by Ge Fei
“Who’s here?” Lilypad asked. “What happened to you two, what’s going on?” The questions barely escaped her mouth when they heard the pop of a rifle. Several more pops followed in quick succession, Lilypad flinching after each one.
“Come hide with me in the kitchen, now!” Lilypad tossed the bucket away and rushed back inside. Tiger followed her to the kitchen, where she crawled inside the firebox of the cold oven and waved him over. Tiger realized Little Thing hadn’t come with them. He called out a few times but got no response, and though he wanted to go back out for him, the soldiers had already made it through the front gate. Unseen rifles were firing in all directions; a bullet broke through the kitchen window and shattered a porcelain water basin, sending water everywhere. Tiger stood frozen in the kitchen for a moment, then remembered Little Thing. He was just about to open the door when Lilypad rushed out and locked him in her arms. “You fool, bullets don’t recognize kids.”
Moments later, the firing ceased.
Tiger carefully opened the door and stepped out of the kitchen. The first thing he saw was a mound of black stuff in the middle of the snow; it was a pile of fresh horse manure, still steaming. Poking his head around the corner of the cafeteria wall, he saw a handful of corpses lying haphazardly on the snowy ground and a soldier collecting dropped rifles.
Tan Si was rolling around on the snow, clutching his stomach and groaning with pain. A soldier walked up to him and drove a knife into his chest. As he tried to pull it out, Tan Si gripped the handle with both hands and held it there, until another soldier walked over and swung the butt of his rifle down onto his head. He immediately relaxed his grip and groaned no more.
Tiger found Little Thing.
He lay facedown in the drain canal beside the covered arcade. As Tiger approached him, he could hear the gurgle of fresh meltwater as it trickled past him. Tiger touched his hand—still warm. Turning his little face to him, he saw Little Thing’s eyes were moving, as if he were thinking hard about something. He even stuck his tongue out to lick his lips. In the years that followed, Tiger would tell his father many times that when he found Little Thing in the drainage ditch, he was still alive. His eyes were still open. He even licked his lips.
Little Thing’s body felt soft all over. The back of his cotton jacket was soaked with blood. Tiger called out his name, but he didn’t answer. Only the corners of Little Thing’s mouth moved silently, as if he were going to sleep. His eyes stopped moving and lost focus—Tiger could see more white than black. Finally his lids drooped, and his eyes narrowed into slits.
Tiger understood that it wasn’t blood that dripped out of the hole in Little Thing’s back, but his whole spirit.
•
A man who looked like an officer walked over, squatted down next to Tiger, and turned Little Thing’s head over with his riding crop. Then he looked at Tiger. “Do you recognize me?”
Tiger shook his head.
The man explained, “A few months ago, a cotton fluffer came to your village. You remember, yes? That was me!” The man gave Tiger a self-satisfied smile and slapped his shoulder. Strangely, Tiger wasn’t scared of him at all; the man seemed born to be a cotton fluffer and nothing else. Tiger pointed to Little Thing, motionless on the ground. “Is he dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead,” the man sighed. “Bullets don’t have eyes.”
The man stood up and began pacing around the snowy courtyard with his hands behind his back. He obviously had no interest in Tiger, or in the prostrate body of Little Thing.
Tiger could feel Little Thing’s hand get colder, and he watched his cheeks turn from pink to blue. The Principal appeared soon afterward.
She stumbled out of the eternal darkness of the garan, pushed and goaded by several hands, her hair falling in a mess around her shoulders. She looked at Tiger and at the bodies strewn around her without a hint of shock. Tiger wanted to yell at her, “Little Thing is dead!” But no sound came out when he opened his mouth. None of the people took any interest in Little Thing’s death.
The officer stepped forward and cupped his fist in greeting. The Principal stared at him coldly. Tiger heard her say, “The captain before me must be Long Shoubei?”
“You are correct,” the officer replied politely.
“Then may I ask, who is Long Qingtang to you?”
The Principal’s tone was casual, and betrayed not the slightest trace of nervousness. Did she not know that Little Thing was dead? His little arm had already begun to stiffen. Melting snow from the eaves above occasionally dripped onto his nose, shattering into tiny crystalline droplets.
