by Mo Yan
As he rushed outside, he bumped into seven or eight ragged, pale-faced refugees from Saltwater Gap, leading a popeyed, shedding old mule with two baskets slung over its back. A torn jacket with loose padding covered the one on the left; in the one on the right squatted a boy of about four. Granddad examined the boy’s skinny neck, his enlarged head, his fleshy, fanlike ears, as he sat peacefully in the basket, not a care in the world, whittling a white willow switch with a nicked knife so rusty it had turned red. Wooden curlicues flew from the basket. Granddad asked his parents about the situation in the village, never taking his eyes off the child, particularly his large ears, which symbolised good luck, longevity, and great fortune.
The adults vied with one another to describe the actions of the Japanese soldiers in their village. They had managed to escape because their son, who had started bawling the previous afternoon, demanded to be taken to visit his maternal grandma. No threats or promises could get him to change his mind, and they finally gave in and, early the next morning, readied their mule. When the first shots were fired, they were one step ahead of the Japanese, who put the village under siege. Granddad asked about Second Grandma and my little auntie Xiangguan, but they shook their heads and fidgeted, anxious looks on their faces.
The boy in the basket lowered his busy hands to his belly, raised his head, and said weakly, his eyes closed, ‘Why aren’t we moving? Waiting to be killed?’ His parents froze for a moment, perhaps pondering the prophetic possibilities of what he’d said, then awoke to the reality of their situation. The mother looked numbly at Granddad as the father slapped the mule’s rump, and the squad of refugees skittered off down the road. Granddad watched their retreating backs, especially the boy with the big droopy ears. His premonition would prove accurate, for twenty years later the little bastard would become a demonic zealot in this sinful spot known as Northeast Gaomi Township.
Granddad ran to the western wing, where he opened the hole in the double-layer wall to get his pistol. It was gone, but he could see the outline of the spot where it had lain. Something funny was going on here. He turned, and there stood Grandma, a contemptuous grin on her face. Thin eyebrows curved downward on her dark, gloomy face. Granddad glared at her and demanded, ‘Where’s my pistol?’
Her upper lip switched as two blasts of cold air snorted from her nostrils. With a final disdainful look she turned, picked up a feather duster, and began dusting the kang.
‘Where’s my pistol?’ Granddad thundered.
‘How the hell should I know?’ she retorted, mercilessly beating the poor bedding.
‘Give me my pistol,’ Granddad said, trying to keep his anxieties under control. ‘The Japanese have surrounded Saltwater Gap,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I have to see how they are.’
Grandma spun around angrily and said, ‘Then go! It’s none of my damned business!’
‘Give me my pistol.’
‘How should I know where it is? Don’t ask me.’
Granddad pressed up close. ‘You stole my pistol and gave it to Black Eye, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right, I gave it to him! And that’s not all. I slept with him, and I loved it! It was wonderful! One hell of a time!’
Granddad’s mouth split into a grin and he uttered a single ‘Ah!’ as he clenched his fist and hit her squarely in her nose, from which dark blood spurted. She shrieked and crumpled to the floor like a toppled column. As she struggled to her feet, he drove his fist into her neck. The second punch, a real powerhouse, sent her flying into a chest against the wall.
‘Slut! Filthy bitch!’ Granddad lashed out through clenched teeth. Bad blood stored up over the years coursed through his veins like a poison. He was thinking back to the untold shame of being knocked down by Black Eye, and to how often he’d imagined Grandma lying beneath the wolfish man, moaning and panting and crying out shamelessly; with his guts writhing like snakes, and his body as hot as the midsummer sun, he grabbed the date-wood bolt from the door and took aim at Grandma’s blood-smeared head as she tried to get to her feet, vital and tenacious as ever.
‘Dad!’ Father ran in screaming, grabbed the door bolt, and held on for dear life. His shout saved Grandma’s life for sure. So instead of dying at the hands of Granddad, she would one day die from a Japanese bullet, and her death would be as glorious and as brilliant as ripened red sorghum.
