Secrets of the Terra-Cotta Soldier

by Ying Chang Compestine

  Ming was now drenched in sweat, as if someone had poured a bowl of cold water down his back collar. He felt his throat tighten. It took effort to draw air into his lungs. He thought back to when Richard Nixon, the President of the United States, had visited Beijing the previous year. Chairman Mao had replaced his command “Dig tunnels” with “Establish diplomatic channels.” And so the farmers had stopped digging like squirrels in autumn, and the flood of artifacts had quickly trickled down to a feeble stream of a few old bricks here and there, some broken pots, and the occasional chunk of carved stone.

  Then, two months ago, the museum had stopped paying Bā ba, and they had run out of money to buy Goat Face “gifts.” Their “lack of generosity” hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Goat Face had paid them a visit. “Why is it, Old Chen,” he had asked Ming’s bā ba, “that you still haven’t found anything valuable? I have a theory. I think you’re selling artifacts on the black market! That wouldn’t be difficult, would it? It’s not like honest, working-class farmers could identify anything of value.”

  After sharing his theory, the Political Officer had picked up the two boiled sweet potatoes meant for their dinner and stalked out.

  Ming knew that stealing from the state was punishable by death, and that evidence was rarely required for prosecution.

  The following night, after eating a bowl of watery rice congee, Ming’s bā ba had left for the Political Officer’s house with their last remaining family treasure.

  Tucked under his arm was a cardboard box lined with blue silk. In it was an earth-colored ginseng root from which emanated a strong medicinal smell. Ming’s uncle, a ginseng picker, had sent it when he heard that his sister, Ming’s mother, had fallen ill with bronchitis.

  Ming had seen the ginseng. It had round knobs at the top and tendrils branching out from the sides like arms and legs, which made it look like a wrinkled baby. Bā ba had told him that it took decades for a root to grow that thick; ginseng was a superior tonic for strengthening the body, and even Emperors had used it.

  A ginseng root.

  They had kept the root in remembrance of Ming’s mother and as a safeguard against bad spirits. Now that it was gone, Ming couldn’t think of any valuables to bribe Goat Face with. Despite that, he decided that he couldn’t just let him take Shí.

  Ming took a step forward. With feigned confidence he said, “This office belongs to the Xi’an museum. So the ‘earth god’ is the property of the museum. You can’t take it!”

  The crowd murmured. Ming wasn’t sure if they agreed or were surprised by his boldness.

  Goat Face ignored Ming’s speech. He raised a hand and silenced the villagers. “I know that your father is in Xi’an begging to keep his job!” In a sneering tone he asked, “Who here remembers seeing any important discoveries?”

  High up in the branches of the hawthorn tree, two sparrows chirped. Their peeping filling the silent courtyard.

  “What about you?” Goat Face pointed to the middle Gee brother, who answered by shaking his head. “Me, neither! What if I told you that there actually have been many important discoveries and Old Chen’s been selling them to his bourgeois cronies on the black market!”

  Ming’s head swam. What the Political Officer was saying was a blatant lie. He knew that his bā ba had sent everything—even the smallest broken piece of pottery—to the museum.

  “I have known this for a long time and was waiting for the right moment to reveal his crime,” Goat Face continued, turning and emphasizing his words with a gesture toward Ming. “Old Chen has been hiding treasures from us! How else could he be so confident that the Emperor’s tomb is nearby … and yet have nothing to show for it after two years?”

  Ming felt as if his heart were being stir-fried in a hot pan. His nostrils flared and his eyes were filled with rage.

  Murmuring broke out among the villagers. Ming looked up and saw the èr hú player and the singer. They quickly looked away, but he thought he caught a glimmer of sympathy in the old men’s eyes.

  The Political Officer raised an eyebrow, glanced at the crowd, and continued. “Like the old proverb says: After the water drains from the river, the stones will emerge. Just imagine! After making a fortune from selling our glorious country’s treasures on the black market, Old Chen now has the nerve to go demand that the city museum pay him a salary. As soon as he comes back, we’ll hold a public denouncement meeting.”

