Red Sorghum

by Mo Yan

  By the spring of 1941, the Leng detachment and the Jiao-Gao regiment had worn each other down with their frequent clashes, and had been further harassed by the systematic kidnappings by Granddad’s Iron Society and an annihilation campaign by the Japanese and their Chinese puppet troops. The Leng detachment apparently had fled to the Three Rivers Mountain region of Changyi to rest and build up their strength, while the Jiao-Gao regiment hid out in the Great Marshy Mountain region of Pingdu County to lick its wounds. The Iron Society, under the leadership of Granddad and his erstwhile romantic rival, had grown, in a little over a year, into a force of over two hundred rifles and fifty or more fine horses; but their movements were so secretive and so shrouded in religious superstition that the Japanese and their puppets seemed to take no notice of them.

  In national terms, 1941 witnessed the cruellest stage of the war of resistance against Japan; the people of Northeast Gaomi Township, however, enjoyed a brief respite of peace and quiet. The survivors planted a new crop on top of last year’s rotting sorghum. The seeds were barely in the ground when a light but adequate rain fell to soak the thirsty earth. Then the radiant sun took over, and, seemingly overnight, tender shoots covered the ground. Drops of fragrant dew were impaled on the tips of delicate red shoots. Grandma’s funeral fell on a day of rest for the farmers.

  On the evening of the seventh, the area around the village walls was packed with people, while dozens of wagons, their donkeys and oxen tethered to trees and axles, were lined up on the dusty street. The setting sun shone on the glossy spring hides of livestock and turned immature leaves blood-red, their shadows ancient coins stamped on the animals’ backs.

  As the sun fell behind the mountain, an herbal physician rode his mule into the village from the west. Clumps of bristly hairs emerged from the blackness of his nostrils; his scalp and forehead were covered by a tattered felt cap, out of place on this late-spring day, and a sombre glare radiated from beneath his slanting eyebrows.

  The physician and his scrawny mule swaggered past the marketplace, drawing curious stares. The melodious tinkle of a little brass bell in his hand produced an air of unfathomable mystery, and the people fell in behind him instinctively, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled on the foul-smelling back of the sweaty mule and on the physician’s greasy face. His eyes blinked constantly, and he sneezed with a loud, tinny sound, as his mule released a string of farts. That broke the spell. The people laughed and drifted off to find a spot to set up camp for the night.

  A new moon covered the village with hazy shadows. Cool breezes swept in from the fields, and the croaking frogs in the Black Water River filled the air; more visitors arrived for the funeral, but there was no room in the village, so they slept in the fields.

  The physician took a tour on his mule around the tent set up by Granddad’s Iron Society. A towering, intimidating presence, it was the largest structure ever seen in our village. Grandma’s bier rested in the centre of the tent, through whose seams filtered the light of many candles. Two Iron Society soldiers with pistols in their belts stood guard at the entrance, their shiny heads shaved back from their foreheads, a sight that instilled fear in whoever saw them. All two hundred soldiers were quartered in satellite tents, while their fifty or more sturdy mounts were tethered to the crotches of willow trunks in front of a long feeding trough. The horses snorted, pawed the ground, and swished their tails to drive off hordes of horseflies. Grooms dumped dry mash into the trough, saturating the air under the trees with the redolence of parched sorghum.

  The aroma caught the attention of the physician’s scrawny mule, which strained toward the trough. Following his mount’s pitiful gaze, he said, as much to himself as to his mule, ‘Hungry? Listen to me. Rivals and lovers are destined to meet. Men die over riches, birds perish over food. The young must not scoff at the old, for flowers don’t bloom forever. One must know when to yield to others. No sign of weakness, it will work to one’s later advantage. . . .’

  The physician’s crazy ramblings and furtive behaviour caught the attention of two Iron Society soldiers, disguised as common folk, who fell in behind him as he led his animal towards the horses. They quickly blocked his way, one in front and one in back, pistols in hand.

  Showing no sign of fear, he merely split the darkness with a sad, shrill laugh that made the soldiers’ hands tremble. The one in front saw the physician’s smouldering eyes, the one behind saw the back of his neck stiffen when he laughed. The heavy silence was broken by the whinnies of two horses fighting over food in the trough.

