Coisas Sobrenaturais do Nordeste

I was born in a small mountain village in the Greater Khingan Range forest area. Surviving was truly a matter of luck.

That was a time when only one child per family was allowed; the entire village was sterilized. No one was permitted to have more than one child. If by chance a woman became pregnant and intended to keep the baby, the consequences were severe—houses would be dismantled, cattle taken away, and it was almost a life-for-life matter.

Women who had already given birth to one child were forbidden from having another.

The Women’s Federation director visited homes daily, nine to five, rain or shine, unless the menfolk took drastic measures to sever that desire. Even then, the director would glare and keep a close watch, fearing the young wives would slip away to chat and plot.

What if someone wanted to have another child?

They had to hide it. As long as it wasn’t discovered, they could pay a fine after the child was born.

In the early 1990s, a farmer’s annual income was barely a thousand yuan. A fine of eight or ten thousand was an astronomical sum—one that could ruin a family.

Probably for that reason, from my earliest memories, I was alone.

I suppose someone couldn’t afford the fine and abandoned me.

I lived at the land temple at the village entrance, which had no windows—freezing in winter, scorching in summer. Fortunately, the locals were Buddhists who regularly made offerings, so I managed to scrape by.

When I grew older and more aware, I sought out the village Party secretary, asking if he could fi