by Mo Yan
‘Fire!’ he yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘Fire –’ Then he hid among the shadows of the western wall around the family compound. Tongues of flame licked the heavens, crackling loudly and setting the village dogs to barking. The distillery workers in the eastern compound, startled out of their sleep, began to shout. The gate banged open, and a dozen or so half-naked men came rushing out. The western gate also opened, and the wizened old man with the pitiful little queue stumbled out, screaming and wailing. Two big yellow dogs flew past him towards the raging fire and raised a howl.
‘Fire . . . put it out. . . .’ The old man was nearly in tears. The distillery hands rushed back into the compound, snatched up buckets on poles, and ran to the well. The old man also ran back inside, picked up a black tile crock, and ran towards the well.
After shedding his straw rain cape, Yu Zhan’ao crept along the base of the wall and entered the western compound, flattening up against the Shans’ screen wall to watch the men scurry back and forth. One of them dumped a bucketful of water on the fire, the stream of liquid looking like a piece of white silk in the glare of the flames, in whose heat it curled and twisted. They poured bucketful after bucketful of water onto the fire, high arching waterfalls one minute and puffs of cotton the next, forming a scene of exquisite beauty.
A prudent voice of reason called out, ‘Let it burn, Master. It’ll soon burn itself out.’
‘Put it out. . . . Put it out. . . .’ He was in tears now. ‘Hurry up and put it out. . . . That’s enough mule fodder for a whole winter. . . .’
With no time to waste on the scene outside, Yu Zhan’ao slipped into the house, where he was met by an overwhelming dampness. His hair stood on end. A mildewy voice emerged from inside the room to the west.
‘Dad . . . what’s burning?’
Having entered the house after staring at the flames, Yu Zhan’ao was forced to wait until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. When the voice repeated the question, he headed towards it. The room was lit up by the glare through the paper window, making it easy for him to see the long, flat face on the pillow. He reached out and held down the head, which cried out in alarm, ‘Who . . . who are you?’ Two claws dug into the back of Yu Zhan’ao’s hand as he drew his sword and buried it in the pale skin of the long, thin neck. A breath of cool air escaped onto his wrist, followed by hot, sticky blood that gloved his hand. He felt like throwing up. Fearfully, he took his hand away. The wrinkled, flat head was convulsing on the pillow, golden blood spurting from the neck. He tried wiping his hand on the bedding, but the harder he wiped, the stickier it got, and the stronger his feelings of nausea grew. Grasping the slimy sword in his hand, he turned and ran into the outer room; there he scooped a handful of straw out of the stove to clean off his hand and his sword, which glinted in the light and seemed to come alive.
Every single day, he had engaged in secret swordplay with the weapon given to him by Little Cheng the blacksmith, and each time he heard the pillow talk emerging from his mother’s room he sheathed and unsheathed it over and over. Villagers began taunting him by calling him Junior Monk, to which he reacted with a blood-curdling glare. The sword now lay beneath his pillow, keeping him awake at night with high-pitched shrieks. He knew the time had come.
The full moon was hidden behind dense leaden clouds that night, and as the villagers were falling asleep, a light rain began to fall, the scattered drops slowly soaking the ground and filling the hollows with silvery water. The monk opened the door and walked in under a yellow oilcloth umbrella. From the vantage point of his room, he watched the monk fold his umbrella and saw his shiny bald pate as he unhurriedly scraped the mud from the soles of his shoes on the threshold.
He heard his mother ask, ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘I had to say a seventh-day funeral mass for the mother of “Man-Biter” in West Village.’
‘I mean why so late? I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘If it had been raining daggers, I’d have come with a pot over my head.’
‘Get in here, and be quick about it.’
‘Does your belly still hurt?’ the monk asked softly as he entered her room.
‘Not so bad, ahhh . . .’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The boy’s dad has been dead nearly ten years, and look what I’ve become. I don’t know if I’m up or I’m down.’
‘Be up. I’ll chant a sutra for you.’
