为两个对立季节象征的雨和雪罕见地会聚在了一起。在传统中，雪是伴随着寂静的。此时的田野也是空无一人，雪尚未被人践踏过（“立春阳气转，雨水送肥忙。”以化肥和农药维持运转的现代农业，已使往昔的一些农谚失去了意义）。土地隐没了，雪使正奔向春天和光明的的事物，在回归的路上犹疑地停下了脚步。由于吸收了雨，雪有些蹋缩、黯淡，减弱了其固有的耀眼光泽。这个现象很像刀用钝了，丧失了锋芒。几只淋湿了羽毛的喜鹊起落着，它们已到了在零落乔木或高压线铁架上物色筑巢位置的时候了。面对这场不合时令的雪，人们自然会想到刚刚逝去不久的冬天；但在一个历史学家眼里，他也许会联想到诸如中国近代的袁世凯昙花一现的称帝时期。1998: The Twenty-Four Solar Terms Translated by Dave HaysomYushui (Rainwater, the Second Solar Term)Date: Twenty-third of the First Moon (February 19th)Weather: Overcast, precipitationTemperature: -2 to 3 degrees CelsiusOn the ancient road of the solar terms, Yushui is an unassuming waypoint. While Lichun (Start of Spring), the first of the twenty-four terms, always seems to be accompanied by wind (the windy Beijing springtime in miniature), Yushui does not necessarily mean rain. Like a sign at the forest’s edge, Yushui serves to warn travellers: You are now entering a territory where rain may occur.This year’s Yushui is something of a miracle. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it—this literal embodiment of the word “Yushui.” As in the winters of my childhood, I woke up in the morning to the pleasant surprise of snow outside the window, which had started in the night and by dawn was rain. Like the old saying about how tangerines grow into bitter oranges north of the Huai river, the roofs and the ground are still covered in rain-soaked snow. The drops fall into the snow as if falling down a well, incomplete silence. Contributing to the magic of it all is: 1. actual rainfall on the day of Yushui; 2. such heavy snow after Lichun; 3. the rare convergence of rain and snow, symbols of two very different seasons.Snow brings the quiet, it is said. There is no one in the fields, no footsteps in the snow. “Lichun pivots towards the warmth; Yushui is the time to spread manure.” The farming proverbs of yester-year have lost their currency in the era of chemical fertiliser and pesticide.) The soil has vanished; the snow prompts a moment of hesitation on the path that leads to springtime and warmth. After absorbing the rain, the snow contracts underfoot, its lustre dimmed like a knife gone blunt, its edge lost. A few damp magpies rise and dip. This is the time in which they look for a place to nest among the scattered trees or metal pylons. This unseasonable snow naturally elicits thoughts of the winter just passed, but might also prompt a historian to think of modern Chinese history, the fleeting empire of Yuan Shikai.〖日期：农历二月初八；公历3月6日。时辰：寅时3时3分。天况：晴。气温：14°C－2°C。风力：二三级。〗二十四节气令我们惊叹叫绝的，除了它的与物候、时令的奇异吻合与准确对应，还有一点，即它的一个个东方田园风景与中国古典诗歌般的名称。这是语言瑰丽的精华，它们所体现的汉语的简约性与表意美，使我们后世的汉语运用者不仅感到骄傲，也感到惭愧。“惊蛰”，两个汉字并列一起，即神奇地构成了生动的画面和无穷的故事。你可以遐想：在远方一声初始的雷鸣中，万千沉睡的幽暗生灵被唤醒了，它们睁开惺忪的双眼，不约而同，向圣贤一样的太阳敞开了各自的门户。这是一个带有“推进”和“改革”色彩的节气，它反映了对象的被动、消极和等待状态，显现出一丝善意的冒犯和介入，就像一个乡村客店老板凌晨轻摇他的诸事在身的客人：“客官，醒醒，天亮了，该上路了。”仿佛为了响应这一富有“革命”意味的节气，连阴数日的天况，今天豁然晴朗了（不是由于雨霁或风后）。整面天空像一个深隐林中的蓝色湖泊或池塘，从中央到岸边，依其深浅，水体色彩逐渐减淡。小麦已经返青，在朝阳的映照下，望着满眼清晰伸展的绒绒新绿，你会感到，不光婴儿般的麦苗，绿色自身也有生命。而在沟壑和道路两旁，青草破土而出，连片的草色已似报纸头条一样醒目。柳树伸出了鸟舌状的叶芽，杨树拱出的花蕾则让你想到幼鹿初萌的角。在田里，我注意到有十只集群无规则地疾飞鸣叫的小鸟（疑为百灵）；它们如精灵，敏感、多动，忽上忽下；它们的羽色近似泥土，落下来便会无影无踪；我曾试图用望远镜搜寻过几次，但始终未能看清它们（另一吸引我注意的，在远处高新技术产业开发区外缘公路边的人行道上，一个穿红色上衣的少女手捧一本书，不停地走过来走过去）。可爱的稚态、新生的活力、知前的欢乐、上升的气息以及地平线的栅栏，此时整个田野很像一座太阳照看下的幼儿园。“惊蛰过，暖和和。”到了惊蛰，春天总算坐稳了它的江山。