Red Sorghum

by Mo Yan

  ‘That pinch hurt, Dad, it hurt a lot!’

  Granddad led Father down a narrow cinder-paved street towards the train station. The sun’s rays were dying out; the air was foul. Father saw that two blockhouses had been built alongside the run-down train station. Two Japanese soldiers with leashed police dogs marched back and forth. Dozens of civilians squatted or stood beyond the railing waiting for a train, and a Chinese in a black uniform was positioned on the platform, red lantern in hand, as an eastbound train sounded its whistle. The ground shook, and the police dogs barked at the coming train. A little old woman hobbled back and forth in front of the waiting passengers, hawking cigarettes and melon seeds. The train chugged into the station and ground its wheels to a halt. There were, Father saw, more than twenty cars behind the locomotive – ten boxcars, followed by ten or more flatcars filled with cargo covered carelessly by green tarpaulins. Japs standing on the train called out to their comrades on the platform.

  Father heard a sudden crack of gunfire from the sorghum field north of the tracks and saw a tall Jap soldier on one of the flatcars sway momentarily, then tumble headlong to the ground. The howl of a wolf sounded from one of the blockhouses, and the people, those disembarking and those waiting to board the train, scattered. The police dogs barked furiously; the machine guns on top of the blockhouses began spraying the area to the north. The train started up amid the confusion, belching puffs of black smoke and sending a shower of ashes onto the platform.

  Granddad grabbed Father’s hand and dragged him quickly down a dark lane. He pushed open a half-closed gate and walked into a tiny courtyard, where a small red paper lantern hung from the eave of the house. A woman stood in the doorway, her face so heavily powdered you couldn’t tell her age. She was grinning broadly through painted lips; her teeth glistened. Black hair was piled up on her head, and she wore a silk flower behind her ear.

  ‘My dear elder brother!’ she called out with affected sweetness. ‘Now that you’re a commander, you don’t give a second thought to your little sister.’ She threw her arms around Granddad’s neck like a little girl.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he complained. ‘Not in front of my son. I can’t waste time with you today! Are you still playing games with Fifth Brother?’

  The woman stormed over to the gate and shut it, then took down the lantern and walked inside. ‘Fifth Brother was caught and beaten by the garrison command,’ she said with a pout.

  ‘Isn’t Song Shun of the garrison command his sworn brother?’

  ‘Do you really think you can trust fair-weather friends like that? After what happened at Qingdao, I’ve been sitting on the razor’s edge.’

  ‘Fifth Brother would never give you away. He proved that when he was grilled by Nine Dreams Cao.’

  ‘What are you doing here? They say you fought some Japanese armoured troops.’

  ‘It was a fiasco! I’m going to murder that motherfucking Pocky Leng!’

  ‘Don’t mess with that slippery toad. He’s too much for you.’

  Granddad took the silver dollars out of his pocket and tossed them down on the table. ‘I want five hundred red-jacketed bullets.’

  ‘Red-jacketed, blue-jacketed, I got rid of them all when Fifth Brother was arrested. I can’t make bullets out of thin air.’

  ‘Don’t give me that! Here’s fifty dollars. Tell me, have I, Yu Zhan’ao, ever treated you wrong?’

  ‘My dear elder brother,’ the woman said, ‘what kind of talk is that? Don’t treat your little sister like a stranger.’

  ‘Then don’t get me mad!’ threatened Granddad.

  ‘You’ll never get out of town.’

  ‘That’s my problem, not yours. I want five hundred large cartridges and fifty small ones.’

  The woman walked out into the yard to see if anyone was around, then returned to the house, opened a secret door in the wall, and took out a box of shells that shone like gold.

  Granddad picked up a sack and stuffed bullets inside, then tied it around his waist. ‘Let’s go!’ he said.

  The woman stopped him. ‘How do you plan to get away?’

  ‘By crawling across the tracks near the train station.’

  ‘No good,’ she said. ‘There are blockhouses there, with searchlights, dogs, and guards.’

  ‘We’ll give it a try,’ Granddad said mockingly. ‘If it doesn’t work, we’ll be back.’