Grandma crawled over to Granddad, wrapping her arms around his knees and rubbing his muscular legs. She raised her gloomy face, soaked with tears and blood, and said, ‘Zhan’ao – Zhan’ao – elder brother – dearest eldest brother, kill me, go ahead and kill me! You can’t imagine how it hurts to see you go, you’ll never know how badly I want you to stay. With all the Japanese out there, I fear you’ll never come back. No matter how great you may be, it’s just you and your gun, and even a tiger is no match for a pack of wolves. It’s that little bitch’s doing, it’s all her fault. You were never out of my mind when I was with Black Eye, and I won’t let you go to your death! I can’t live without you. Besides, my ten days aren’t up yet, not till tomorrow. She’s robbed me of half of you. . . . All right, go if you have to. . . . She can have one of my days. . . . I hid your beloved pistol and thirty-one bullets in the rice vat. . . .’
With her face buried in his legs, he was filled with remorse, especially since Father was lurking fearfully behind the door. Despising himself for being so brutal, he bent down, lifted up Grandma, who was nearly unconscious, and carried her over to the kang. He decided not to go to Saltwater Gap until first thing the next morning. Let heaven watch over mother and daughter and keep them from harm!
Granddad rode his mule from the village to Saltwater Gap, a distance of only fifteen li, although it seemed like miles. Even though the black mule ran like the wind, it wasn’t fast enough for Granddad, who whipped it mercilessly with the hempen reins. Clods of earth flew in all directions behind the mule’s hooves, a thin layer of dust hung in the air above the fields, and the sky was filled with rivers of meandering black clouds; a peculiar odour drifted over on the wind from Saltwater Gap.
Oblivious to the sprawling bodies, human and animal, Granddad went straight to Second Grandma’s and rushed into the yard, his heart sinking as he saw the broken gate and smelled the stench of blood. He despaired when he saw the bedroom door, barely hanging on its hinges. Second Grandma lay on the kang in the same position she’d assumed when offering up her body to protect Little Auntie. . . . Xiangguan was sprawled on the dirt floor in front of the kang, her face puddled in her own blood, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Granddad let out a roar, drew his pistol, and stumbled to the still-panting black mule, which he smacked on the rump with his pistol, wanting to fly to the county town to avenge the murders on the Japanese. He didn’t realise he’d taken the wrong road until he became aware of a patch of withered yellow reeds standing silently and solemnly in the morning sunlight. As he swung the mule around and headed off to town, he heard shouts behind him, but he kept beating the mule wildly without a backward glance. With each blow, the mule bucked, but the more it protested the angrier Granddad became. He was taking his fury out on the poor animal, which bucked and twisted so violently it finally threw its rider into last year’s sorghum.
Granddad climbed to his feet like a wounded beast and aimed his pistol at the narrow head of the lathered mule, which stood rigidly, its head lowered and its rump covered by goose-egg-sized lumps and streaks of dark blood. Granddad levelled the gun with his shaky hand. Just then our other mule came flying down the road out of the red sunrise, Uncle Arhat on its back. Its hide shone as though covered with a coat of gold dust.
Uncle Arhat, exhausted, jumped down off the mule and took a couple of tottering steps before nearly collapsing. Placing himself between Granddad and the black mule, he reached out and forced down the hand holding the pistol. ‘Zhan’ao,’ he said, ‘come to your senses!’
As he looked into the face of Uncle Arhat, Granddad’s seething anger turned into simmering sorr
ow, and tears slid down his face. ‘Uncle,’ Granddad said hoarsely, ‘both of them, mother and daughter . . . It’s horrible. . . .’
Overcome by grief, he squatted on the ground. Uncle Arhat helped him up and said, ‘Manager Yu, a noble man can wait a decade to seek revenge. You should be back there taking care of arrangements so the dead can rest in peace.’
Second Grandma wasn’t dead. She gazed into the staring eyes of Granddad and Uncle Arhat as they stood beside her kang. Seeing her thick, heavy lashes, her dimming eyes, bloody nose, gnawed cheeks, and swollen lips made Granddad’s heart feel as though it had been cleaved by a knife, the searing pain mixed with an agitation he couldn’t drive away. Droplets of water began to ooze from the corners of her eyes, and her lips trembled slightly as she uttered a weak cry: ‘Elder brother . . .’
‘Passion . . .’ Granddad groaned.
Uncle Arhat backed silently out of the room.
