My hometown, Jinsha County in Guizhou Province, China, belongs to the karst region, characterized by mountains upon mountains, hills upon hills, valleys, streams, and scattered caves.
My village is situated on a mountain, while neighboring villages are located on other mountains. The mountain that holds my village is directly across from another mountain, rising up from the exact bottom and forming a valley. Each mountain has multiple peaks, resembling the fingers of a hand; the taller the mountains grow, the smaller their peaks become, resembling cones. The valley is not long or straight but is blocked by other mountains at both ends. At a spot around two-thirds of the way up my mountain, a smaller mountain emerges, and at its base originates the only stream in my village.
When I was young, I would often cut grass for pigs along the stream with my little friends. The earth there is deep brown and loose, and we call it “sandy earth.” Various types of grasses for pigs thrived on the stream banks, and we would quickly fill our baskets. Afterwards, we would search for crabs, which always hid under the stones in the stream, or simply play with the cool and clear water.
In the middle of the valley, there is a flat piece of land above an artificial tunnel, through which the stream flows. It was said that the government had planned to construct a reservoir, but scientists opposed the idea because the land couldn’t hold water. Thus, the tunnel was left as a play area for children and provided shade for weary farmers during hot summers.
Running out of the tunnel, most of the water flowed towards the right side, irrigating the village’s only paddy fields. Before reaching the terrace-like rice fields, the water passed over two large connected sloping stones. The upper stone was steep and covered in moss, while the lower one was wide and flat. During summer noons, girls would bring their dirty clothes to the stream and place them on the flat stone. They would then step on the clothes to clean them before hanging them over the bushes to dry. While waiting for the clothes to dry, the girls would sit on the stones beneath the cypress trees, knitting sweaters, gossiping, and laughing. The boys, who were cowherds, would take naps or play cards in the shade of cool rocks under the trees, while their cows grazed in the bushes or drank water upstream from the sloping stones. Children, accompanied by their older siblings, would chase dragonflies in the fields using a homemade catching tool—a wire loop covered with spider nets attached to a long bamboo stick. Once a dragonfly touched the net, it was unlikely to escape. The sky was a vast blue, and the sun shone brightly.
The paddy fields were situated far from the residential center, with only one family living nearby. Whenever we went to our fields, we had to pass by that house. The old man living there was well-known for his uncut hair, which resembled a tangled nest and had turned a deep yellow color.
The remaining water in the stream continued to flow into the caves. Although my village was named “Three Caves,” there were actually four caves in a line below the tunnel: two above the road and two below it.
I had ventured into the second cave with one of my friends. Despite our parents forbidding us to enter the caves, our curiosity was too strong to resist the warnings. It was a summer noon, and due to the drought, there was a lack of grass for the pigs on the farms. My friend and I, both around ten years old, decided to explore the cave to see if there were any grasses inside. We each carried a bamboo basket on our backs and held sickles in our hands as we cautiously and slowly made our way into the cave, with our main concern being the presence of snakes.
The path was narrow and covered with tall grass that we had to cut through in order to find our way. It was disappointing to discover that the tall grass was not suitable for the pigs. As we descended further, the sunlight faded away, and our faces were greeted by cool air. It felt as if we had transitioned from a bright summer day to a deep autumn in an instant. Along the shallow areas on the rocks, we found thriving tender grass. In a short amount of time, our baskets were filled with grass. Leaving the baskets halfway, we continued our descent. The deeper we went, the drier the land became.
Eventually, there were no plants, only dry earth. At the base of the rock, antlions had burrowed into the dry, yellow soil, leaving behind numerous ring-shaped soil piles. We paused to observe the antlions but quickly grew bored and proceeded to the bottom of the cave. On one side, the entrance provided light, allowing us to see the yellow earth, the stones, the steep rocks, the dripping stalactites hanging above us, and strands of cirrus floating down from the high entrance. On the other side, opposite to us, darkness engulfed everything, and nothing could be seen except for the sound of rushing water. As the adults had told us, it was an invisible river that once flowed on the surface of the land, which was why there had been plans to build a reservoir. However, the river had suddenly disappeared. We threw stones into the darkness and heard them hit the rocks, with the sound echoing fainter and fainter. The echoes persisted for a significant amount of time before gradually fading away completely.
Cold and scared, our curiosity satisfied, the cave felt like another world devoid of sun, wind, and human presence, but filled with eerie sounds and unseen creatures. Our parents’ warnings echoed in our minds. We screamed, laughed, and hastily ran back to retrieve our baskets, leaving the darkness and coldness behind. Just as I had placed the basket on my back, a black snake slithered across my foot! The rest of that day, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that snakes were lurking behind me. When I arrived home, my mother inspected the grass and declared it unsafe for the pigs, so I disposed of it in the trash pile.
That was my only experience venturing into the cave, and it did not leave me with pleasant memories. However, there are numerous stories associated with the caves. One story dates back to the late 1980s when the entire town engaged in an activity called “hiding from falling rockets.” After a rocket was launched into the sky, its casing would descend onto certain areas around my hometown. Villagers, especially children, were excited and ran out to the mountains. Some neighbors sought refuge in the cave, but one of them ended up breaking her arm while climbing on a dry stone inside. As I grew older and learned about rockets, I realized that seeking shelter in the cave was a risky decision. If a rocket had fallen directly into the cave, it could have shattered the rocks and caused severe damage.
In another story, the most beautiful girl in my village married a man who lived far away. After giving birth to two children, he abandoned her. The girl returned to live with her parents, and her divorce was considered a significant shame. One day, while the girl and her family were planting potatoes near the caves, she jumped into the third cave, which was filled with tall trees! Fortunately, people discovered her lying at the bottom without any injuries. Villagers concluded that the trees in the third cave somehow reduced gravity and protected her.
In a third story, a drunken man walked along the road between the second and third cave, but no one knew why or how he fell into one of the caves. Firefighters from a distant city had to rescue him, but unfortunately, he didn’t survive.
The fourth cave, located at the bottom of the mountain and the furthest from the village, was called “Seven Girls’ Cave.” Unlike the other caves with expansive openings facing the sky, the entrance of the fourth cave resembled a small door tucked beneath a rock. Elderly residents shared a tale about seven girls who used to reside there, each adorned in a white silk dress with long black hair and exceptional beauty. However, they were unable to leave the cave because as soon as sunlight touched their bodies, they would instantly turn into black coal.
One of my farmlands features a few small holes, and when we threw stones into them, the sound echoed after a prolonged period. On the opposite mountain from my village, two caves can be seen within the white crevice. One of them is nestled within a protrusion resembling a cow’s nose, hence its name “Cow’s Nose Cave.” The older generation shared stories about humans who once inhabited these caves. However, given their vertical location in the crevice, it remains a mystery as to how people accessed them.
When the villagers installed water pipes from the stream to provide water to each family, the stream ceased to exist. Although I haven’t returned to the tunnel, I’m unsure whether it collapsed or not, but I am certain there are no longer any crabs. As I walked along the road between the caves after dinner, the entrance was no longer visible. People informed me that no one ventures into the caves anymore.
Last year, a cave was discovered in a neighboring town, adorned with stunning and unique stalactites. The government plans to develop it into a tourist attraction. Consequently, the people of my village suggest that the “Three Caves” should also be developed. However, experts argue that the “Three Caves” are not worth visiting.
But to me, the caves and stream hold immeasurable value. They not only represent my youthful memories but also symbolize my hometown today. Although I may never have the opportunity to revisit the tunnel, explore the caves, or dig for crabs in the stream again, their significance remains unmatched.
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