  The central tent was lit up by twenty-four tall red candles that flickered uneasily, casting a fearful light on the objects inside. Grandma’s scarlet bier was surrounded by snow pines and snow willows made of paper; beside it stood two papier-mâché figures – a boy in green on the left, a girl in red on the right – crafted by Baoen, the township’s famous funeral artisan, from sorghum stalks and coloured paper.

  On Grandma’s host tablet behind the coffin was an inscription:

  For the Spirit of My Departed Mother, Surnamed Dai.

  Offered by Her Filial Son, Yu Douguan.

  A drab brown incense-holder in front held smouldering yellow joss sticks, whose fragrant smoke curled into the air, the ash suspended above the scarlet flames of the candles. Father had shaved the front of his scalp to show that he, too, was a member of the Iron Society. Granddad, also shaved, sat behind a table next to Black Eye, the society leader, watching the Jiao County funeral master instruct my father in the three prostrations, six bows, and nine kowtows. As the funeral master droned on with infinite patience, Father started getting fidgety, and went through the motions, cutting corners whenever he could.

  ‘Douguan,’ Granddad said sternly, ‘stop clowning around! Do your filial duties, no matter how unpleasant they may be!’

  The Iron Society, which spent an enormous sum of money on my grandma’s funeral, financed its activities in Northeast Gaomi Township after the departure of the Leng detachment and the Jiao-Gao regiment by issuing its own currency, in denominations of one thousand and ten thousand yuan, printed on coarse straw paper. The designs were very simple (a strange humanoid astride a tiger), the printing haphazard at best (using printing blocks carved for holiday posters). At the time no fewer than four separate currencies circulated in Northeast Gaomi, their strength and fluctuating value determined by the power of the issuing authority. Currency backed by military force constituted the greatest exploitation of the people, and Granddad was able to finance Grandma’s funeral by relying on this sort of concealed tyranny. The Jiao-Gao regiment and the Leng detachment had been squeezed out, so Granddad’s coarse currency was very strong in Northeast Gaomi Township for a while. But then the bottom dropped out, a few months after Grandma’s funeral, and the tigermount currency wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.

  The two Iron Society soldiers entered the funeral tent with the physician in tow; they blinked in the bright candlelight.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Granddad snarled, rising from his seat.

  One of the soldiers went down on his knee and covered the shaved part of his head with both hands. ‘Deputy Commander, we’ve caught a spy!’

  Black Eye, whose left eye was rimmed by dark moles, kicked the table leg and barked out an order: ‘Off with his head! Then rip out his heart and liver and cook them to go with the wine!’

  ‘Not so fast!’ Granddad countermanded. He turned to Black Eye. ‘Blackie, shouldn’t we find out who he is before we kill him?’

  ‘Who the fuck cares who he is!’ Black Eye picked a clay teapot up off the table and threw it to the ground. Then he stood up, his pistol sticking out of his belt, and glared at the soldier who had made the report.

  ‘Commander . . .’ the soldier stammered fearfully.

  ‘I’ll fuck your living mother, Zhu Shun! “Commander” means nothing to you, I see! You son of a bitch, get out of my sight. You’re a fucking thorn in my eye!’ The ranting Black Eye looked down at the te
apot on the ground and gave it a swift kick, sending shards of clay flying; some of them landed in the grove of graceful snow willows beside the coffin and made them rustle.

  A boy about Father’s age bent over, picked up the pieces of the teapot, and tossed them outside the tent.

  ‘Fulai,’ Granddad said to the boy, ‘put the commander to bed. He’s drunk!’

  Fulai stepped up and put his arms around Black Eye, who sent him reeling. ‘Drunk? Who’s drunk? You ungrateful shit! I set up shop, and you eat free. A tiger kills its prey just so the bear can eat it! You little shit, you won’t get away with throwing sand in my black eye! Just wait!’

  ‘Blackie,’ Granddad said, ‘you don’t want to lay your prestige on the line in front of the men.’ His lips curled in a grim smile, and cruel wrinkles appeared at the corners of his mouth.

  Black Eye rested his hand on the bakelite handle of his pistol. In a tired, strangely hoarse voice he said, ‘Get the fuck out of here! And take that little son of a bitch with you!’

