“You continue to impress me, Ming! Me, an evil earth god!” The head laughed again.
“Well, do you want to watch the village seamstress give birth?” Ming asked.
7
ASSEMBLING
“I BET NO ONE WOULD MISTAKE ME FOR AN EARTH god if I were in one piece,” Shí said thoughtfully.
Ming laughed. “Yeah, and if I grew wings, I could fly to Xi’an to find my bā ba.”
Shí arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s easier said than done.”
“Is there anywhere you can put me together?”
Ming looked around the crowded room and thought for a moment. “On my bā ba’s bed, I guess.”
“Then please take all of my parts to the bed and put them in their proper places!”
Ming didn’t know what Shí was planning, but so far he’d been full of surprises. He carried the head into the bedroom, which was half the size of the front room. Empty pickle jars, chipped bowls, broken mugs, and mismatched chopsticks covered a rough-hewn table that had never seen a coat of varnish. It stood between the two beds, which were set against opposite walls. A map of Li County covered the entire wall over the bigger bed. Above the smaller bed, Ming had hung a poster of a tiger. Its yellow eyes glowed with cold light, and its scarlet tongue was wet with blood. A young, muscular man with broad shoulders straddled the tiger. His fist was in the air, and his eyes sparkled. Beneath the tiger, a slogan read, “All Counter-Revolutionaries Are Paper Tigers!” In smaller characters it said, “All capitalist countries, like America, are paper tigers—threats without substance.”
Ming set the head on the bigger bed and went back to the front room. He loaded the broken body parts into a bamboo basket and dragged it to the bedroom. The head watched him quizzically, but Ming was too hungry to talk, so he avoided eye contact. It took him three trips to gather all the pieces. After unloading them beside the bed, Ming fetched a small brown ceramic jar from the table.
“What’s that?” asked Shí curiously.
“Homemade rice glue,” Ming said, holding up the jar. “Father uses it to repair broken pots and vases. I’m not sure it will work on you, but it’s all I have.” He removed the lid and looked inside. “Not much left. If I had some rice, I could make more.”
An archaeologist assembling a broken terra-cotta soldier.
The head barked out laughter. “Even if your rice glue worked, you would need a whole bucket just for my legs! And how do you imagine I am going to move if I’m glued together?”
Ming glared at the head defensively. “Well, then, what do you want me to use? My spit?”
“Arrange me on the bed,” instructed Shí. “Make sure I’m aligned correctly.”
Ming struggled to drag the heavy limbs onto the bed, scraping them across the wooden frame. He positioned them as best as he could.
Ming set the head flush against the neck. He took a step back to survey his work.
Suddenly, a bright light blinded him, and the house began to shake. One of the wooden bowls rattled and bounced so much that it fell off the table and hit the floor with a hollow clatter.
Ming stood frozen, shielding his eyes.
“You idiot!” Shí’s voice was shrill with pain. “You mixed up my legs! Quick, quick! Switch them—now!”
Squinting against the light, Ming could see that Shí was trembling violently. Holding his breath, he forced himself to move to the foot of the shaking bed. He reached over, grabbed hold of Shí’s legs, and dragged them away from his torso.
Suddenly, the light dimmed and the thrashing lessened. Ming rolled the leg closer to him over the other. With a pop, they jammed back into position on Shí’s torso.
Ming stepped back, ready to run in case the clay soldier exploded or thrashed around again, but the quivering stopped and the light faded. To Ming’s surprise, Shí sat up, looked around, and stretched luxuriously. “Much better!”
Shí swung around and carefully put his feet down on the ground. Slowly, he stood up.
Mouth agape, Ming tracked the soldier’s movements. Upright, Shí was a full head taller than Ming. A plated armor vest covered his upper torso, leaving his arms and legs covered only by what appeared to be a gown.
Shí swung his arms about. Bits of fine brown dust floated down around him, leaving a thin layer on the floor. “Ah!” he sighed with satisfaction. “Everything seems to be working well. Old Tian did a good job! You see this mark on my neck?” He pointed to the 田 character. “It is my sculptor’s signature. As long as it is intact, I can be reassembled like new, even if I am in pieces.”