  Granddad and Father made their way down the dark lane towards the train station and hid alongside the wall of a blacksmith shop; from here they had a clear view of the brightly lit platform and the sentries standing on it. Granddad led Father to the western end of the station, where there was a freight yard. A barbed-wire fence ran from the station all the way to the city wall, and searchlights on top of the blockhouses swept the area, illuminating a dozen or more sets of tracks.

  They crawled up next to the barbed-wire fence and tugged on it, hoping to open a hole big enough to crawl through. But it was too taut, and one of the barbs punctured the palm of Father’s hand. He whimpered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Granddad whispered.

  ‘I cut my hand, Dad,’ Father whispered back.

  ‘We can’t get through. Let’s go back!’

  ‘If we had our guns . . .’

  ‘We still couldn’t make it.’

  ‘We could shoot out the lights!’

  They retreated into the shadows, where Granddad picked up a brick and threw it towards the tracks. One of the sentries shrieked in alarm and fired. The searchlight spun around and swept the area as a machine gun opened fire, the sound so loud that Father nearly went deaf. Sparks flew from bullets ricocheting off the tracks.

  The fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, the Mid-Autumn Festival, is one of the biggest market days in Gaomi County. The people still had to go on living, even though it was wartime. Business was business. The roads were filled with people at eight o’clock in the morning, when a young man named Gao Rong manned his post at the northern gate to search and question those entering and leaving town. He knew the Japanese soldier was watching him with ill-concealed disgust.

  An old man in his fifties and a teenage boy were driving a goat out of town. The old man’s face was dark, his eyes steely; the boy’s face was red and he was sweating, as from a case of nerves.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Leaving town. Going home,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Not going to market?’

  ‘Already been. Bought this half-dead goat. Cheap.’

  ‘When did you come into town?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. We stayed with a relative. Bought the goat first thing this morning.’

  ‘Now where are you going?’

  ‘Leaving town. Going home.’

  ‘Okay, you can pass!’

  The goat’s belly was so big it could barely walk. When Granddad whipped it with a broken-off sorghum stalk, it cried out in agony.

  They stopped at the gravesite to retrieve their weapons.

  ‘Shall we let the goat go, Dad?’

  ‘No. Let’s take it with us. We’ll kill it when we get home, so we can celebrate the Mid-Autumn Festival.’

  They arrived at the village entrance at noon, near the tall black-earth wall that had been repaired not many years before. A hail of gunfire erupted from the heart of the village and beyond, and Granddad immediately knew that what they’d been dreading had finally happened. He was reminded of the premonition he’d had for the past several days, and was glad he’d decided to go into town that morning. They’d fought the odds and accomplished their task; that was all anyone could ask of them.

  Granddad and Father hurriedly picked up the half-dead goat and carried it into the sorghum field, where Father cut the hemp they’d used to sew up its rectum. They’d stuffed 550 bullets up the goat’s ass in that woman’s house, until its belly drooped like a crescent moon. During the trip back, Father had been worried that the bullets would split the goat’s belly or that the animal would somehow digest th
em.

  As soon as the hemp was cut, the goat’s rectum opened up like a plum flower, and pellets came pouring out. After relieving itself violently, the goat crumpled to the ground. ‘Oh no, Dad!’ Father cried in alarm. ‘The bullets have turned into goat pellets.’

  Granddad grabbed the goat by its horns and jerked it to its feet, then bounced it up and down. Shiny bullets came spilling out. They scooped up the bullets, loaded their weapons, and stuffed the rest of the ammunition into their pockets. Not worrying whether the goat was dead or alive, they ran through the sorghum field straight for the village.

  The Japs had surrounded the village, over which a pall of gunsmoke hung. The first thing Father and Granddad saw was eight mortar pieces hidden in the sorghum field, the tubes about half the height of a man and as thick as a fist. Twenty or more khaki-clad soldiers manned the mortars under the command of a skinny Jap waving a small flag. When he lowered his flag, the soldiers dropped their shells into the tubes, and the glistening objects were launched into the air in whistling arcs, to land inside the village wall. Eight puffs of smoke rose from the village, followed by eight dull thuds that quickly merged into a single loud explosion. Eight columns of smoke blossomed like dark, hazy flowers. The Japs fired another salvo.

