Chapter Seven Measuring the mountain’s latitude and pondering waterworks, Visiting the Xu family temple where the lady sits by the bedside

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It had been two years since the Taoist left Deer-Crane Ravine.

The first year had passed tolerably, but last autumn the harvest was poor. The villagers barely scraped through the winter, and when counting up, they found that more than thirty souls, old and young alike, had perished in the valley. While the Xu family celebrated a vibrant Spring Festival, the ordinary homes in the ravine were shrouded in bleakness.

Even the mountain monsters joined in the misery. A family sent someone up the mountain to forage for acorns; when he was finally found, only a pile of white bones remained. The elders in the village said he had been devoured by a phantom beast lurking in the mountains.

These events served as warnings to Xu Wenshan: at present, he was but a reed capable only of thought—a mere wisp, unnecessary for the entire otherworld to rise against. A handful of monsters would be enough to finish him off.

In fact, there was no need for monsters at all. The harsh, unforgiving land of Deer-Crane Ravine alone could entrap and kill him.

Yet Xu Wenshan did not despair. Since thinking was his only weapon, he would wield it to its utmost.

In the calendar of this world, a year comprised a little over three hundred days. However, after two years of observation, Xu Wenshan found the reckoning to be fairly accurate. On the day of the spring equinox, he planted a bamboo pole into the ground and, with a ruler, measured its shadow over and over.

On the vernal equinox, day and night are equal. By using the ratio of the shadow to the pole’s height and applying trigonometry, he calculated the angle of the sun at noon. Then, by noting the intervals between the spring and autumn equinoxes, he could deduce the latitude of the tropic and, ultimately, his own location.

According to Xu Wenshan’s calculations, the local latitude was approximately between twenty-two and twenty-five degrees, with the tropic situated at around twenty.

Deer-Crane Ravine lay near the tropic.

This was not, strictly speaking, good news, but it might yet turn out to be. For this latitude was a miraculous one.

At this belt, lands tended either toward extreme hardship or extraordinary fortune. For example: the Arabian Peninsula, North Africa, the American Midwest, and Central Asia—all regions of subtropical desert climate. Dominated year-round by the subtropical high-pressure belt, these areas are like pressure cookers with prevailing down-currents and perennial drought, making agriculture impossible.

Yet, there was one place at this latitude, uniquely blessed, that had developed a brilliant agrarian civilization: the middle and lower reaches of the Yangtze River in Huaxia. Owing to a confluence of factors, this region formed a unique subtropical monsoon climate.

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Agriculture is the bedrock upon which civilizations are built, and climate determines, to a great extent, the heights to which a civilization’s agriculture can rise.

Only two countries in the world possess vast swaths of subtropical monsoon climate: one is the Celestial Empire, the other is America. Consider that.

Thus, this climate is a magical one, this latitude a miraculous belt.

The problem was, though Deer-Crane Ravine lay at this latitude, it did not enjoy that magical climate; its fate was of the harsher variety.

Xu Wenshan was nearly certain that eastward from Deer-Crane Ravine, beyond the mountains, one would encounter vast stretches of humid subtropical monsoon climate—plenty of water and heat, fertile fields for miles. However, the mountains surrounding the ravine formed a wall, blocking the moist monsoon air from the east. The resulting lack of rainfall condemned the area to a miserable desert climate.

The Taoist had once said, “Two thousand li to the east lies the Endless Sea. Here, two thousand li westward, are the Boundless Mountains. Three thousand li to the north is the wasteland; three thousand li south, the rainforest.” This corroborated Xu Wenshan’s deduction. Deer-Crane Ravine must be inland, with a vast ocean to the east—geographically akin to Huaxia’s southern interior in his past life, except that the ravine was situated in the west.

Fortunately, to the west lay the “Boundless Mountains.” Every summer, Deer-Crane Ravine entered its flood season, and two meager streams would fill with cool, clear water. Xu Wenshan surmised that beyond those mountains was a plateau, and each year’s meltwater flowed down to the ravine, allowing the seed of civilization to sprout in this mountain hollow.

But two streams were not enough. Water scarcity limited the amount of arable land, trapping the villagers in poverty and threatening his own family’s standing.

If only the water problem could be solved, Deer-Crane Ravine could become a treasure trove in the mountains.

Water management: that was Xu Wenshan’s conclusion.

But water management is not a matter of mere desire. Xu Wenshan was only the son of a landlord, lacking the authority of grand cause, and could not spare the labor needed for hydraulic works.

At present, all the peasants were preoccupied with their own plots. Without authority or incentive, they would not heed his call. Besides, every worker diverted meant one less peasant tending to the fields. With the ravine's meager workforce and his family’s scant granary, how many laborers could they really afford to put to work?

These problems were not ones to be solved overnight.

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Unconsciously, it was already late at night. Xu Wenshan extinguished the lamp, took up the candlestick, and headed to his room to sleep.

By day, Xu Wenshan always stayed in his study, thinking and learning; after leaving the study, he had to walk a stretch of muddy path to reach his bedroom.

Holding the candle, his shadow stretched in disorder across the fence. Xu Wenshan glanced up at the sky—the bright moon hung high; it seemed tomorrow would be a clear day.

He pushed open his bedroom door, set the candle on the table, and was just about to undress when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something indistinct on the bed.

Xu Wenshan’s body went rigid; he dared not move.

He was certain there was someone there.

Or rather, what was there was not quite human.

“You’re back,” said the figure sitting on the bed. It was a woman’s voice.

And a very familiar voice at that.

Xu Wenshan was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. This scene had happened once before—two years ago.

“It’s you…” Xu Wenshan said. “I thought you wouldn’t return for ten years…”

On the bed sat Lu Ze, the temple maiden, whom the Taoist had personally suppressed two years ago.