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割稻比赛
九月底，村里的稻子全熟了，田头一直黄到天边。村长拿树枝在田里画了条线，八户人家各占一头，割稻比赛就算开了张。我爸在里头，我的差事是送水和喊加油。村长一声开始，镰刀在地里亮成一片，唰、唰，稻子一排排倒下，声音像雨落在屋顶上。
我跑到田埂上看我爸割稻。他的镰刀抡圆了，一把稻子齐刷刷倒下，他头都不抬。他旁边是老张叔，瘦瘦矮矮，手脚却快，两个人扯了个平手。田埂上的人喊得嗓子都劈了。我怕踩坏稻茬，踮着脚沿埂跑，攥着衣角喊爸快点，喊到嗓子冒烟。
比赛有规矩：割倒的稻子要码成人字形靠在埂边，乱堆的罚重割。我爸码稻子也整齐，一把一把靠得匀匀的。我数着我们那一行的稻把子，一、二、三，数到二十几就乱了，索性改成喊加油。
日头爬到头顶，比赛歇晌。我从家里拎来大暖壶，两只手各提一只，一路打晃地跑到田头。壶里是绿豆汤，倒进杯底沉着一层豆沙。叔伯们蹲在地边咕咚咕咚灌，喝完抹嘴，说我送的水比去年家的甜。我爸喝得最快，嘴角挂着几滴汤，手背一擦，又下了地。
第二轮开赛，我爸的镰刀像长了翅膀，慢慢压过老张叔半头。老张叔不恼，还喊：慌什么，稻茬留高了，回头你收不完。地里的人都笑。笑声混着镰刀声，田野比赶集还热闹。
日头偏西，比赛收场，我爸赢了半行。村长没有奖品，抱了抱拳，说明年给赢的人备一暖壶绿豆汤。众人又笑，说明年自己送水。
傍晚回家，我们沿田埂走，我爸肩上挑着稻子，我抱着镰刀和空暖壶。夕阳把影子拉得很长，新割的稻茬冒出青草味。村里的炊烟直直地升起来。我爸忽然说，今年谷子饱，冬天新米给你蒸年糕。我抱着暖壶嗯了一声，手上还全是绿豆汤的味道。
The Rice-Cutting Contest
At the end of September, the whole village’s rice was ripe, and the field heads lay golden all the way to the sky. The village head drew a line in the field with a stick, eight households each took one end, and the rice-cutting contest began. My father was in it, and my job was to carry water and cheer. At the village head’s shout of start, sickles flashed in the field, swish, swish, rice stalks fell row after row, the sound like rain on a roof.
I ran along the field ridge to watch my father. His sickle swung in a wide arc, a handful of rice fell at once, and he never raised his head. The man beside him was old Zhang Shu, thin and short but fast, and the two kept even. The people on the ridge shouted themselves hoarse. Afraid of trampling the stubble, I tiptoed along the ridge, clutching my hem, shouting Dad, go faster until my voice went hoarse.
The contest had rules: cut rice had to be propped into a leaning shape against the ridge, and a messy pile meant cutting it over. My father stacked his bundles neatly too, each one leaning evenly. I counted the bundles in our row, one, two, three, lost count past twenty, and gave up and went back to cheering.
When the sun climbed overhead, the contest paused. I lugged the big thermos from home, one in each hand, staggering all the way to the field head. It was full of mung bean soup, and the poured cups had a layer of bean pulp at the bottom. The uncles squatted at the field edge and gulped, then smacked their lips and said my water was sweeter than last year’s. My father drank fastest, wiped a few drops from his mouth with the back of his hand, and went back into the field.
The second round began. My father’s sickle seemed to grow wings, and he slowly edged ahead of old Zhang Shu. Old Zhang Shu did not get angry; he shouted over: do not rush, you leave the stubble too high. Everyone in the field laughed. The laughter mixed with the sound of sickles, and the field was livelier than the market.
When the sun tilted west, the contest ended, and my father won by half a row. The village head had no prize but clasped his hands and promised a thermos of mung bean soup for next year’s winner. Everyone laughed again, saying they would carry their own water next year.
On the dusk road home, we walked along the ridge, father carrying rice on his shoulder, me carrying the sickle and the empty thermos. The setting sun stretched our shadows long, and the fresh stubble gave off a green grassy smell. From the village chimneys, cooking smoke rose straight up. Father said suddenly: this year’s grain is plump; when the new rice comes in winter, we will make you rice cakes. I hugged the thermos and said mm, my hands still smelling of mung bean soup.