  ‘It’s easy to invite the gods, hard to send them away,’ Granddad said.

  Black Eye drew his pistol and waved it in front of Granddad, who held out his green ceramic cup, took a sip of wine, and swished it around in his mouth before leaning forward and spitting it in Black Eye’s face. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he flung the cup at the muzzle of Black Eye’s pistol; the cup shattered on impact, the pieces flying everywhere. Black Eye’s hand twitched, and the muzzle of the pistol drooped.

  ‘Put your gun away!’ Granddad shouted in a steely voice. ‘I’m not finished with you yet, Blackie, so don’t get smart with me!’

  Black Eye’s face was bathed in sweat. He grumbled, picked up his pistol, stuck it in his leather belt, and sat down.

  The mule-riding physician, who had watched the episode with a disdainful smile, suddenly started laughing so hard he could barely stand, so hard that hot tears streamed down his cheeks. His behaviour made everyone squirm uncomfortably.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Black Eye asked. ‘I’ll fuck your mother! I asked you, what’s so funny?’

  The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and the physician said dryly, ‘Fuck away, if that’s what you want. My mother’s been dead and buried in the black earth for ten years, and she’s all yours!’

  Black Eye was speechless. The moles around his eye turned the colour of fresh leaves. Leaping to his feet, he slapped the physician seven or eight times, sending trickles of blood out of his nostrils and down the bristly black hairs. The physician licked his lips greedily, his shiny white teeth stained with blood.

  ‘How’d you get here?’ Granddad asked him.

  ‘My mule!’ the physician replied, stretching his neck as though he were swallowing a mouthful of blood. ‘What have you done with my mule?’

  ‘I guarantee you he’s a Japanese spy!’ Black Eye said. ‘Bring me a whip. I’ll teach the son of a bitch something!’

  ‘My mule! Give me back my mule! I want my mule. . . .’ There was panic in the physician’s voice. He tried to run out of the tent, but was stopped by the guards. One of them punched him in the temple. His head slumped forward, as though his neck had snapped like a sorghum stalk. He crumpled to the ground.

  ‘Search him!’ Granddad ordered.

  The Iron Society soldiers searched him thoroughly, but all they found was a couple of marbles, one bright green, the other bright red, each with a little cat’s-eye bubble in the centre. Granddad held them up to the candlelight to reflect the brilliant rays. They were beautiful. With a perplexed shake of his head, he set them on the table. Father reached out and snatched them away.

  ‘Give one to Fulai,’ Granddad told him.

  Reluctantly, Father held them out to Fulai, who was standing beside Black Eye. ‘Which one do you want?’

  ‘The red one.’

  ‘No,’ Father said. ‘You can have the green one.’

  ‘I want the red one.’

  ‘The green one; take it or leave it.’ Fulai grudgingly took the green one out of Father’s hand.

  As the physician’s neck gradually straightened, the ominous light in his eyes was as strong as ever. His bloodstained, wispy beard bristled.

  ‘Talk! Are you a Japanese spy or not?’ Granddad asked him.

  Like a stubborn child, the physician picked up where he’d left off: ‘My mule, my mule! I won’t say a word until you bring me my mule.’

  Granddad laughed mischievously, then said, ‘Bring it over. Let’s see what he’s trying to sell.’

  The scrawny mule was led to the tent, where the dazzling candlelight, the shiny coffin, and the dark, forbidding paper figures so frightened it that it balked at the entrance and refused to take another step. The physician covered its eyes with his hands and led the animal inside. Its skinny legs shook, and a rat-tat-tat of loud farts was released towards Grandma’s bier.

  The physician threw his arms around the mule’s neck and patted its bony forehead. ‘Scared, fellow?’ he asked tenderly. ‘Don’t be. I’m telling you, don’t be scared. Not even if they lop off your head and leave a scar as big as a bowl! Even if it’s the size of a basin, in twenty years you’ll come back as a real hero!’

  ‘Okay, talk! Who sent you? What are you here for?’ Granddad asked him.

  ‘My dad’s ghost sent me here to sell my potion.’ He took his saddlebags off the mule’s back, removed a packet of patent medicine, and began to chant, ‘A dash of croton beans, two of bezoar, three of blister beetle, four of musk, seven onion whites, seven dates, seven grains of paper, seven slices of ginger.’