  Ming felt his knees could no longer support his weight. Last year, the village potter had complained to two visiting city officials about the Political Officer “borrowing” his best pots and never returning them. Little did he know that the Political Officer had actually given the pots to the officials as gifts. A week later, after the Political Officer had held a public denouncement meeting, the potter had been sent on a truck to build terraced rice fields. He had yet to return. Word was that he’d died.

  “Go get the earth god!” ordered the Political Officer.

  The Gee brothers brushed past Ming. Goat Face and the militiaman followed close behind. Heart thumping, Ming realized that he had to act quickly, not stand like a dumbstruck chicken. He squeezed between the brothers and blocked the bedroom doorway by gripping the sides and planting his feet like bamboo stakes.

  The youngest Gee brother pulled at his arm. Ming didn’t budge.

  Goat Face brushed the Gee brother aside. “Let me deal with this!” He backhanded Ming across the face.

  The force of the blow snapped Ming’s head back. He collided with the door frame and fell to the floor. He tasted something warm and salty. As he reached for his face, which felt like someone had pressed a hot iron on it, he heard shouts of disbelief from the back room.

  “What’s this?” roared the Political Officer. “You said it was just a head and some broken body parts!”

  “Wh-wh-what happened? How did all those pieces come together?” cried the middle Gee brother.

  “Take it to my house! Now!” ordered Goat Face.

  The Gee brothers and the militiaman dragged Shí out of the bedroom. The terra-cotta soldier was now as stiff as a signpost.

  “How did that scrawny runt move this thing?” the youngest brother said with a grimace. “It’s heavier than your lazy son!”

  The oldest brother growled unintelligibly and bumped into the teakettle, sending it flying. Hot water spilled all over the floor. A slew of papers scattered across the room like feathers shed by an alarmed chicken.

  Ming tried to get up, but his vision blurred, and the room spun. He fell to the ground and groaned weakly. Darkness embraced him.

  At the sight of the terra-cotta statue, the crowd in the courtyard erupted excitedly, like a pot of boiling porridge.

  “Go home! Go home!” shouted the Political Officer. “The special meeting is over. We’ll resume when Old Chen gets back.”

  The crowd made way for the Gee brothers and the militiaman, who loaded Shí in the wheelbarrow. The villagers followed them through the gate, chattering and clicking their tongues in amazement.

  The Gee brothers grunted as they dragged and pushed the wheelbarrow. It wobbled unsteadily through the dirty snow on its flat tire, leaving a trail in its wake. The militiaman ran up to the side to steady Shí’s legs.

  “Be careful! Don’t break it!” the Political Officer yelled.

  The group passed a wall painted with Mao’s slogans and turned east. A curious crowd, mostly women and children, followed at a safe distance. The Political Officer turned and pointed at them.

  “We can’t build a modern Communist China by standing around. Go study our Great Leader’s teachings!”

  The villagers stopped in their tracks right in the middle of the street. With heads bowed and shoulders slumped, they turned and walked away silently.

  A village wall painted with a revolutionary slogan, a common sight during Mao’s reign. It reads, “Arm our minds with Chairman Mao’s teachings.”

  10

  DYNAMITE

  A SINGLE WHITE CLOUD SHAPED
LIKE A STEAMED bun hung heavily in the pale, translucent sky. Cooking fires cast an orange glow upon the village. The aroma of dinner being prepared filled the air: a mixture of acrid smoke from burning coal, cooked rice, stewing meat, and pungent garlic and ginger stir-fried in pig fat.

  Houses near the edge of Red Star were similar to those in the center—single-story mud huts with courtyards—except here there was more space between the properties.

  The group of men struggling with the wheelbarrow stopped at the only two-story house. The setting sun cast a yellow glow on its red ceramic-tiled roof and the high brick walls that separated the house from the quiet road.

  The Political Officer’s wife—a round-cheeked woman resembling an overfed rabbit—greeted them at the gate and ushered them in. The courtyard, paved with slabs of dark stone, was at least three times bigger than Ming’s. Ears of corn and dried red peppers hung from the eaves. Disturbed by the visitors, chickens skittered across the yard, seeking hiding places around a wooden shed fit snugly in one corner.

