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The sky was high and clear, the clouds light, wild geese flying south. The water mirrored the blue of the mountains, the sun cast everything aglow with red. Amidst the verdant hills and green rivers, two kinds of red stood out: the winding ochre belonged to the surging Chishui River, while the swathes of fiery red were the endless fields of sorghum.

“It’s time to cut the sorghum! Hurry up!” The resounding voice of Sichuan dialect echoed through the mountains, signaling the start of the autumn harvest in the sixteenth year of the Hongzhi reign. This was the busiest time of the year; even the youngest boys took up sickles, joining the adults in the race to harvest sorghum.

Su Lu was no exception. He had been harvesting sorghum for three days straight and was just beginning to grasp the technique. These sorghum stalks were tall, tough, and slippery—nothing like the easy stalks of rice or wheat. You had to be steady and precise, with a touch of ferocity, which was why they called it “killing sorghum.”

To cut efficiently, first you hugged the stalks tightly with your left arm, keeping them from toppling every which way. Then, gripping the sickle with your right hand, you’d reach forward, pull back forcefully along the ridge, and let the stalks fall neatly into your embrace.

It was work that required strength and even more endurance. For a thirteen-year-old boy, it was exhausting. After several days, Su Lu’s back and legs were sore as if filled with lead. Each swing of the sickle sent a tearing pain through his right arm.

He forced himself to fini