  Everyone’s mouth dropped in astonishment as they looked at the expression on the physician’s face. The mule, having grown used to its surroundings, began pawing the ground casually with its pale, cracked hooves.

  ‘What kind of potion?’ Black Eye asked.

  ‘Fast-action abortion medicine,’ the physician said with a cunning smile. ‘Even if you’re made of bronze, iron, or steel, one packet of this medicine, taken in three portions, will drive the baby right out of you. Money-back guarantee.’

  ‘You goddamned immoral bastard!’ Black Eye lashed out.

  ‘There’s more, there’s more!’ He reached into his saddlebags and held up another packet as he chanted, ‘A dog’s penis has the emperor, a goat’s penis has the minister. Some rice wine and crown-prince ginseng, the bark of eucommia, some chain fern and ursine seal, the tips of March bamboo shoots as a base.’

  ‘What’s it good for?’ Black Eye asked.

  ‘Impotence. Whether you’re as wispy as a silkworm’s thread or as soft as fluffed cotton, one packet, taken in three portions, and you’ll have a rod of steel that’ll get you through the night. Money-back guarantee.’

  Black Eye rubbed his shiny forehead with his hand and smiled lewdly. ‘You’re a goddamn wild man engaged in inhuman business!’ he said, and asked to see the potion.

  The physician handed Black Eye something that looked like a withered branch. He held it under his nose and sniffed it. ‘You call this a goddamn dog’s penis?’

  ‘The genuine article, the penis of a black dog!’

  ‘Old Yu, take a look and tell me if this isn’t the dried root of an ordinary tree.’ Black Eye handed it to Granddad, who held it up to a candle and examined it through squinting eyes.

  The physician suddenly began to quake, and his bristly chin twitched noticeably. Father stopped playing with his marble, his heart racing as he watched the physician shrink in front of his eyes.

  Suddenly the physician thrust his left hand into his saddlebags and caught everyone by surprise by spraying a packet of medicine in Granddad’s face. Something in his left hand flashed – a green-tinted dagger. Everyone stood stupefied as the physician, agile as a black cat, stabbed at Granddad’s throat. But Granddad had leaped to his feet and instinctively covered his neck with his arm, which took a long gash from the physician’s dagger. Granddad kicked over the table, whipped out his pistol, and got off three quick shots.
But since his eyes were stinging from the medicine powder, his shots went wild, one hitting the tent, another slamming into the heavily varnished coffin, and ricocheting out of the tent opening, the third shattering the mule’s right foreleg. It brayed pitifully as a stream of white and red liquid spurted from its smashed kneecap. Tormented by pain, the mule crashed into the paper snow pines and snow willows, which rustled loudly as they crumpled and fell to the ground. The candles around the coffin were sent flying, their glowing wicks and hot wax quickly igniting the paper and straw and immersing Grandma’s momentarily gloomy spirit table in a burst of radiance. The tinder-dry sides of the tent curled towards the tongues of flame, as Iron Society soldiers came to life and converged on the tent.

  Amid the growing conflagration, the physician, whose skin shone like ancient bronze, rushed Granddad again with his dagger. Black Eye, the trace of a gloating smile on his lips, stood off to the side but didn’t fire his pistol. Father whipped out his Luger, cocked it, and fired a single round, striking the physician squarely in his right shoulder. His arm sagged, and the dagger dropped harmlessly onto the table. Father cocked his pistol again and a fresh bullet entered the chamber. Granddad shouted, ‘Hold your fire!’

  Bang, bang, bang. Black Eye’s pistol barked three times, and the physician’s head exploded like a hardboiled egg. Granddad glared at Black Eye.

  Iron Society soldiers swarmed into the tent, where the fire was raging. The mule, shrouded in flames, writhed on the ground.

  A mad dash for the opening.

  ‘Put out the fire!’ Black Eye screamed. ‘Hurry! Fifty million tigermount bills to whoever saves the coffin!’

  The spring rains had only recently passed, and the pond at the head of the village was filled with water. Together the Iron Society soldiers and common folk who had come for the funeral pushed the red billowing cloud of the burning tent to the ground, and put out the fire.