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As told by Brick No. 4,417,302
Six hundred years in the Great Wall. Never been anywhere. Heard absolutely everything.
Brick No. 4,417,302 has been part of the Great Wall of China since the Ming Dynasty. He has never seen Beijing, never seen the sea and never moved an inch. What he has is visitors: millions of them, who sit on him, eat their snacks and talk.
This is the story of one autumn, a grandfather with sore knees, a girl named Ellie with a camera, and the places they describe to a brick who will never see them: the Gate of Heavenly Peace, Tiananmen Square and the glittering harbor of Hong Kong, where a cousin of his ran off to.
Nine photographs of Beijing, the Great Wall and Hong Kong by Robert Goldston, Sr.
Every photograph in this book is real, taken by Robert Goldston, Sr. on his travels. The stories are fiction, written as a gift to the photographs; the italic line under each story title tells you what the photograph actually shows.
Prologue
Good morning. Or good afternoon. I lose track. I am Brick No. 4,417,302, and I have been part of the Great Wall of China for about six hundred years. I was baked in a kiln, carried up a mountain on somebody's back, and pressed into place with mortar that may have had sticky rice in it. Then everyone went home, and I stayed.
Standing still is my job, and I am very good at it. I have not moved an inch since the Ming Dynasty. I have never been to Beijing, though it is only a short drive away. I have never seen the sea. I have never been anywhere at all.
What I have instead is visitors. Millions of them climb up here, puff their way along the walkway and sit down on whatever is handy. Very often that is me. They rest, they eat a snack, and they talk. In six centuries I have heard a great deal of talk.
My neighbors are No. 4,417,301, who believes he knows everything, and No. 4,417,303, who has been dozing since about 1550. Somewhere in the family there is also a cousin who left. We will get to him.
This is the story of one autumn, a grandfather with sore knees, a girl named Ellie with a camera, and the things they told me about a world I will never see. Bricks cannot travel. But we are excellent listeners.
Three spreads from the book: the photograph on one page, its story on the other.
No. 1No. 1
The Gate of Heavenly Peace (Tiananmen) in Beijing, with its central portrait, red banners and honor guards standing out front.
Ellie sat down on me just after lunch. Her grandfather sat on No. 4,417,301, who was thrilled. Ellie held up her camera so Grandpa could see the screen, and I could hear every word.
“This is the Great Hall of the People,” she said.
“It is not,” said Grandpa. “That's the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The Great Hall is across the road, on the west side of the square.”
I want to say right away that I had them mixed up too. In my defense, I have never seen either one. From what tourists tell me, the gate is red, with a big golden roof stacked in two layers and long red banners lettered in gold. It was first built in 1420, which makes it practically my age. I liked it at once.
… the story continues in the book.
No. 4No. 4
A stretch of the Great Wall near Beijing curving uphill toward a watchtower, with autumn trees on the slopes.
Then Ellie showed Grandpa a picture she had taken that morning, at the far end of their walk. It was the wall itself. The walkway curves uphill between the battlements, a dark set of steps drops down into the stone, and a square watchtower stands at the top of the slope. The trees on the hillside were turning yellow and rust, she said, because it was October.
“Somewhere in there is this exact spot,” said Grandpa. “Up past that tower and about four miles on.”
I was delighted. I had never been in a photograph before, not that I knew of. I tried to wave.
Bricks cannot wave. I have tried every day for six hundred years and nothing happens. No. 4,417,301 says it is because we have no arms, but I think it is mostly a confidence problem.
… the story continues in the book.
No. 8No. 8
Victoria Harbour at night, seen from high above Hong Kong Island, with Kowloon lit up across the water.
Three weeks later something remarkable happened. An envelope arrived at the ticket office at the bottom of the mountain, addressed to Brick No. 4,417,302, The Great Wall, China. A ranger named Zhao laughed for a full minute. Then he carried it up, sat on me with his lunch, and read the first postcard out loud.
“Dear Brick. This is Victoria Harbour at night, from way up on the Peak. It looks like a jewelry box somebody left open. Lights on the towers, lights on the water, lights on the ferries going back and forth.”
I should tell you about my cousin now. Long ago, the story goes, he was taken from a crumbling stretch of wall and carted away. Crushed, mixed and poured. The family believes he ended up in the foundations of a skyscraper in Hong Kong. He is very tall now, and lives by the sea, and wears glass.
… the story continues in the book.
25 pages, 9 photographs, one storyteller. Digital PDF for $2.95.
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As told by the Needle
A brass needle that never points north, and the great machines it leads to.
