ON A JULY AFTERNOON IN 1971 in Guangzhou, China, four-year-old Jing ran out of her apartment building to join her playmates on the lawn. It was hot and humid, but the children had fun looking for sweet grass roots.
“Jing, come and look,” a girl about five years old called out. She stood near a shrub, pointing to a branch.
Jing scampered over and took a look. “Yuck, a worm!”
A match-sized green worm was hunched on a leaf. The girl picked up a twig and waved it at the worm. “You little thing. Where are you going?”
“I think it’s going home,” said Jing.
“Nope. I think it’s eating the leaf,” answered a boy, joining them. He prodded the worm with a small stick to help it move onto another leaf.
“Look, there are a few more worms here. They’ve eaten up all these leaves,” Jing said in excitement.
“We’re worms; we need food, too.” The little girl changed her voice into a high-pitched whisper. “You girls and boys eat candy and cookies. We eat leaves.”
“Ha, ha, little worm, let me give you some food.” Jing giggled and plucked a leaf to feed the chanting girl.
“Thanks, Jing, but a leaf isn’t enough. I want candy,” the girl laughed.
“Big worm, I have candy for you,” said the boy, smiling as he handed a white grass root to the girl.
“Ha, good boy.” The girl took it and placed it into her mouth. “It’s so sweet. Thank you.”
“Look, I’ve found more sweet grass.” Jing squatted and pulled out a few sweet grass roots. “Try mine. They must taste sweet, too.”
The children searched for more sweet grass roots and then watched the worms squiggling on the shrub again.
Gradually, Jing felt sick to her stomach. Her head began to spin. She lay down on the lawn and closed her eyes. She dreamt of a boundless, dark green forest. In it was a cabin. A biplane was hovering over the forest cabin, spreading a mass of fog. In the cabin a man sat at his desk in front of a typewriter. His fingers tapped the tiny keys. A woman with a basket pushed open the door and stepped in. Golden-yellow mushrooms filled her basket. The round basket then turned into a huge, blooming sunflower.
“Will, you must be hungry. I’ve picked some fresh chanterelles,” said the woman.
“My story is almost done…” replied the man.
***
“Mom, Daddy!” Jing awoke finally, but she did not understand why she was in the hospital. “I wanna go home.”
“Oh, my baby! We’re going home soon,” answered her mother, tears in her eyes.
A doctor entered the ward and spoke to Jing’s father, “Your daughter’s fine now. You can take her home.”
Her father asked, “Could you please tell me why she fell ill?”
Hesitating for an instant, the doctor said, “It might be a case of food poisoning.”
“Impossible,” said her father, “I do research on plants. The chanterelle we eat is a high quality, edible mushroom.”
“I can’t be certain. We can’t use the lab right now due to frequent power blackouts. Anyway, your daughter has recovered. But be careful about her food.”
The summer was over and the mosquito population eventually decreased. The tree and lawn insecticide sprayings in the city became fewer. Jing’s father stood by the window wondering as he watched the pest controller walk away.
***
That same autumn, William Watts, a writer of children’s books, sat in his forest cabin in New Brunswick, Canada, reading a letter from Environment Canada.
“I can’t believe my eyes, Sheila.” William handed the letter to his wife. “It says there have been no observed or reported cases of illness among people here that could be attributed to the use of poison spray. They say fenitrothion is still the best product to use in curtailing the spread of spruce budworms.”
William recalled his symptoms after recently falling ill. He disagreed with Environment Canada’s conclusions. A few months before, out on a walk with his wife, he heard the spray plane humming in the air nearby. They fell sick that same day.
“Will, we should keep reporting on the incident, about what happened to us,” said Sheila, who placed the letter on the table. She remembered the day their lungs became inflamed and their eyes burned. Meanwhile, their noses were runny from a bout of the flu.
“We won’t stop,” William responded. He could not believe that the fiddleheads they ate a few weeks ago were responsible for causing severe stomach pain, headaches, and dizziness. They had also felt restless and anxious.