  Like a man wakened from a dream, Granddad picked up his rifle and fired it. The Japanese waving the flag crumpled to the ground. Father saw the bullet bury itself in the man’s bony skull, which looked like a dry radish. His first thought was, the battle’s on! Looking confused, he fired his weapon, but the bullet struck the base of a mortar with a loud metallic ping. The Japs manning the mortars picked up their rifles and began firing. Granddad grabbed Father and dragged him down among the sorghum stalks.

  The Japanese and their Chinese lackeys launched an attack, running at a crouch into the sorghum field and firing indiscriminately.

  Machine-gun fire erupted. Crows perched on the village wall were silent. When the puppet troops reached the wall, wooden-handled grenades sailed over towards them and exploded in their ranks, bringing down at least a dozen men. Granddad hadn’t known about Ruolu the Elder’s purchase of grenades from Detachment Leader Leng’s munitions factory. Their comrades turned and ran. So did the Japanese. Dozens of men armed with hunting rifles and homemade cannons clambered up onto the wall, opened fire, then ducked back down, silent again. Later on, Granddad learned that similarly heated, bizarre battles had occurred at the northern, eastern, and western edges of the village.

  The Japs fired another salvo of mortars, scoring direct hits on the iron gate. Thump, thump, the gate was shattered, leaving a gaping breach.

  Granddad and Father opened fire again on the Japs manning the mortars. Granddad fired four shots, bringing down two Jap soldiers. Father fired only a single shot. Holding his Browning in both hands, he took careful aim on a Jap straddling a mortar and fired. The bullet struck the man in the buttocks. Terrified, he fell forward across the muzzle, his body muffling the sound of the explosion before being ripped apart. Father jumped for joy, just as something whizzed noisily past his head. The mortar tube had exploded, sending the bolt flying a good ten yards to land just beyond Father’s head. It missed killing him by only a few inches.

  Years later, Father was still talking about that glorious single shot.

  As soon as the village gate was blown apart, a squad of Japanese cavalry stormed the village, sabres drawn. Father stared at the handsome, valiant warhorses with three parts terror and seven parts envy. The sorghum stalks snagged their legs and scratched their faces; it was hard going for the horses. Metal rakes and wooden ploughs, bricks and roof tiles, quite possibly even bowls of steaming sorghum porridge, rained down on them from the gatehouses, forcing the screaming riders to cover their heads, and so frightening their mounts that they reared up in protest and some turned back. Granddad and Father had odd grins on their faces as they watched the chaotic cavalry charge.

  Granddad’s and Father’s diversion brought throngs of puppet soldiers down on their heads, and before long the cavalry joined the search-and-destroy mission. Time and again the cold glint of a Japanese sabre came straight at Father, but it was always deflected by sorghum stalks. A bullet grazed Granddad’s scalp. The dense sorghum was saving their lives. Like hunted rabbits, they crawled on the ground, and by midafternoon they’d made it all the way to the Black Water River.

  After counting their remaining ammunition, they re-entered the sorghum field, and had walked a li or so when they heard shouts ahead: ‘Comrades’ – ‘Charge’ – ‘Forward’ – ‘Down with the Jap imperialists.’

  The battle cries were followed by bugles and then the rat-tat-tat of what sounded like a couple of heavy machine guns.

  Granddad and Father ran toward the source of the noise as fast as their legs would carry them. When they arrived at the spot, it was deserted; they found amid the sorghum stalks two steel oil drums in which strings of firecrackers were exploding.

  ‘Only the Jiao-Gao regiment would pull a stunt like this,’ Granddad said, with his lip curled.

  The Jap cavalry and puppet foot-soldiers sprayed the area with fire as they made a flanking movement. Granddad retreated, dragging Father with him. Several Jiao-Gao soldiers ran towards them at a crouch, grenades hanging from their belts. Father saw one of them kneel and fire towards a clump of sorghum stalks shaking violently under the charge of a stallion. The ragged gunfire sounded like an earthenware vat being smashed. The soldier tried to pull back the bolt of his rifle to eject the spent cartridge, but it was jammed. The warhorse bore down on him. Father watched the Japanese rider wave his glinting sabre and cut through the air, barely missing the soldier’s head. The man threw down his rifle and ran, but was soon overtaken by the galloping horse, and the sabre came slicing down through his skull, soaking nearby sorghum leaves with his gore. Father saw nothing but inky darkness as he slumped to the ground.