  “Inside, inside!” the Political Officer instructed.

  The men half carried, half dragged Shí out of the wheelbarrow and into the house. They propped him up next to the entrance to the big living room. The opposite wall had a large square window that overlooked a field. In front of the window was a brightly varnished wooden table and four high-backed chairs. On the wall to the left, a smiling portrait of Chairman Mao hung above a gas stove, an unusual luxury in the village. Four large armchairs made of rare sandalwood were arranged in a semicircle around the stove. Delicately embroidered cushions softened their hard outlines.

  The Gee brothers stared at the pantry next to the window. It was stuffed with vegetables, eggs, sausages, smoked fish, and dried mushrooms.

  “Stay away from where you dug up the statue,” the Political Officer said harshly, shoving the brothers away from the pantry. “Your new well has to be on the west side of the village.” He waved them out of the house as if he were shooing away mosquitoes.

  The Political Officer whispered something to the militiaman and walked him out into the courtyard. The man nodded like an obedient student and hurried off.

  When Goat Face returned, he saw that the table had been set for dinner. Bowls, chopsticks, and small glasses surrounded a plate of fried peanuts and a large jar of three-flower liquor.

  Goat Face’s wife brought out a plate of thin-sliced roasted beef garnished with red peppers and chopped peanuts, bathed in soy-ginger sauce. She waited until the Political Officer had chewed a mouthful of the tender beef before speaking.

  “Is that what they dug up?” she asked, looking over at Shí. “I heard it was just a head and some broken pieces! Is it worth much?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The Political Officer pointed at Shí with his chopsticks. A few drops of dark sauce dripped onto the table. “If the old men at the teahouse are right, it came from Emperor Qin’s tomb. One way or the other, we’ll find out tonight.”

  “Just be careful!” The woman left the room and returned shortly with a small bowl of deep-fried soybeans. “Will we make enough money to buy a color TV? I’ve dreamed of the day when I could watch people singing and dancing without leaving my home!”

  Goat Face snatched a handful of soybeans, ignoring the two that slipped out of his grip and fell to the floor. “If all goes according to plan, I’ll be promoted to Political Officer of the county, and we can leave this backward village forever!”

  “By then we’ll have anything we want,” the woman said cheekily.

  Goat Face stuffed the soybeans into his mouth and crunched on them loudly. Tiny bits flew from his mouth. “Why do you think I spend so much time reciting Chairman Mao’s teachings? I need to show them I’m not just another country mud ball!” He waved his hand. “Now, get rid of this cheap liquor and bring out that bottle of máo tái I’ve been saving. The militia leaders should be here soon!”

  A short time later, a tractor chugged noisily down the road and ground to a clattering halt in front of the Political Officer’s gate. Goat Face and his wife rushed out to greet their visitors.

  The door to the house across the street was ajar. A thin strip of the neighbor’s face was visible. He held eye contact briefly with Goat Face, then quickly shut the door. A dog growled inside.

  Two men in faded military jackets and red armbands climbed awkwardly off the tractor. The Political Officer helped them unload a wooden box. Together, they hauled it inside. When the militia leaders saw Shí, they couldn’t conceal their excitement. The tall one with the bald head and jagged teeth thumped on Shí’s chest. His short companion, whose stomach hung heavily over his belt, inspected Shí’s face and compared his height to the soldier’s.

  “I can’t believe it’s so big!” Chubby exclaimed. “We could sell it and buy a jeep and travel in style!”

  Baldy grinned and patted the Political Officer’s back. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but you have my full attention now. Is this really from Emperor Qin’s tomb?”

  Goat Face laughed excitedly. “Who cares where it’s from? I can sell it for a good price and make us all rich!”

  His wife ushered the men to the table. “Sit—please! Eat while the food is still hot!”

  Bustling about, she loaded the table with plates of sizzling pan-fried pork dumplings, aromatic green-onion pancakes, juicy roasted ribs, crisp stir-fried bean sprouts, and more.

  Baldy raised his cup. “To dear Chairman Mao … and to our fortunes!”