1998: The Twenty-Four Solar Terms Translated by Dave Haysom Jingzhe (Awakening of Insects, the Third Solar Term)Date: Eighth of the Second Moon (March 6th)Temperature: 2 to 14 degrees CelsiusWe admire the solar terms for their precision, yes, their remarkable alignment with seasonable phenomena, but also for their names—names that evoke a rustic Eastern landscape or a traditional Chinese poem. They are the elegant quintessence of language, embodying the concision and expressive capacity of Chinese in a way that makes us, their linguistic descendants, feel both pride and shame.“Jingzhe”: two characters placed together that magically animate a tableau, evoking limitless stories. You can almost see it: a distant roll of thunder awakens a throng of creatures from their slumber. Acting in instinctive harmony, they blink their bleary eyes, opening their doors towards the sage-like sun. The term is tinted with impetus, with reformation, an inversion of all that is inactive, passive, dormant. It appears like a kindly intervention, a rustic innkeeper gently shaking awake a customer who carries all his earthly burdens on his back: “Sir, wake up, dawn is here, you should be on your way.”As if responding to the reformatory spirit of this solar term, today is bright following several days of poor weather (and not because rain has fallen or wind has blown the clouds away). The sky looks like a lake or pond hidden deep in the forest, gradations of blue that pale near the bank. The wheat is turning green; everything is green, crisp and fresh and thick, stretching out as far as the eye can see. One feels it is not just the seedlings, but the colour green itself that is alive. Grass spills over the road through the ravine, a swathe of green as eye-catching as any newspaper headline. The willows extend their buds like the tongues of birds, while the poplar buds evoke the sprouting antlers of young deer. In the fields, I notice a dozen young birds (larks, perhaps) in haphazard flight; they flit like spirits, delicate and twitchy. Their feathers are almost the colour of earth, fading from view as they dip towards the ground. I have tried looking at them through a telescope, but it’s impossible to get a clear glimpse. (Something else in the distance catches my attention: a girl dressed in red with a book in her hands, pacing back and forth along the pavement outside the new high-tech development zone). Darling youth, the vigour of new life, the glee of innocence, an air of ascent, the fence of the horizon; these fields are like a nursery beneath the sun.“After Jingzhe, warmth is here.” Jingzhe marks the point where spring asserts its control.【日期：农历三月初九；公历4月5日。时辰：辰时8时6分。天况：晦。气温：17°C－8°C。风力：零或一级。】作为节气，清明非常普通，它的本义为，“万物生长此时，皆清洁而明净，故谓之清明”。但在二十四节气中清明后来例外地拥有了双重身份：即它已越过农事与农业，而演变成了一个与华夏人人相关的民间传统节日。就我来说，清明是与童年跟随祖母上坟的经历和杜牧那首凄美的诗连在一起的，它们奠定了我对清明初始的与基本的感知、印象和认识。我想未来也许只有清明还能使已完全弃绝于自然而进入“数字化生存”的人们，想起古老（永恒）的二十四节气。二十四节气的神奇、信誉与不朽的经典性质，在于它的准确甚至导致了人们这样的认识：天况、气象、物候在随着一个个节气的更番而准时改变。与立春和立秋类同，清明也是一个敏感的、凸显的显性节气，且富于神秘、诡异气氛。也许因其已经演变为节日，故清明的天况往往出人意外地与它的词义相反（这在二十四节气里是个特例），而同这一节日的特定人文蕴涵紧密关联。在我的经验里，清明多冽风、冥晦或阴雨；仿佛清明天然就是“鬼节”，天然就是阳间与阴界衔接、生者与亡灵呼应的日子。今年的清明，又是一个典型例证。延续了数日的阴天，今天忽然发生了变化：天空出现了太阳。这是可以抬头直视的太阳，地面不显任何影子（与往日光芒万丈的着装不同，太阳今天好像是微服出访）。整个田野幽晦，氤氲、迷蒙，千米以外即不见景物，呈现出一种比夜更令人可怖的阴森气氛。麦田除了三两个俯身寻觅野菜的镇里居民外，没有劳作的农民。渲染着这种气氛的，是隐在远处的一只鸟不时发出的“噢、噢、噢”单调鸣叫。它的每声鸣叫都拉得很长，似乎真是从冥界传来的。这是一种我不知其名、也未见过其形的夜鸟，通常影视作品欲为某一月黑之夜杀机四伏的情节进行铺垫时，利用的就是这种鸟的叫声。从田野返回的路上，我在那片高新技术产业开发区一家药业公司圈起待建的荒地内，看到一群毛驴，大小约二十头，近旁有一位中年农民。我走了进去，和中年农民攀谈起来。他是河北张北人，驴即来自那一带。这是购集来供应镇里餐馆的。我问：驴总给人一种苦相感，农民是不是不大喜欢它们？中年农民答：不，农民对驴还是很有感情的，甚至比对马还有感情；驴比马皮实，耐劳，不挑食，好喂养，比马的寿命也长。1998: The Twenty-Four Solar Terms
By Wei An
Translated by Dave Haysom
Qingming (Pure Brightness, the Fifth Solar Term)
Date: Ninth of the Third Moon (April 5th)
Time: 8:06 AM
Weather: Dark
