Twin Springs in Tuoquan Village: Water Veins and Time in the Deep Ditch

A Tale of the Twin Springs of Tuoquan Village: Water Veins and Time in the Deep Ravines

Tuoquan Village resembles a leaf held in the palm of a mountain. The two deep ravines running north and south represent the leaf's veins, while the two springs at the bottom of the ravines are the beating heart at the end of these veins. The Sigou Spring on the north side is lively, its gurgling waters nourishing the village's livelihood; the Ligou Spring on the south side is more tranquil, adhering to its own rhythm despite the passing of the seasons. These two springs face each other across the village, one bustling, the other quiet, bringing a gentle and long-lasting warmth to Tuoquan Village's days.

The Sigou Spring in the north ravine is hidden beneath an old locust tree in Sigou. While it's called a ravine, it's actually a narrow valley, its cliffs so steep on either side that it looks like they've been cut, leaving only a palm-sized flat expanse around the spring. The spring's source is a crack beneath a bluestone slab. As the water gushes out, it carries tiny bubbles with it, bubbling and gathering into a pool half a man's depth. The edges of the pool are covered with slippery green moss, and the stones, perpetually submerged in water, are emerald green. Villagers say the spring is "alive"—even during droughts when other ravines dry up, it still flows freely; during rainy seasons, when the mountain stream swells, its water remains clear and uncluttered, so clear that you can see the gravel at the bottom with a spoonful.

Sigou Spring is the village's "big water tank." In the early days, when there was no running water, villagers would rush to the spring before dawn, carrying wooden buckets. Their shoulder poles left red marks, and the buckets jingled against the stone pavement. Later, the village installed water pipes. Plastic pipes climbed along the mountainside, trailing like vines into each courtyard. Turn on the faucet, and spring water flows out, bringing a hint of the coolness of a mountain stream. Grandpa Wang's water jar is always overflowing. He says, "This water is sweeter than the water in the city." When he boils it for tea, the foam gathers on the rim of the cup. His grandson, accustomed to living in the city, always drinks half a ladleful from the jar whenever he returns.

This spring is not only lively but also generous. In the 1970s, the village wanted to plant rice, but the sloping fields were short of water. Village cadres led villagers, carrying hoes, to build a canal. The canal began at the spring, wound along the ravine, passed the old temple in Sigou, and climbed over two ridges, stretching for a full five miles. On the day the spring water flowed into the rice fields, the entire village clapped their hands on the ridges. Every autumn since then, the golden rice ears bent under the weight, and the grains, when threshed, were still stained with the moisture of the spring water. Today, the rice fields have been transformed into walnut orchards, and most of the canals have collapsed, leaving only a few stone ruins embedded in the soil. But the villagers still remember that the Sigou Spring once helped the sloping fields produce a bountiful harvest. Ligou Spring in Nangou is a completely different beast. Much deeper than Sigou, its bottom overgrown with hazelnut trees and brambles, it requires wading through several dry riverbeds on stone steps. The spring is hidden beneath a concave cliff face, largely obscured by vines, making it impossible to find without careful searching. It lacks the vibrant energy of Sigou Spring; the water simply sits quietly in the stone recess, like a frozen piece of jade, its surface so flat that it reflects the wild jujubes growing on the cliff face.

Most remarkable is its stability. Last summer, due to a severe drought, the water level at Sigou Spring dropped by half a foot. Worried that Ligou Spring had dried up, villagers rushed to investigate with shovels, only to find the remaining volume of water in the stone recess—no more, no less, just enough to cover the boulders surrounding the spring, neither overflowing nor decreasing. Unconvinced, one young man scooped half a bucketful, hoping to see if the water had dwindled the next day. However, when he returned the next day, the stone recess was full again, as if it had never been scooped out. The elders say this spring has a "memory," knowing exactly how much water to hold, not a drop more, not a drop less.

Only during the rainy season does Ligou Spring relax its composure. During the heavy downpours of July, the water from the ravine cascades down the cliffs, and the water from the bramble bushes gathers into a small waterfall. The stone recesses surrounding the spring can no longer hold the water, and the water seeps out through the cracks in the rocks. First it drips, then it forms a thin line, and eventually it forms a stream at the bottom of the ravine, ankle-deep. The water carries the sweet scent of wild jujubes, and children, barefoot, search for crabs in the stream, startling frogs into the cracks of the rocks. But as soon as the rain stops, the water slowly recedes, and the spring retreats into its recess, returning to its quiet state, as if the previous bustle was only a dream.

The villagers' affection for these two springs is like that for two old neighbors. Sigou Spring is the head of the family, managing food and livelihoods. The smoke from the stove, the vegetables in the garden, and the chicks in the yard all bear its scent. Ligou Spring is the mountain guardian, hidden deep in the ravine, yet always waiting when needed. Once, as a wildfire approached, villagers drew water from Ligou Spring to put it out. Only then did they realize that this seemingly stingy spring could actually provide water for dozens of people in an emergency.

Now that most of Tuoquan Village's young people have left, the Sigou Spring pipe sometimes clogs, forcing the remaining elders to climb the mountainside to clear it. The vines around Ligou Spring have become even denser, and few young people are sure to find its exact location. But whenever a young person returns, the elders lead them to the north and south ditches—to Sigou Spring to see the clear water flowing from the pipe, saying, "This is the root of our village"; to Ligou Spring to pull aside the vines to see the still water, saying, "This is the mountain's memory."

The wind blows from the north ditch to the south ditch, carrying the dampness of Sigou Spring and the coolness of Ligou Spring. These two springs guard Tuoquan Village, one bustling with activity, the other serene in the deep ditch, transforming the mountain's gifts into daily life, letting everyone in the village know: as long as the springs are alive, time in this mountain valley will always be full of joy.

Post by 洪流润溪 | Aug 24, 2025