  “To our success!” The Political Officer clinked cups with his guests.

  Shí stood motionless by the door and watched the men as they ate and drank. How he wanted to knock their heads together and take the food back to his hungry friend. He resisted, remembering the steep price he had paid for his last impulsive action.

  After taking yet another deep swig, Chubby put down his cup. “Should we be drinking this much if we’re going out tonight?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Courage flows from the bottle!” Goat Face grinned and emptied his cup.

  “We still have plenty of time.” Baldy glanced at his watch. “I told our men to meet us at the well after midnight.”

  “Oh, you’re so paranoid! We could start earlier. Drink up, drink up,” Goat Face urged.

  “I’m done. Since you are not going down the hole with us, you finish it.” Chubby pushed the bottle closer to Goat Face. “Are you sure we can get away with this?” he asked.

  Goat Face refilled his cup and put a chicken drumstick into Chubby’s bowl.

  “You worry too much, brother! I have this all planned. I promise I will do my part. As soon as Old Chen returns, I’ll bring him to meet you. No doubt by then you will have unearthed enough treasure to make us all rich for three lifetimes! Plus, after we blow up the tomb, nobody will know that we were even there.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Baldy replied nervously. “You know that the central government has decreed the death penalty for anyone who robs Emperor Qin’s tomb.”

  Goat Face grinned. “Which is exactly why we need Chen to take the blame. I announced to the villagers today that he’s been stealing treasures. Those fools wouldn’t dare question me.”

  “You crafty fox!” Chubby snickered.

  Goat Face lowered his voice. “Now, here’s the best part: I’ve found a way to keep others from capitalizing on our fortune. My cousin down south says that he can sell whatever we find for a good price. That way we can keep the wealth among us. Who’s going to report us—the village mud balls? Ha! They’re terrified of me!”

  “Excellent!” Chubby bent over and popped the top off the wooden box. “This dynamite will make our job much easier.”

  “Are you sure it will work?” Goat Face asked.

  Baldy looked at Chubby and chuckled. “Do you think the neighbors would mind if we gave a demonstration?”

  Goat Face stood, swaying unsteadily, his face red from the alcohol. “Of course not! I own this town! If I stamp my foot, I can brin
g down the rafters of all the houses in Red Star. Follow me!” He grabbed one of the red sticks of dynamite and led the others into the courtyard. His wife hurried excitedly after them.

  Through the window, Shí could see the four figures milling around a tree stump in the fading gray daylight. A moment later, they all hurried to one side of the yard. A loud boom rattled the house. Bits of tree, dirt, and bark spewed into the sky. Chickens in the courtyard fluttered and squawked loudly. In the distance, dogs yelped. The men laughed so hard that they started choking, and the woman was doubled over.

  Shí had never seen a stick that could make a sound so loud and send so much stuff into the air. He couldn’t wait to ask Ming about it.

  The group returned. The men plopped down in the armchairs, talking excitedly, while the woman cleared away the dishes.

  “You know, our dear Chairman admires Emperor Qin’s exploits,” said Baldy.

  “I love our Chairman’s speech about how he outdid Qin Shi Huang’s attack against intellectuals,” Chubby replied. “What was it he said? Something like, ‘Emperor Qin buried four hundred and sixty scholars alive; we have buried forty-six thousand scholars … You intellectuals revile us for being Qin Shi Huangs. You are wrong. We have surpassed Qin Shi Huang a hundredfold.’”

  Baldy and Goat Face clapped and cheered loudly.

  “Well done! Well done, indeed! That is why you are the Communist Party leader of the county militia! No one else has such a memory for our leader’s teachings as you.” Goat Face laughed dryly.

  Chubby nodded with a grin. “Chairman Mao was right—the Emperor was too lenient!”

  “Our Chairman is a Qin-Marxist, truly a formidable combination!” said the Political Officer. He was glad he had learned the new phrase “Qin-Marxist” from the radio in time to show it off. Even though he wasn’t sure what it meant, he thought it sounded impressive.

  Chubby clapped Goat Face on the back in approval. “You, too, are a loyal student of our Chairman!”