He didn’t close his eyes that night, as he listened to the shrieks of the sword beneath his pillow, to the patter of the rain outside, to the even breathing of the sleeping monk, and to his mother as she talked in her sleep. He sat up in alarm when he heard the strange laugh of an owl in a nearby tree. After dressing, he picked up the sword and stood with his ear cocked in the doorway of the room where his mother and the monk slept. His heart was a white wasteland, desolate and empty. Gently he opened the door and walked out into the yard, where he looked up into the sky: the leaden clouds were lighter than before and a glimmer of early-dawn light was visible. A gentle rain was still falling, slow and unhurried, silently moistening the earth and splattering weakly as it landed in puddles. He followed the winding road to Tianqi Monastery, which ran about three li and crossed a tiny brook on black stepping-stones.
During daylight hours the brook was so clear you could count the tiny fish and shrimp on the sandy bottom. But now it was grey and hazy under a thin mist, and the sound of splashing rainwater made him sorrowful and anxious. The stones were wet and slippery; the glimmering water was rising. He was mesmerised by the sight of ripples as the water struck the stones beneath his feet. The smooth sandy edge of the brook was lined by flower-laden pear trees. After fording the brook, he turned into the pear grove, where the sandy ground was firm yet slightly springy. The white pear blossoms poking through the mist were dazzling, but their redolence was snuffed out by the chilled air.
He located his father’s grave in the depths of the pear grove, covered with weeds that hid a dozen or more treacherous holes burrowed into the ground by mice. Although he tried hard to recall his father’s face, all he could conjure up was the faint image of a tall, skinny man with sallow skin and a light, wispy moustache.
After returning to the edge of the brook, he hid behind one of the trees and stared blankly at white ripples where the water struck the black stepping-stones. The sky, beginning to suffuse with light, had grown paler, the clouds parted to reveal the outline of the little road.
The monk walked quickly up the road under the yellow oilcloth umbrella that obscured his head. There were tiny water stains on his green cassock. Raising the hem with one hand and holding his umbrella high with the other, he crossed the brook, his rotund figure twisting as he stepped from stone to stone. Now that his pale, puffy face was visible, Yu Zhan’ao gripped the sword and listened to its high-pitched shriek. His wrist ached and began to turn numb; his fingers started to twitch. After fording the brook, the monk let go of the hem of his cassock and stomped his feet, splashing his sleeve with mud, which he flicked off with his fingernail.
This fair-skinned monk, who prided himself on always looking tidy and fresh, exuded a pleasant soapy odour, which Yu Zhan’ao could smell as he watched him fold his umbrella and shake off the water before slipping it under his arm. The twelve round burns on his pale scalp sparkled. Yu Zhan’ao recalled seeing his mother caress that scalp with both hands, as though she were stroking a Buddhist treasure, while he laid his head in her lap like a contented infant. By now the monk was so close he could hear his laboured breathing. He was barely able to grip the sword handle, which was as slippery as a loach. He was drenched with sweat, his eyes were blurring, and he was getting light-headed. He was afraid he might faint.
As the monk passed by, he spat a gob of sticky phlegm, which landed on a twig and hung there sickeningly, giving rise to all sorts of nauseating thoughts in Yu Zhan’ao’s mind. He inched cl
oser, his head throbbing painfully. His temples felt like mallets pounding on a taut drum inside his head. The sword seemed to enter the monk’s rib cage on its own. The monk stumbled a few steps before grabbing the trunk of a pear tree to steady himself, and turned to look at his assailant. There was pain in the monk’s pitiful eyes, and a keen sense of regret in his heart. He said nothing as he slid slowly down the tree trunk to the ground.
When Yu Zhan’ao pulled the sword out of the monk’s rib cage, a flow of lovely warm blood was released, soft and slippery, like the wing feathers of a bird. . . . The buildup of water on the pear tree finally gave way and splashed down on the sandy ground, bringing dozens of petals with it. A small whirlwind rose up deep in the pear grove, and he later recalled smelling the delicate fragrance of pear blossoms. . . .