The officer hesitated, obviously caught off guard by the Principal’s demeanor. Then he nodded to himself as if to say, She has a sharp eye! and replied with a smile, “That would be my father.”
“So Long Qingtang has sold out to the Manchu court?”
“No need to put it so unpleasantly.” The officer’s smile didn’t change. “ ‘Smart fowl choose their roost wisely,’ as they say.”
“In that case, you could have taken me any time. Why wait until today?”
To Tiger, the question seemed to suggest that the Principal had been waiting for the soldiers to come arrest her. He couldn’t understand why she would say such a thing. Little Thing’s fist had stiffened shut. Blood no longer flowed through from him, but his brows stayed knitted together.
The officer laughed so heartily you could see his teeth and gums. When he had laughed his fill, he said, “Why else but to make sure we secured those thirty-plus acres of land! My father’s a shrewd businessman. He always does his homework first. He said that every day you held on to the estate was a day we couldn’t take you.” His voice drifted off from the exhaustion of laughing.
Tiger heard the Principal make a hmmm sound, as if to say, Ah, now I understand.
Tiger noticed his father. Baoshen stood at the front door of the temple, his entry barred by crossed rifles, trying to crane his neck to see inside the hall. Tiger moved Little Thing’s body so that the water from the roof wouldn’t drip onto his face. Evening fell as usual. A raptor circled in the gray sky above.
Tiger heard the Principal say, “One more question I would like answered honestly.”
“Ask away.”
“How old are you, Long Shoubei?”
“Your servant was born in 1875.”
“So that makes you a pig?” The Principal’s last question gave the officer a nasty shock. He grimaced, taking a few breaths to respond. “That is correct. So, it appears you know everything. Everyone calls you crazy, but in my own humble opinion you’re the most cunning woman in the world. How unfortunate that you should never find your moment.”
The Principal said no more; she was standing on tiptoe and casting her eye around as if looking for someone. Tiger knew whom she was looking for.
Then she squatted down and, carefully, deliberately, examined the pile of horse manure on the ground. She scooped up two handfuls of it and rubbed the manure evenly over her face, until her eyes, mouth, nose, forehead, and cheeks were covered. She performed this action silently, as if it were compulsory and of the highest importance. The officer didn’t stop her, but watched and paced back and forth impatiently. The academy was deathly quiet.
Only when a soldier approached to whisper what looked like a serious message in his ear did Long Shoubei nod lazily to his subordinates and command, “Tie her up.”
Several soldiers ran at once to where Xiumi was crouched on the ground and yanked her to her feet. Her wrists were bound tight, and they escorted her off to Meicheng.
Lilypad also left Puji that evening. Long Shoubei hired a palanquin to carry her in a wide arc around the village and on to Meicheng under cover of night.
12
LITTLE Thing lay naked on a clean bedsheet. His body looked shorter and slighter than it had when he was alive. Magpie carried in a basin of hot water
and cleaned the blood from his body. She didn’t cry; her face remained wooden, devoid of any anguish or grief. As her rag touched the shoulder blade that the bullet had shattered, she asked softly, “Does that hurt, Puji?” as if he had never died, as if all she had to do was tickle his armpit and he would giggle uncontrollably.
Hua Erniang turned out Little Thing’s pockets and found a wooden top, a feathered jianzi shuttlecock, and a sparkling gold cicada.
Grandma Meng knew the second she saw it that the cicada was no ordinary object. A tentative bite revealed that it was real gold. “How odd . . . Where did he get his hands on a cicada like this?”
Grandma Meng passed the cicada to Baoshen, and told him to keep it safe. Baoshen looked it over carefully from red-rimmed eyes, and sighed. “A child’s treasure. Bury it with him—I don’t care if it’s gold or brass.”*
Once Magpie had dressed Little Thing, Baoshen carried him on his back and the party went out into the winter darkness to bury him. Little Thing’s head dangled over Baoshen’s shoulder as if he were asleep. Baoshen turned and kissed his face, then said, “Puji, Grandpa’s going to send you home.”