“Er … Why did you need my help, then?”
Shí flexed his fingers experimentally. “Because I cannot move my detached parts.”
An unearthed terra-cotta soldier.
Ming moved back a few steps and gazed admiringly at the large terra-cotta soldier. “You look … very impressive!”
“Thank you! Believe it or not, I used to be even more handsome.”
Ming raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“Tian decorated me with lacquer paints made from colorful minerals and egg whites.”
“Egg whites?” Ming’s stomach gurgled.
“It thickened the paint and protected me from moisture, so my color would last for eternity.”
“Well, apparently it didn’t work. Or did he run out of every color but gray?”
“I have been around a long time,” Shí blustered. “Much has happened!”
8
GUARDING THE GREAT WALL
“SHOULD I CONTINUE MY STORY?” ASKED SHÍ.
Still astounded by the animated statue standing before him, Ming could only nod. He sat down on the edge of his bed and waited eagerly for Shí to resume.
Our guard post on the Great Wall was located on the steep hilltops of the Pamir Mountains, strategically situated to protect the Silk Road, the vital trade route between China and the countries to the west. We were divided into three shifts, taking turns standing guard at the top of the tower and sleeping in our quarters below. From the upper level we could see the distant desert stretching off to dark mountain ranges. Rain was rare, and a steady wind whipped up the sand, often obscuring the surrounding peaks and cliffs in thick, eerie dust storms.
The initial shock had subsided a bit. Ming shifted to make himself comfortable. He reached over to the table for the old man’s clock and began fiddling with it.
Rocks the size of my head were piled every few feet along the wall. Next to them were cauldrons filled with oil. At the top of the tower was a big pot of oil, surrounded by damp straw. The first few weeks I stood guard, I kept imagining the pounding of horses’ hooves, the shadows of men scaling the wall, and snarling barbarians grabbing my arm to pull me over. Yet the only sound was the desert wind and the occasional exchange between Liang and me, as if we were the only humans for hundreds of miles.
Ming popped the back off the clock and adjusted the tiny gears with his screwdriver. He held the clock to his ear, listening.
“What should I do if the Mongols attack us?” I asked Liang.
He patted my stiff back and said, “They are more likely to attack towers on the lower ground first. As soon as you spot the enemy, light the warning fire. Our brothers below depend on us.”
The fact that Liang said little only made me hang on to his words when he did speak. And he was right—for months, I never saw a Mongol up close. Occasionally, when the dust storms subsided, I saw fighting off in the distance.
With a sharp, metallic crackling, the Political Officer’s voice suddenly sputtered from the loudspeakers. “Comrades! Set aside your revolutionary work! Come to the teahouse for a special meeting!”
A special meeting? Ming’s heart tightened. The last time there had been a special meeting, the village potter had been publicly denounced and sent away. He had not returned. Ming looked at Shí standing tall and straight, wrapped up in his memories.
While other off-duty soldiers sta
yed below, singing and trading stories, Liang and I spent many nights bent over his homemade game of Go by the light of an oil lamp. Nothing distracted us from our game but the whispering wind and the pattering of sand against the stone walls. I began to appreciate him. I think the feeling was mutual.
Early one morning, Liang let me stand guard alone. As I marveled at the orange sunrise staining the desert sky, my breath caught in my throat. A small dust cloud was racing like a wild dragon toward our tower, growing larger by the second. A mix of excitement and fear shot through my belly.
Ming’s bā ba always went to the meetings by himself. With him absent, Ming wondered if he should go alone.
“Attack! Attack!” I yelled. “The enemy’s attacking!” I lit the oil in the pot, throwing the damp straw on it to create a thick plume of dark smoke. Within minutes, the signal smoke was swirling into the air like a phoenix’s tail over the Great Wall.