Temperature: 8 to 17 degrees Celsius
Windforce: 0-1
Qingming is one of the most familiar solar terms. “Everything is growing, and all is pure and bright, hence the name of Pure Brightness.” This is the original sense of the name, but Qingming’s split identity makes it unique among the solar terms: it has transcended farming and agriculture, becoming a traditional folk holiday for all of China. I will always associate Qingming with the childhood memories of paying respects at graves with my grandmother, with the exquisite melancholy of Du Mu’s poem—they constitute the foundation of everything Qingming means to me. In the future, I believe, Qingming alone will remind people of the ancient (eternal) solar terms, when they have completely forsaken nature for a digital existence.
The mystery, prestige, and longevity of the solar terms resides in their accuracy. This is what allows people to recognise the changes in the sky, the weather and seasonal phenomena, following the punctual shift from each solar term to the next. Like Lichun (Start of Spring) and Liqiu (Start of Autumn), Qingming is a delicate, conspicuous term, bringing with it a mysterious, eerie mood. Perhaps because of its conversion into a festival, the sky of Qingming often turns the exact opposite of pure brightness (making it unique among the twenty-four), preserving its inseparable connection with this season’s humanity. In my experience, Qingming tends to bring a biting wind, tenebrosity, or rain—a natural backdrop to a festival of ghosts, a link between the world of life and the world of shadows, a day when the living converse with the dead.
This year’s Qingming is a typical example. After many dark days, today saw a sudden change: the sun appeared in the sky, the kind of sun you can look straight at, that projects no shadows onto the ground. (Today the sun foregoes its radiant attire and appears incognito.) The fields are dim, thick with mist, and nothing beyond a kilometre away is visible, a sinister atmosphere spookier than night. Apart from a few locals stooping in the fields, foraging for wild herbs, there are no farmers working. The occasional monotone caw of an unseen bird intensifies the mood. Each cry is long, drawn out, as if it comes to us from the realm of ghosts. It is some kind of nocturnal bird I cannot name, whose shape I have never seen. In films, when they want to foreshadow a murder on some dark January night, this is the sound they use.
On the road back from the fields, I see a group of donkeys in the development zone, about twenty in number, with a middle-aged farmer nearby. I go over and strike up a conversation with him. He’s from Zhangbei in Hebei, and so are his donkeys. He brought them here to sell to the local restaurants. Donkeys always seem miserable, I say. Is that why farmers don’t particularly like them? Not true, he replies, farmers have a lot of affection for their donkeys, even more than for their horses. Donkeys are more durable, they work harder, they aren’t fussy eaters—they’re easy to keep. And they live longer than horses.
Dave Haysom was joint managing editor of Pathlight from 2014 to 2018. Recent translations include Cherries on a Pomegranate Tree by Li Er, Nothing But the Now by Wen Zhen, and Against the Body by Yu Yoyo (with A.K. Blakemore). His essays and reviews have appeared in Granta, Words Without Borders, The Millions, and China Channel, and his portfolio is online at spittingdog.net.编注：题图照片为苇岸所摄。以上英文版首发于 Spittoon Literary Magazine 第八期：spittoonlitmag.com/issue8
