were just finished, and there was so much work for the walls, the steps.
He wanted so badly to go home and see his wife and son. If only he was allowed… Yang mused, smiling
humorlessly to himself, jumping when the crack of a whip sounded behind him, and he hurried on with work,
telling himself, he would do this. He would do this for Yue and Hang. He would do this for his country.
Three years later, as Yang continued his daily job of constructing the huge stone structure the Emperor
was intent upon completing, he was painfully aware that, far away back in the village, Yue was raising their son
alone. Hong was already three years old. How would his son have felt? To grow up without a father? Yang
wished that he could be there for his son, he wished that he could teach his child how to plough the fields, to
look after the seedlings and to predict the weather.
Maybe he would never have the chance.
Still, Yang refused to give up. He would do this. He would do this for Yue and Hang. He would do this
for his country.
Four more years later, Yang lay on the ground, panting, gasping for breath as the slave driver’s foot
pressed heavily into his already hurting, skinned back. He carefully tuned out the man’s angry voice,
concentrating, instead, on a wet spot of concrete on the ground, refusing to let himself feel the pain.
He would not give up. He would not let them kill him.
Another heavy blow landed on his back, pain sparking along his nerves, and Yang gritted his teeth,
determined not to cry out.
Stupid man, useless slave, good-for-nothing idiot… Insults and physical blows rained down from the
group of slave drivers down to him, and Yang felt feet and fists connect with flesh and bones, leaving bruises
and welts.
The whip came next.
Yang didn’t bother counting this time. He just bit his lip and felt as pain and blood blossomed across
his back in sharp, wrenching lashes. He could feel more kicks, more punches, more trampling feet and throwing
of stones.
Yang faintly wondered what he did wrong. Did he misplace a few stones? Or did he take a short break?
He wasn’t sure anymore, but silently endured the endless pain cascading down upon him.
As he faded into black oblivion of pain and fatigue, Yang tried desperately to cling onto his final shreds
of consciousness, still thinking, dimly, he would hang on. He would hang on for Yue and Hang. He would hang
on for his family. He would hang on for his country.
As much as he tried, Yang didn’t manage in the end.
Years later, a troop marched down the Great Wall of China, or so everyone called it.
Hang, armed with a sword, a strung bow and a quiver of arrows, clad in the army uniform, walked proudly
down the Wall, head held high as the army advanced the oncoming enemy fearlessly.
Looking down to the endless slabs of stone and cement under his feet, Hong recalled the tales of his
father’s death when he was involved in the construction of the Wall, which was now the country’s major means
defense against exterior attacks from wild tribes.
I will do this. I will do this for Father and Mother. I will do this for my country.
And Hang rushed into battle, running down the Great Wall his father had died building. For their country.
* * *