My fellow soldiers, roused from their sleep, joined me at the tower. The Mongols were now about half a mile from the wall. Suddenly, our cavalry appeared on the eastern horizon, backlit by the crimson sky. Like a small herd of deer racing from a sea of fire, they caught up with the enemy and smashed through them with lightning speed, hacking left and right. The Mongols were blindsided. Dragging their dead and wounded with them, they scattered like terrified mice. That was the first time I saw Liang smile.
A contemporary reenactment of lighting signal fires on the watch towers on the Great Wall.
Though he would never admit it, Ming secretly wished he had such an opportunity to impress Teacher Panda. Maybe nothing he did would ever change how she treated him.
“Did Liang praise you for lighting the warning fire?” asked Ming.
“I don’t think he was capable of praise, but I could tell he was pleased. He said that often the signal fires were lit too late and the enemy would be long gone by the time our cavalry arrived.
“After the battle, when the cavalry fought like animals for the dead Mongols’ heads, Liang’s face darkened. ‘Lucky dogs!’ he growled. ‘They’re going to get even more land and bigger houses!’”
“I wish we could own a house,” Ming said dreamily. “These days, all the property belongs to the socialist communes.” Turning to Shí, he asked, “Did they trade the heads at the local market?” He pictured bloody Mongol heads hanging by their hair next to the pig and cow heads at the butcher’s stall.
Shí chuckled. “No. At the end of the battle, officers recorded the heads and rewarded each soldier accordingly.”
Satisfied, Ming snapped on the back of the clock and placed it on the table. He proudly watched the hen and the three yellow chicks peck at invisible grain as the second hand slowly crept around.
“What’s that?”
“A clock. It tells time.”
“Oh, it’s alive! It hides in a shell like a turtle, but I can hear its heart beating.”
“No.” Ming chuckled. “It’s a machine.”
There was a commotion outside the house. Thump, thump … The knocking sound continued, steady as a drumbeat.
“Meeting at the teahouse!” someone shouted.
Ming stood up, held his breath, and waited until the shuffling footsteps faded into the distance.
Shí looked at him with concern. “What’s happening?”
“It’s nothing.” Ming sat back down. “They’re probably lecturing everyone again on how to act like a true revolutionary. Please go on.”
Shí paused for a moment and then continued. “Liang told me that the cavalrymen often bragged about their new land and lavish homes, and of how their family members were excused from mandatory labor. I grew restless, feeling as though I was wasting my time and talent, sitting on the wall and playing countless games of Go.”
“Talent?”
“Are you so surprised?” Shí sounded offended. “Back in our village, Feng’s father was the best horse trainer. He taught Feng and me to ride at a young age. Even though Feng was better with the girls, I could beat him in a horse race any day.”
Ming had never ridden a horse. He wondered if it was harder than riding a bike.
One night, soon after I had lit the warning fire, Liang interrupted my dreams of slaughtering Mongols on a charging brown horse.
“Wake up! Get to the tower!” He shook me violently. “The Mongols are here!”
Half awake, I grabbed my sword and ran out of our sleeping quarters along with the other soldiers. The warning bonfire and torches illuminated the sky. The night air reeked of smoke and burning oil. It was the attack I had long dreaded, yet eagerly anticipated.
Mongol arrows flew through the smoke. I snuck a quick peek. Enemy soldiers were climbing up the wall on rough pine ladders. Liang suddenly grabbed me and pulled me down. An arrow zipped by, a feather’s width from my hair.
“Spread out along the wall! Get the oil ready!” he yelled.
As I ran along the wall, a hand gripped its edge and an enemy head popped up. I matched gazes with a boy about my age. His face was ghostly with a dusting of sand. His dark eyes reflected the flickering light of the torch behind me. I hesitated for a moment before pushing him with all my strength. He screamed as he fell off the wall. Even over the sounds of battle, I thought I heard his head smacking against the rocks far below. At the time, I was too busy fighting, but that boy’s terrified face would haunt me for centuries to come.
“Over here!” Liang yelled.