William said, “In the 1950s, DDT was said to be harmless to humans. Without the publication of Silent Spring by Rachel Carson in 1962, chemists wouldn’t have realized that modern insecticides have a harmful impact on human beings.”
He picked up a magazine from a pile of journals on the table. “You’ve read this article discussing the use of DDT in Northern New Brunswick, right?”
Sheila nodded. “Yes. I remember that according to the studies, in the 1950s, 50 to 98 percent of young salmon were in danger, depending on the size of the fish and the manner of spraying. DDT was also thought to cause liver cancer.”
“That’s why phosphamidon replaced DDT in 1968.” William took some paper clippings from a folder and scanned them. “Then fenitrothion took over because phosphamidon was less safe. How can anyone guarantee that fenitrothion isn’t harmful to human beings?”
“You know, if we don’t obey the laws of nature, our world will face some serious problems.” Sheila pulled a bunch of papers out of the pile and sorted through them. “Here’s the article.”
“You’re enlightening.” William took hold of his wife’s hand. “We should continue digging up more information about this. We don’t want any children suffering from the effects of the spray.”
“You could write a piece about it.” Sheila nodded.
In November 1971, William’s article, “You Are a Worm,” was published in The Mysterious East. It challenged the existing conclusion that fenitrothion was not harmlful to humans.
***
In 1983, Jing was an eleventh grader. One day, she saw her mother open a package postmarked Canada.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A collection of short fiction from my friend.”
“May I have a look?” Jing took the book and read, “The Oldest Man and other Timeless Stories by William Watts.”
“My friend said William is a writer of children’s books. If you want to read it I can help you. You can also use my English dictionary.”
“Okay, my teacher, Mother.” Jing stood up straight and raised her right hand to the side of her head in a military salute.
With the assistance of her mother, Jing finished reading her first book in English. One of the stories was about a butterfly collector who did not know if he was a man or a butterfly. Another story explored the thought of the famous ancient Chinese philosopher, Zhuang Zi. Jing enjoyed these fabulous stories, because each took her to a wonderful fantasy world.
Two years later, Jing attended the biology program at Beijing University. That same year, William published his thirty-second book for children.
***
On a June morning in 2003, in Guangzhou, the fragrance of the locust blossom wafted in the air under the warm sunlight after a rain. In a corner of South Paradise Park, a two-year-old boy climbed up the ladder to the slide under an aged locust tree, joyful but unsure of his footing. Jing, the child’s mother, noticed there were hundreds of tiny caterpillars on the stair handrail. She looked up at the tree and saw a net hanging off some branches. Clinging to each net-thread was a caterpillar, reminding her of that article, “You Are a Worm,” she had read so many years before. The breeze blew through the branches, and she seemed to hear all the worms chant, “I am a worm. You are a worm.”
That same afternoon in Fredericton, New Brunswick, the delicate scent of tulips could be detected before sunset. It had just stopped raining. Alongside a path, rows of spruce trees seemed to get greener with each second that passed. Millions of spruce budworms that had survived several insecticides over numerous generations grew tougher and tougher. It seemed as though all the caterpillars were having a get-together under the trees. Pesticide spraying had decreased over the years. So the worms were able to enjoy the peace gained by the sacrifice of older generations.
The worms, hanging from thousands of threads, swung with the breeze beneath the branches. They dreamt of changing into moths. They could hear chants from a far-away land. Cheerfully, they began to sing the following choruses:
Breezes blow in spring
Spruce trees are green
Up and down with the wind
We are singing on swings.
You are humans
We are worms
We are both living things
Insecticides harm all beings.
We have survived
The deadly spraying
After the rain
Let’s dance and sing.
A rainbow arched in the clear sky shimmering rays of pale blue, green, red, and gold. Children laughed excitedly, pointing at the rainbow as they ran and played in the park. Their cheers joined the song of the worms that basked in the warmth of the afternoon sun.