田头的绿豆汤
小雁头天夜里就把绿豆泡上了。第二天鸡叫头遍她起来熬汤，熬得豆皮全开了花，晾在两只木桶里。她爹下地参赛，她妈走不开，送水这差事她揽了。她说自己是六年级的大孩子了，拎两桶水不在话下。
赶到田头时，割稻比赛正赛到第二轮。八个人的镰刀在地里排开，唰唰声连成一片，稻子一排排伏下去。田埂上挤着看热闹的孩子和老人，加油声一浪盖过一浪。小雁挤不进去，就站在老槐树底下等，看哪个身影是她爹。她爹割稻有个记号：镰刀使得快，稻茬留得矮，远看那一行最齐。
歇晌的哨子一响，小雁提着桶就过去了。木桶晃得厉害，绿豆汤泼出来几星，洇湿了她的鞋面。她把桶墩在田埂下，拿瓢挨个舀。叔伯们排着队，有人开玩笑，说小雁这汤熬得稠，瓢都立得住。小雁脸一红，说熬糊了别怪她。众人灌完汤，抹抹嘴又下了地，哨子再响，唰唰声又连起来。
她爹那行跟老陈家的扯了个平。第二轮到后半，她爹的镰刀忽然快起来，一把接一把，稻把子码成人字靠满半条田埂。老陈叔在后头喊：年轻人悠着点，闪了腰没人背你回家。田埂上的人笑成一片，小雁也笑，笑完才想起来喊加油，扯着嗓子喊她爹，声音混在人声里，她自己都听不清。
比赛在日头偏西时收了场。她爹赢了小半行，得了村长一句明年备奖品的许诺，众人又是一阵笑。人们三三两两往村里走，镰刀扛在肩上，稻茬地里的气味一路跟着。
小雁挑着空桶走在最后。桶轻，她偏要让它一晃一晃地响，木柄磕在桶沿上，笃、笃。夕阳把田埂照成金色，她影子在前头跑。走到村口，她妈迎出来接桶，问她汤都喝光了没有。她说一滴不剩。她妈说那就好，回家她爹新米蒸饭，管够。小雁嗯了一声，脚步比来时还快。
Mung Bean Soup at the Field Head
Xiao Yan soaked the mung beans the night before. She got up at the first cockcrow to boil them, boiled until every bean skin burst open, and let the soup cool in two wooden buckets. Her father was in the contest and her mother could not leave home, so she took the job of carrying water herself. She said she was a sixth-grader now, a big kid, and two buckets of water were no trouble.
When she reached the field head, the contest was in its second round. Eight sickles were spread across the field, their swishing running into one sound, rice falling row after row. Children and old people crowded the ridge, and the cheering came in waves. Xiao Yan could not squeeze in, so she waited under the old locust tree, looking for her father’s figure. Her cutting had a mark: fast sickle, low stubble, and from far off his row was the neatest.
At the whistle for the break, she carried her buckets over. The buckets sloshed; a few splashes of soup wet the tops of her shoes. She set them down at the foot of the ridge and ladled out cup by cup. The uncles lined up, and one joked that her soup was so thick a ladle would stand in it. Xiao Yan blushed and said do not blame her if it burned. They gulped, wiped their mouths, went back to work, and at the second whistle the swishing joined up again.
Her father’s row ran even with old Chen’s for a while. In the second half of the round his sickle suddenly sped up, handful after handful, bundles propped in leaning rows along half the ridge. Old Chen shouted from behind: take it easy, young man, no one will carry you home if you throw out your back. The crowd on the ridge roared, and Xiao Yan roared with them, then remembered to cheer and shouted for her father, her voice lost in the crowd, inaudible even to herself.
The contest ended as the sun tilted west. Her father won by less than half a row and earned the village head’s promise of a prize next year, and the crowd laughed again. People drifted back toward the village in twos and threes, sickles on their shoulders, the smell of fresh stubble following them all the way.
Xiao Yan carried the empty buckets at the rear of the crowd. The buckets were light, but she made them sway and knock anyway, the wooden handles tapping the rims, tok, tok. The setting sun gilded the ridge, and her shadow ran ahead of her. At the village entrance her mother came out to take the buckets and asked if all the soup was gone. She said not a drop. Her mother said good, then: your father will steam dinner from the new rice, enough for everyone. Xiao Yan said mm, and her steps were faster than on the way out.
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