  When he awoke, he had been separated from Granddad by the Japanese cavalry charge. The sun bore down on the tips of the sorghum, casting dark shadows around him. Three furry fox cubs darted in front of him, and he instinctively grabbed one of the bushy tails. An angry growl erupted from nearby stalks, as the mother fox leaped out of the cover, baring her fangs threateningly. He quickly released the cub.

  Gunfire continued at the eastern, western, and northern edges of the village, as a deathly stillness enveloped the southern edge. Father called out softly, then began to shout at the top of his lungs. No reply from Granddad. A dark cloud of fear settled over his heart as he ran panic-stricken towards the sound of gunfire. Dimming rays of sunlight bathed the sorghum tassels, which suddenly seemed hostile. He started to cry.

  Searching for Granddad, Father stumbled across the bodies of three Jiao-Gao soldiers, all hacked to death, their hideous faces frozen in the gloomy darkness. He then ran smack into a crowd of terrified villagers cowering amid the sorghum stalks.

  ‘Have you seen my dad?’

  ‘Is the village open, boy?’

  He could tell by their accent that they were from Jiao County. He heard an old man instructing his son: ‘Yinzhu, remember what I told you. Don’t pass up quilt covers, even if the cotton’s all tattered. But look first for a cookpot, because ours is ruined.’

  The old man’s rheumy eyes looked like gobs of snot stuck in the sockets. Having no time to waste on them, Father continued north. When he reached the edge of the village, he was confronted by a scene that had appeared in Grandma’s dreams, and Granddad’s dreams, and over and over in his own. People were pouring out through the village wall – men and women, young and old – like a raging torrent, heading for the sorghum fields to escape the heavy fighting on the eastern, northern, and western edges of the village.

  Gunfire erupted in front of Father, who saw a hail of bullets rip into the sorghum field that dominated the front of the village. The villagers – men and women, young and old – were mowed down along with the sorghum stalks, every last one of them. The air was spattered with fresh blood, t
urning half the sky red. Father sat down hard on the ground, his mouth hanging slack. Blood everywhere, and everywhere its sweet stench.

  The Japanese entered the village.

  The sun, stained by human blood, set behind the mountain as the crimson full moon of mid-autumn rose above the sorghum.

  My father heard Granddad’s muted call:

  ‘Douguan – !’

  FOUR

  Sorghum Funeral

  1

  IN THE CRUEL fourth lunar month, frogs lay their transparent eggs in the Black Water River under radiant starlight. Then, in the sweltering heat of the sun, swarms of inky-black, squirming tadpoles emerge into the warmth of water that looks like freshly extracted bean oil to form inky-black schools that swim with the slowly flowing river. Dog-turd reeds grow in profusion on the banks; wild mustard flowers so red they seem purple bloom furiously amid the water grasses.

  It was a good day for birds. Clay-coloured larks covered with white dots soared in the high sky, filling the air with shrill cries. Glossy swallows skimmed the mirror-like surface of the river. The dark, rich soil of Northeast Gaomi Township revolved ponderously beneath the birds’ wings. Hot winds from the west rolled across the land, and murky dust clouds attacked the Jiao-Ping highway.

  It was also a good day for Grandma. Granddad, who had joined the Iron Society, eventually replacing Black Eye as its leader, was about to fulfill his promise to give her a proper funeral, now that nearly two years had passed. News of the impending ceremony had spread a month earlier among the villages of Northeast Gaomi Township. The eighth day of the fourth lunar month had been chosen. By noon of the seventh day, donkey carts and ox carts began arriving, carrying common folk from far away, including wives and children. Hawkers and peddlars had a field day. On the streets and in the shade of trees at the head of the village, dumpling peddlars set up their earthen stoves, flatcake vendors heated their pots, and cold-bean-noodle stands with white canvas awnings were thrown up. Grey hair and ruddy cheeks, men, women, boys, and girls, seemed to fill every inch of space in our village.