He felt no remorse, though, over murdering Shan Bianlang, only disgust. The flames gradually died down, but the sky was still brightly lit. A ghostly shadow rustled at the base of the wall; the village was engulfed by a swelling tide of barking. Metal rims of water buckets clattered loudly; water sizzled and sputtered as it hit the roaring flames.
Six days earlier: The downpour had soaked the sedan bearers until they looked like drenched chickens, and the only dry spot on the young bride was her back. He stood with the other bearers and musicians in mud puddles, watching two slovenly old men lead the bride into the house. Not a single person in the large village came out to watch the excitement, and the bridegroom was nowhere in sight. A rusty odour seeped through the open door, and the sedan bearers knew without being told that the bridegroom, who wouldn’t show his face, was indeed a leper. Seeing that there were no witnesses to the excitement, the musicians settled for a bland little tune.
A wizened old man came outside with a little basket of copper coins and croaked, ‘Here’s your reward! Come and get it!’ as he scattered a handful of coins on the ground. The bearers and musicians watched the coins splash in the puddles, but none made a move to pick them up. The old man bent over and picked up the coins, one at a time. That was when the idea of burying a knife in the old man’s scrawny neck formed in Granddad’s mind.
Now flames were lighting up that same compound and the couplets pasted up alongside the gate. Since he wasn’t completely illiterate, he read them, and when he had finished, flames of indignation drove every trace of coolness out of his heart. He used some folk wisdom to absolve himself: charity for the sake of karma doesn’t mean you’ll die in bed; murder and arson are a sure path to the good life. Besides, he’d given the young woman his word, and had already murdered the man’s son; by sparing the father, he’d only be subjecting him to the grief of seeing his son’s corpse. There was no turning back. Now that he’d knocked over the gourd and spilled all the oil, he’d create a new life for the young woman. ‘Old Man Shan,’ he mumbled under his breath, ‘this day next year will be your first anniversary!’
The fire was dying out, returning the compound to darkness and the stars to the sky, although a few cinders remained in the pile of leaves. When water was dumped on the hot spots, white steam and glowing cinders rose dozens of feet into the air. The men stood, buckets in hand, casting large shadows on the ground.
‘Don’t be sad, Master. Financial losses, lucky bosses,’ said the voice of reason.
‘Heaven has no eyes. . . . Heaven has no eyes . . .’ Shan Tingxiu mumbled.
‘Let the men go inside and get some rest, Master. They have to be up for work early in the morning.’
‘Heaven has no eyes . . . Heaven has no eyes. . . .’
The men staggered into the eastern compound. Yu Zhan’ao hid behind the screen wall as the clatter of buckets on carrying poles moved past him, followed by silence. Shan Tingxiu stood in the gateway mumbling, but finally began to lose interest and carried his tile crock back into the compound, the two family dogs leading the way. Clearly exhausted, when they spotted Yu Zhan’ao they merely barked once or twice and headed for their pen, where they plopped down and didn’t make another sound.
Yu Zhan’ao could hear the big mule in the eastern compound grind its teeth and paw the ground. The three stars had moved to the western sky, so it was after midnight. He braced himself, gripped his sword, and waited until Shan Tingxiu was a mere three or four paces from the door, then rushed him with such force that he buried the sword in his chest, past the hilt. The old man flew backward, his arms spread out, as if he were taking off into the air, before falling on his back. His tile crock crashed to the ground and blossomed like a flower. The dogs barked listlessly a few more times and took no more notice. Yu Zhan’ao withdrew his sword, rubbed both sides of the blade on the old man’s clothes, and turned to leave. But he stopped himself.
After dragging Shan Bianlang’s body out into the yard, he removed some rope from a carrying pole at the base of the wall, tied the two frail corpses together at the waist, then hoisted them up and carried them out to the street. They hung limply over his shoulder, their dragging feet making pale designs in the dirt, the blood seeping from their wounds leaving red patterns on the ground. Yu Zhan’ao carried the bodies over to the western inlet, whose glassy surface reflected half the stars in the sky. A few sleepy white water lilies floated gracefully like sprites in a fairy tale. Thirteen years later, when Mute shot Yu Zhan’ao’s uncle, Big Tooth Yu, there was hardly any water at this spot in the river, but these lilies were still there. Yu Zhan’ao dumped the bodies into the water with a loud splash. They sank quickly to the bottom, and when the ripples died, the sky once again owned the surface.
