The Starry Sky at the Bottom of the Well

Wang Laowu, known as "Old Man Wang," wasn't ancient, just past sixty, his back a bit stooped, like the old walnut tree at the village entrance—looking withered but still sturdy-boned. He'd spent over half his life scraping a living from this yellow earth in eastern Henan, knowing the dirt clods better than his own kin. The village, Wangjia Gada, wasn't large, just a few dozen households where chickens and dogs were familiar sounds. Life flowed like the river at the village edge—seemingly moving, yet always the same old routines, undisturbed by waves.

At the west end of the village sat a dry well, ancient; elders said it dated back to the Republic era. A stone slab covered its mouth tightly, surrounded by overgrown weeds where rabbits sometimes nested. The well had long run dry, becoming a forbidden spot for children playing hide-and-seek, a "spooky place" in adult whispers. No one usually went near it. Only Old Man Wang, whose house was close by, would sometimes move a small stool there after tiring from tending his vegetable garden. He'd sit under the old locust tree not far from the well, smoking his pipe and staring blankly at the stone slab.

This day, the sun beat down fiercely, baking the ground hot. Old Man Wang thought of moving his sheep to a cooler spot, but the rope wasn't long enough. He remembered seeing half a hemp rope discarded near the dry well. Shuffling in his cloth shoes, he ambled over. The weeds by the well had grown wilder, past his knees. He pushed through the undergrowth and immediately spotted the dirty, stiff hemp rope, and also—the stone slab seemed to have been moved, revealing a crack.

"Hey, which little rascal has been messing around again?" Old Man Wang grumbled, slightly annoyed. He moved closer, bent down, intending to reposition the slab. An indescribable smell, cool and carrying the scent of earth, plus something else, wafted out from the crack, hitting his nostrils. Old Man Wang frowned, curiosity piqued. He put in some effort and shifted the slab halfway open.

It was pitch black underneath, nothing visible. He picked up a dirt clod and tossed it down. A muffled "thump" echoed back, no sound of water. Puzzled, he craned his neck to look inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw it—not a muddy bottom, but... white things, layered densely, like firewood stacked in winter, or perhaps... bones?

Old Man Wang's heart thumped; his legs felt weak. He straightened up, took two steps back, and finished the rest of his pipe tobacco, puffing rapidly. In the swirling smoke, his face was whiter than the bottom of the well. He didn't raise an alarm, silently replaced the stone slab, and stamped the surrounding earth firm with his foot, as if covering up a colossal secret, or performing some kind of silent ritual.

He didn't go home, heading straight for the village committee office. The village party secretary, Old Li, was playing cards with several other village cadres. The room was thick with smoke, filled with laughter and curses. Old Man Wang stood at the doorway, opened his mouth, but couldn't speak for a long moment.

"Yo, Old Man Wang, what's up? Why's your face as white as a plastered wall?" Old Li asked, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Old Li... that dry well..." Old Man Wang's voice trembled. "Down below... seems like it's full of... human bones!"

The card game stopped abruptly with a clatter. The smoke seemed to freeze. Several pairs of eyes stared fixedly at Old Man Wang, as if looking at a madman talking nonsense.

"What stuff?" Old Li stubbed out his cigarette butt on the table. "Are your old eyes playing tricks on you?"

"No! It's true! A whole layer of white, stacked so high!" Old Man Wang grew anxious, gesturing. "And the smell isn't right!"

The matter inevitably blew up. Old Li didn't dare delay. Taking a few brave young men, armed with flashlights and shovels, he followed Old Man Wang to the dry well. The stone slab was completely removed. Flashlight beams pierced the well's bottom. The sight made everyone gasp.

It wasn't just a few bones; it was countless white skeletons, layered densely, pressed together, in various poses, as if frozen in a moment of silent screams. Some skulls bore dark holes. The flashlight beam swept across, revealing a grim scene.

"My heavens..." A young man covered his mouth, nearly gagging.

Old Li's face turned ashen. He pulled out his phone, his hand shaking violently, and dialed the town's number.

