The distant sounds of strings and drums

 　　In my old home in Boye village, there's a huge stone mortar in the center of the village, its concave hole smooth and round. The elders say it was used by a waterwheel to drive a wooden mallet to pound flour. The innocent children loved to lie on the mortar listening to storytellers sing Xihe Dagu (a type of storytelling performance).

　　The evening breeze carried the clearly audible crackling sounds, filled the air with the unique fragrance of green plants, and the crops were growing wildly. After finishing their work in the fields, the men bickered as they returned to the village, while the women turned to their own vegetable gardens to pick some vegetables to cook. Every family ate the same meal: yam noodles. The noodle press in the gate creaked and groaned as the women, carrying earthenware basins, lined up to have their noodles pressed, chattering about everyday matters, while the children urged them on.

　　Before the pale yellow moon had even climbed above the treetops, the drumbeats began, resounding in the children's hearts. Soon it would be time to start the book reading. The children shoveled the noodles from their rough porcelain bowls, gulped down the soup, and ran off like the wind.

　　At the street corner stood two stools and a table, on which sat a drum. A man and a woman were busy at work. The man took his stance, his right hand holding a drumstick thicker than chopsticks, striking it with a series of booming sounds, while his left hand struck out a crisp rhythm with an iron plowshare. The woman sat on the stool, playing a sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument), tuning it with a tinkling sound. The street corner was already filled with adults and children, and people would occasionally jeer and shout that the book reading should start soon. The man, while playing the drum, would tell witty remarks to amuse them. Seeing that there were quite a few people, the man clasped his hands in a fist and bowed, saying that he would let his young apprentice practice and broaden his horizons by singing a short piece called "Wine, Women, Wealth, and Temper." But it wasn't a young apprentice at all. The woman playing the sanxian was either his wife or his sister, and everyone started to jeer. The woman, however, seemed to have cotton in her ears, continuing to beat the drum for a while before launching into a saga of how wine, women, wealth, and power are harmful, making one think these four things are utterly despicable. Then, she changed the tune, singing of their benefits, such as how no feast is complete without wine and how few people live without women. Perhaps it was too far removed from the children's lives, because the children showed great dislike and kept jeering. When the woman finally finished, the man took the drumsticks, began playing the sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument), and started telling stories. They sang a section, then told a story, which adults and children alike listened to with great interest.

　　Under the hazy moonlight, the tinkling of the strings and the rhythm of the drums, along with the storytelling, echoed through the village shrouded in night.