Granddad leaned over the kang and dressed Second Grandma, who cried out when his hand brushed against her skin; she began to rant, just as she had years earlier when possessed by the weasel. He pinned her arms down to keep her from struggling, then slid her pants up over her dead, soiled legs.
Uncle Arhat walked in. ‘Manager Yu, I’ll borrow a wagon from next door . . . take mother and daughter back to get better. . . .’
He searched Granddad’s face for a reaction. Granddad nodded.
Uncle Arhat picked up two comforters and ran outside, where he spread them out on the bed of the big-wheeled wagon. Granddad cradled Second Grandma, one arm under the nape of her neck, the other under the crook of her legs, as if she were a priceless treasure. He walked past the smashed gate out into the street, where Uncle Arhat waited with the wagon. He had hitched one of the mules to the wagon shafts; the poor mule whose rump Granddad had beaten bloody was tied to the rear crossbar. Granddad laid the now-screaming Second Grandma onto the bed of the wagon. He knew how badly she wanted to be strong, but he also knew she didn’t have the will.
Now that he’d taken care of Second Grandma, he turned to see Uncle Arhat, his weathered face streaked with an old man’s tears, walking up with the corpse of Little Auntie Xiangguan. Granddad’s throat felt as if it were in the grip of a pair of metal tongs. He coughed violently, racked by dry heaves. Gripping the axle to support himself, he looked skyward and saw in the southeast the enormous emerald fireball of the sun bearing down on him like a wildly spinning wagon wheel.
Taking the body of Little Auntie in his arms, he looked down into a face twisted by torment; two stinging tears fell to the ground.
After laying Little Auntie’s corpse next to Second Grandma, he lifted a corner of the comforter and covered the girl’s terror-streaked face.
‘Get up on the wagon, Manager Yu,’ Uncle Arhat said.
Granddad sat impassively on the railing, his legs dangling over the side.
Uncle Arhat flicked the reins and started out slowly, the axles of the wagon turning with difficulty. Long-drawn-out groans emerged from the dry, oil-starved sandalwood, followed by loud creaks that sounded like death rattles as the wagon bumped and rolled out of the village and onto the road heading towards our village, from which the scent of sorghum wine rose into the air. Although Second Grandma looked as if she had been rocked to sleep by the bumpy ride, her misty grey eyes remained open. Granddad put his finger under her nose to see if she was breathing. Weak, but he could feel it; that put him at ease.
A vast open field all around, a wagon of suffering passing through, the sky above as boundless as a dark ocean, black soil flat as far as the eye could see, sparse villages like islands adrift. As he sat on the wagon, Granddad felt that everything in the world was a shade of green.
The shafts of the wagon were much too narrow for our big mule, the spoked wheels much too light. Its belly was squeezed so uncomfortably between the shafts that it wanted to start running; but Uncle Arhat controlled the metal bit in its mouth, so it could only nurse a silent grievance and raise its forelegs as high as possible, as though it were prancing. Mumbled, sobbing curses tumbled from Uncle Arhat’s mouth: ‘Fucking swine . . . fucking inhuman swine . . . slaughtered the whole family next door, ripped open the daughter-in-law’s belly . . . Depraved . . . Unborn baby looked like a skinned rat. . . . Potful of soupy yellow shit . . . Fucking swine . . .’
The black mule tied to the back of the wagon plodded along behind, its head bowed, although it was impossible to tell whether the look on its long face was one of indignation, anger, shame, or capitulation.
6
FATHER RECALLED THAT the mule-drawn wagon carrying Second Grandma and the corpse of Little Auntie Xiangguan arrived in our village at noon. A strong wind from the northwest raised clouds of dust on the roads and rustled leaves on the trees. Dead skin peeled from his lips in the parched air. When the wagon, one mule in front and another at the rear, appeared in the village, he ran like the wind to meet it. Uncle Arhat was hobbling along beside the bumping, creaking wagon. The mules, Granddad, and Uncle Arhat all had a gummy, dust-covered residue in the corners of their eyes. Granddad sat on the railing, holding his head in his hands like a clay idol or a wooden icon. The scene sucked the words right out of Father’s mouth. At a distance of about twenty yards from the wagon, his sensitive nose detected an inauspicious odour emanating from the wagon. Frightened, he turned and ran back home, blurting out to Grandma, who was anxiously pacing the floor, ‘Mom, Dad’s back, the mule’s pulling a long wagon, dead people in the back.’