I ran over and helped him upend the cauldron of boiling oil on the Mongols who were scaling the wall like ants climbing a tree. They fell off the ladders, crying out as their skin melted, and rolled around in agony on the ground. Still another wave rushed up the ladders. Liang and I pushed the ladders off the wall, sending the enemy flying through the air. We rained rocks down atop their heads.
Ming had never imagined that fighting on the Great Wall was so brutal. He looked forward to telling these stories to the old men in the teahouse. He could just picture them spitting tea across the table in disbelief.
“The Mongols were a determined bunch,” Shí muttered musingly. “By the time our cavalry arrived, we had run out of oil and rocks and were defending the wall with spears, crossbows, and swords.”
“Didn’t Liang say that the Mongols would attack only the lower towers?”
Shí looked impressed. “Ha, you paid attention, young man! That’s correct. But they changed their tactics when the weather grew cold. The Mongols desperately wanted to capture our supplies, so they attacked indiscriminately. Believe it or not, I secretly wished they would succeed in getting onto the wall. That way I would have a chance to lop off their heads, claim my rewards, and free my father.”
“Why didn’t you just go down after the battle to collect a few heads?” Ming imagined farmers out in the fields harvesting watermelons.
“We couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Ming heard rough voices outside and then heavy pounding on the gate. He stood up.
“We were prohibited from leaving our post,” answered Shí. “The cavalrymen knew that too. To mock us, they would wave the heads at us. That was when I vowed to join them.”
There was a sharp crash. Startled, Ming jumped up. The front gate had been kicked open! From the voices and the sounds in the courtyard, he could tell that the intruders were angry. He hurried to the door and saw men and women swarming inside the cramped courtyard, muddying the fresh snow.
The older villagers hung back, craning their necks to see over the crowd. Runny-nosed children in old woolen shirts crammed over bulky jackets jostled one another to get in front for a good view. Ming recognized several of his classmates gathered around Teacher Panda. At the head of the crowd were the three Gee brothers, with their wheelbarrow.
Ming stood defiantly on the stoop and tried to sound authoritative. “What do you want? Get out of here!”
But when he spotted a skinny man standing at the back of the crowd, his chest deflated.
9
THE
POLITICAL OFFICER
THE MAN WAS THE POLITICAL OFFICER OF RED STAR. He had the features of a goat, with obsidian eyes and a sloping forehead that even his Mao-style hat couldn’t hide. An old pistol hung from his hip inside a leather holster. He was silently observing Ming, wearing the familiar, shameless grin that Ming often saw when the man accepted “gifts” from him.
On the fifteenth of every month, when Ming’s bā ba received his salary of sixty yuán, Ming would go to the village shop and buy a pound of meat or a dozen eggs, which he would then deliver to the Political Officer’s house. Every time he walked out of the shop, Ming imagined the mouthwatering dishes he could have shared with his bā ba if only they had been able to keep the food for themselves.
The snow had stopped, and the sun now peeked out from behind the clouds, shining weakly onto the gathered crowd. The Political Officer pushed a young militiaman wearing a red armband and ordered, “Go! Get this so-called earth god! I want to see it!”
The crowd quickly parted, making way for the militiaman and the Political Officer. The Gee brothers inched forward behind them.
Ming’s palms grew sweaty. He tried to imagine himself as a revolutionary hero from a movie, facing down a horde of enemies.
The militiaman, with pimple scars on his cheeks, approached him.
“H-h-hold on,” said Ming. “You have to wait until my father comes home.” He nervously ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, disgusted by the pleading tone of his own voice.
The Political Officer abruptly spat on the ground, grinding the spit beneath his shoe. He pushed the militiaman aside and snarled at Ming, “I know how that little abacus clicks away in your head. Playing tough with me won’t work!”
He turned to face the crowd, spreading his arms and smiling broadly. “As your Political Officer, it is my responsibility to educate you. Don’t believe that old feudal nonsense. There is no god in new China … only our dear Chairman Mao!” Spittle flew from between his yellow teeth.
Secrets of the Terra-Cotta Soldier Page 4