As kids we knew it as the ‘History Sense.’
You found it in every Welsh castle, every old ruin, Neolithic tomb or seaside cave we had ever been to on holiday. A musty, damp, dirty smell, flirting with the odour of stale urine.
‘Now, Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, take note, you have just 20 minutes to enjoy the Great Wall of China, this miracle of Chinese construction. We must be back on the tour bus by 3pm sharp or we go without you, and you will miss the joyful tea-tasting session we have arranged just for you.’
There was a nervous but frustrated chuckle among my fellow travellers. The guide, holding a stick aloft, topped by a fading tattered teddy bear was being jostled away by a rival group.
‘They say a million people died building this wall. They say their bones are buried beneath the stones.’ Her voice trailed away, caught in the contraflow of humanity.
I was suddenly alone.
In either direction, the wall swept violently up and down, this way and that, following the dramatic contours of the landscape. Most visitors opted for the gentler option, to take selfies, but I could just see there was a sentry post not so very far way, and probably just achievable in the time allowed, so off I set with determination up the slope.
I burst breathlessly into the cooling embrace of the tower, a young Spanish couple were completing a round of selfies, excusing themselves for making me wait for slightly too long as they tried to get that ‘just right’ spontaneous smile, the perfect off-the-cuff natural pose. I smiled back, patiently.
Then, alone again. Alone apart from that ‘history smell.’
A breeze picked up and seemed to spirit the chatter of the other tourists away somewhere into the distance. There was a beauty in that silent peace, and I closed my eyes momentarily to savour it. Opening them again, everything around me, every concrete thing and fact began to take on a slightly ridiculous reality. As though none of this was real. Nothing I was experiencing felt true.
And then, a noise. Faint at first but then getting stronger and stronger, and closer and closer. A rhythmic chip-chip-chipping of metal on stone. There in the corner, Why had I not noticed him before, was a young man, mid-twenties maybe, squatting on the dirt floor and fashioning what appeared to be a block of stone, not unlike those making up the wall. He looked up at me and smiled.
‘Cool in here?’ I added shivering gestures, to cross the language barrier.
‘Bit too damp for my liking!’ the young man said, continuing to chip-chip away at the block. His flawless albeit more artisan than academic English seeming out of place.
‘How long does it take? I assumed he was and employee of the attraction. An actor, or maybe even a stone mason employed to chat to tourists.
‘To make each block? An eternity!’ He grinned broadly.
‘Why is your English so good? Did you study there, in England I mean?’ He seemed confused by the question, a battle for understanding in his eyes. He paused for a few moments and then returned to his task.
‘Of course it’s my fault.’ He said, moving the conversation on. He was talking as though it was mid conversation.
‘What is? What’s your fault?’
‘My wife … we live in a village a few miles from here, and well she heard, well actually she was told by officials, that I’d been killed. Building the wall. Fell, they told her. No consoling her apparently. She came looking for my body, to bury me at home.
That’s the Tradition.’ Chip-chip. Chip-chip.
‘When she got here, they told her I was long gone, and my bones had been ground up with rice flour to make the mortar to hold the wall up. Oh, the wailing, you could hear it for miles.’ Chip-chip. He blew the dust away.
‘She cried so much, a great river of tears, and eventually they turned into a lake, and that undermined the wall, and then … it collapsed. She died heartbroken, they said.’ Chip-chip, blow.
‘Irony was, I was only about a mile away, building another part of the wall. Well, as you can imagine, the Emperor was furious. Had me dragged before him. Told me in no uncertain terms that I had to stay right here until the wall was finished.’ Chip-chip.
‘It’ll take forever at this rate.’ He paused for a few moments, and then added dolefully, ‘They call it the longest cemetery in the world.’ He surveyed his handiwork carefully, paused from his work and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His shoulders slumped.
‘You know, you really should decide.’ He was now staring straight at me, but also it felt like he was looking right through me.
‘Decide what?’
‘Stop doing things that don’t matter. Decide how you are going to live.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He seemed concerned. Distracted, as though recalling things long forgotten.
‘And I suppose how you’ll die. While you still have time.’ It was said it in a matter-of-fact tone, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say.
The breeze picked up and there was a sudden clatter at my shoulder, and the stick with the teddy on top swung violently into view.
‘Five minutes, or we go without you.’ The tour guide set off in the direction of the bus escorted by some less adventurous travellers, clinging to her closely.
I turned back to the young stone mason, but he was gone. There was no trace of him or the block he was working on. How could he have moved that block so quickly?
Back out into the blazing sun, I walked away from the sentry post. Even against the chatter and babble of the hundreds of people clambering over the wall, I kept thinking
I could hear a noise – Chip-chip, chip-chip.
That smell of history still strong.
Adapted from the novel ‘The Little Red Thread.’
(All photos on this blog are my own and subject to copyright: © Rob Jones)
Great read Bob. You're very talented.