Soon, people arrived from the town, then the county—some in uniform, some in plain clothes, and others looking like experts in white gloves carrying cases. A cordon was set up around the dry well; onlookers were kept out. Wangjia Gada erupted like cold water hitting hot oil. Doorsteps were nearly worn down by visitors. People whispered, speculated, feared, and grew excited, a mix of emotions simmering like a boiling pot of杂烩 (zahui - mixed stew).

"Heard they died during the war!"

"They're martyrs! Definitely martyrs!" someone declared decisively, face flushed with the excitement of finding treasure.

"What martyrs? Who knows if they weren't just moved from some old burial ground..." Others pursed their lips, feeling it was bad luck.

Old Man Wang became the village's focal point. People surrounded him, asking questions incessantly, as if he were not the old farmer who tilled the soil, but a witness to history. Old Man Wang, like a puppet, repeated the story of his discovery over and over, his eyes vacant. He couldn't understand how this dry well, familiar since his childhood, had become this. Who were those white bones? How could they have lain there for so many years?

Experts worked meticulously down in the well, cleaning, numbering, recording. Word was, the initial estimate suggested nearly a hundred sets of remains. When the news spread, it caused an even bigger sensation. Reporters came too, aiming their long lenses and microphones at the well, the villagers, and the silent Old Man Wang.

A few days later, the preliminary conclusion was announced: the remains were indeed soldiers who died during the war years, likely martyrs from a failed breakout battle whose bodies couldn't be retrieved. The county decided to build a martyrs' cemetery and hold a solemn reburial ceremony.

Wangjia Gada suddenly turned solemn and respectful. The villagers' faces no longer showed curiosity or gossip, but something heavy. Children stopped playing near the well. The dry well became like an eye of history that had suddenly opened, gazing at everyone.

On the day of the reburial, red flags fluttered, and mournful music played. Leaders gave speeches, commemorating the fallen heroes, every word resounding. All the villagers attended, wearing white flowers pinned to their chests, standing silently. Old Man Wang went too, standing at the back of the crowd. He watched the coffins draped in red flags being carried away, feeling an emptiness inside.

The ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed. The cordon was removed. The well was covered again, not with the broken stone slab, but with a heavy concrete lid inscribed with words explaining its story. Everything seemed to return to normal, yet something was different.

Old Man Wang returned to the shade of the old locust tree and lit his pipe. He looked at the sealed concrete well cover, as if looking at a giant tomb. He thought of the white bones, the experts' careful movements, the leaders' impassioned tones, the changing expressions on the villagers' faces. It all felt like a grand play that had reached its climax and then ended.

But what about those people at the bottom of the well? Who were they? What were their names? What were they thinking when they died? Their parents, their wives, their children? No one knew anymore. Nearly a hundred living souls had lain silently in the dark well for decades, until accidentally stumbled upon by him, an old dirt farmer.

He smoked, the haze blurring his vision. He seemed to see the bottom of the well again—those layers upon layers of white bones, in the darkness, didn't they look like... like scattered, shattered stars? He shivered. The thought struck him as absurd, yet deeply sorrowful.

The sun was setting, casting a dim yellow glow over Wangjia Gada. Chickens went back to their coops, dogs dozed at doorsteps, cooking smoke curled upwards. Life seemed to have returned to its old track. Only the well was no longer the same well. It had become a marker, a symbol, an "incident" occasionally mentioned. And the souls who had rested there for so long, only to be disturbed, their stories, beyond the collective title of "martyrs," were ultimately swallowed by a deeper darkness.

Old Man Wang stood up, brushed the dirt off his clothes, and, back stooped, slowly walked home. He didn't look back at the well. He felt it was better not to see that "starry sky" at the bottom of the well—it was too cold, too deep, unsettling to behold. He just wanted to go home, have some hot soup, and sleep soundly. Tomorrow's sun would rise as usual, wouldn't it? But who could say how many such "starry skies" lay buried beneath this yellow earth. He sighed, a sound almost imperceptible, like the wind rustling through dry grass.