Grandma’s face fell. After a momentary pause, she rushed outside with him.
The wagon wheels ground to a bumpy halt, creaking one last time as the wagon stopped just beyond the gate. Granddad climbed down slowly and stared at Grandma with bloodshot eyes. The sight frightened Father; Granddad’s eyes reminded him of the cat’s-eye stones on the banks of the Black Water River, whose colours were forever changing.
‘Well, you got your wish!’ Granddad snarled at Grandma.
Not daring to defend herself, she timidly approached the wagon, Father on her heels, and looked into the bed. The folds of the comforter were filled with black earth, revealing the lumpy outlines of whatever was underneath. She picked up a corner, but let it drop as though her fingers were scalded. Father glimpsed Second Grandma’s smashed, pulpy face and Little Auntie’s rigid, open mouth.
That open mouth called up all sorts of pleasant childhood memories for Father. He’d frequently gone to Saltwater Gap to spend a few days, against Grandma’s wishes. Granddad had told him to call Second Grandma ‘Second Mom,’ and since she treated him like her own son, he thought she was just wonderful. She occupied a special place deep in his heart and seeing her was like coming home. Little Auntie Xiangguan had a mouth as sweet as honey that was forever filling the air with gentle shouts of ‘Elder Brother’. This dark-skinned little sister was one of his favourites, and he was fascinated by the fine, nearly transparent fuzz on her face; most of all he loved her bright eyes, like shiny buttons. Yet, just when they were at the peak of enjoyment, Grandma would send someone over to drag him home, and he would look down at her from his perch in the arms of the messenger on the mule and feel terribly sad. He wondered why Grandma and Second Grandma hated each other so.
Father thought back to the time he’d gone to weigh the dead baby, a couple of years or so earlier. He’d accompanied Mother to the place called Dead Baby Hollow, some three li beyond the village. Since township tradition forbade the burial of babies under the age of five, the tiny corpses were abandoned out in the open. Traditional birthing customs were followed back then, and only the most rudimentary medical treatment was available, so the infant mortality rate was particularly high, and only the strongest survived.
I sometimes think that there is a link between the decline in humanity and the increase in prosperity and comfort. Prosperity and comfort are what people seek, but the costs to character are often terrifying.
When Father went to Dead Baby Hollow with Grandma, she was obsesse
d with the Flower Lottery, a small-scale form of gambling in which you neither fly too high nor fall too hard, which had captivated the villagers, the women in particular; since Granddad was enjoying a stable, prosperous life, the villagers chose him as the society head and banker. Placing the names of thirty-two flowers in a bamboo tube, he publicly drew out two a day, one in the morning and one at night. The herbaceous peony or the Chinese rose, maybe the common rose, maybe the prickly rose. The gambler whose flower was picked earned thirty times the amount she’d bet. Women caught up in the Flower Lottery devised all manner of methods to guess which name Granddad would draw. Some poured wine down their daughters’ throats in anticipation of babbled visions in their drunkenness. Others forced themselves to dream for the answer. Going to Dead Baby Hollow was Grandma’s unique and appalling method.
It was so dark that Father couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Grandma had wakened him in the middle of the night, startling him out of a deep slumber and making him feel like screaming at her for frightening him like that. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ she had whispered. ‘Come with me to guess the flowers.’ With his natural curiosity and the promise of a good mystery, Father was immediately awake and eager to go. Quickly putting on their boots and caps, they tiptoed past Granddad and slipped out of the yard and the village. Because they proceeded with caution and walked very quietly, their passage went unnoticed even by the village dogs. Grandma was holding Father’s left hand, leaving his right hand free to carry a red-paper lantern; she was holding him with her right hand, leaving her left hand free to carry her special scale, on which the names of thirty-two flowers were carved.
As they walked out of the village Father heard a southeast wind whistling through the sorghum fields and rustling the broad green leaves; he could smell the Black Water River far off in the distance. After groping along for a li or so, he grew accustomed enough to the dark to distinguish between the brown road surface and the waist-high sorghum by the roadside. The soughing of the wind through the stalks added to the mystery of the dark night, while the screeches of an owl on one of the trees out there cast a patina of terror over the enigma of the dark night.