Yu Zhan’ao rinsed his hands, his face, and his sword in the river, but no matter how long he washed, he couldn’t remove the smells of blood and mildew. He then headed down the road, forgetting all about retrieving his rain cape from the Shan compound. When he’d travelled about half a li, he turned into the stand of sorghum, and immediately stumbled and fell. Suddenly realising how tired he was, he rolled over on his back, oblivious to the dampness, and gazed at the stars until he fell asleep.
5
FIVE MONKEYS SHAN, knowing there was something fishy about the fire that night, seriously considered getting up and helping to fight it, thus carrying out his responsibilities as village chief. But Little White Lamb, the voluptuous opium peddlar, wrapped her arms around him and wouldn’t let go. Two bandit gangs had once fought over this girl, with her fair skin and moist, captivating, suggestive eyes – what is called ‘fighting over the nest’ in bandit parlance. She was a living sign that the war being waged by Gaomi County Magistrate Nine Dreams Cao was far from won.
In 1923, Nine Dreams Cao had been serving the Northern Warlord Government as magistrate for nearly three years, and his ‘three torches’ were blazing. For him the earthly scourges were banditry, opium, and gambling, and the only way to put the world in order was to annihilate bandits, stamp out opium, and outlaw gambling. His favourite punishment was a beating with the sole of a shoe; hence his nickname, Shoe Sole Cao the Second. A complex individual for whom the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are woefully inadequate, he was involved in many important ways with my family, so it is appropriate to include him in this narrative as a link to what follows.
In two years of draconian decrees, Nine Dreams Cao had achieved considerable results in his rampage against the three scourges. But Northeast Gaomi Township was a long way from the county seat, and behind the scenes gambling, opium, and bandits flourished as never before.
Five Monkeys Shan slept till dawn with Little White Lamb in his arms. She awoke first. After lighting the bean-oil lamp, she stuck a silver pin into an opium pellet and thrust it into the flames. Once it caught fire, she stuffed it into a silver pipe and handed it to Five Monkeys Shan, who curled up in bed and inhaled for a minute or so. A tiny white dot glowed on the pellet. After holding his breath for two minutes, he exhaled streams of thin blue smoke through his mouth and nostrils, just as one of the Shan family’s hired hands banged frantically on the door and reported: ‘Village Chief! Terrible news! Murder!’
‘The bodies must be at the bottom of the river,’ he said.
No one made a sound.
‘Who’ll go down and drag them up?’
The men exchanged glances, but said nothing.
The emerald-green water was smooth as glass. Water lilies floated placidly on the surface, with scattered dewdrops sticking to the leaves nearest the water, as moist and round as pearls.
‘One silver dollar. Now who’ll go?’
Still no sound.
An acrid stench rose from the inlet, and an unimaginably foul red glare emerged from a puddle of purplish blood in the reeds at the water’s edge. The sun rose above the field, white at the top and green at the bottom, sizzling like a chunk of partially fired steel. A line of black clouds above the horizon of sorghum tips stretched far off into the distance, so level you’d think your eyes were playing tricks on you. The inlet sparkled like a river of gold, broken only by the water lilies, which seemed otherworldly.
‘Who’ll go down for a silver dollar?’ Five Monkeys Shan asked in a booming voice.
The ninety-two-year-old woman from our village told me, ‘No man would have dared go into an inlet filled with the blood of a leper, not even for his own mother! If he did, he’d come out infected. If two went in, they’d both come out infected. Not for any amount of money . . . All that evil was caused by your grandma and your granddad!’ I wasn’t happy with the old hag for placing the blame on Granddad and Grandma, but as I looked at her clay-pot head I just smiled weakly.