Grandma Meng and Hua Erniang were holding on to each other, weeping. Magpie didn’t shed a tear; she and Tiger brought up the rear on their march toward the grave. Tiger could hear his father continuing to whisper to Little Thing, as the first traces of morning light appeared around them.
Baoshen said, “Puji, Grandpa knows how much you like sleeping, so here you go now . . . We’ll let you sleep for as long as you want.”
Baoshen said, “Puji, your grandpa is a good-for-nothing, a worthless man no better than a pig or a dog, Puji. The whole village called your mama crazy, and even Grandpa said it too, but Puji never did. Whenever you heard them say it, it hurt you, didn’t it, Puji? When the soldiers came, Puji was the only one who thought to go warn Mama. Puji ran into the temple when the bullets were flying, but he wasn’t afraid. Puji didn’t run or hide, he just wanted to let Mama know. Puji, Mama didn’t even look at you when you were lying in the ditch, but all you wanted to do was save her.”
Baoshen said, “Puji, you mustn’t blame your grandpa or resent him. The year is almost over—tomorrow is the first day of the New Year. Baoshen can’t make you a coffin in the middle of winter when the ground’s frozen. I couldn’t make you one even if I wanted to, because the family’s so poor now. We’ll wrap you up in a reed mattress and send you home.”
Baoshen said, “This mattress is brand new. We made it last fall out of fresh Japanese gentian. Oh, it smells sweet! And it’s never been used. We’ve got all the toys you like to play with—your top, your iron hoops, your mud whistle . . . that’s right, and the cicada. Grandma Meng said it’s made of real gold. We’ll send all your things with you, nothing left behind. Except for the most important thing, that picture of Mama you liked to look at so much. Grandpa couldn’t find it anywhere. Where did you hide it?”
Baoshen said, “Puji, we couldn’t find a priest to call your soul back, so Grandpa will do it for you. When Grandpa calls your name, you respond.
“Puji!
“Here!
“Puji!
“Here!
“There we are . . . as long as you reply, it means your soul has come back.”
Baoshen said, “If you miss Grandpa, come visit me in a dream. And if you see your Grandma Lu down there underground, tell her Baoshen is a fool, Baoshen is worthless, Baoshen deserves to be chopped into little pieces . . .”
•
Baoshen lay Puji on the reed mat next to the grave, then rolled him inside it. He had only just tucked in the edges when Magpie approached and opened the mat again. Baoshen closed it back up and Magpie reopened it. She did it two more times. She neither cried nor said anything, just looked blankly at Little Thing’s face. Only after Baoshen gritted his teeth and ordered Grandma Meng and Hua Erniang to hold her back did Magpie allow him to put Little Thing’s body in the shallow earth.
Once they finished shaping the burial mound, Baoshen asked, “May I kowtow to him?”
Grandma Meng replied, “He passed on first, which makes him your senior in the spirit world; and besides, no matter how young he was, he was still your mistress’s child.”
Baoshen knelt and touched his head to the ground three times in front of the grave. Grandma Meng and Hua Erniang did the same after him. Magpie continued to stand there, motionless and seemingly lost in thought.
“The poor miss has certainly been scared witless by what happened last night,” Grandma Meng said.
As the party walked back to the village, Magpie suddenly stopped and cast her gaze around her as if looking for something. Then she thought for a moment and asked, “Hey . . . where’s Little Thing?”
•
Tiger and his father left Puji in April of that year, during the greening of spring willows and lush grasses and the fragrant explosions of peach blossoms. Baoshen said that the Lu family’s misfortunes all started the year the master transplanted an orchard of peach trees to the estate; their color and fragrance possessed a wicked allure. By the time the caressing rains and whispering breezes of the Tomb-Sweeping Festival arrived, even the well water carried the faint flavor of peach petals.
Yellowtooth’s blind old mother believed that Xiumi and Lilypad were a pair of peachwood fairies who had attained human form after a millennium of Taoist cultivation but became infected with demonic energies. The old woman transformed and embellished the story of Puji Academy in the dramatic verse of southern provincial drum-singing, traveling around the local villages with a pair of young female apprentices, performing her narrative on street corners.
The theatrical retelling featured the old woman’s son, Yellowtooth, as the human incarnation of the mythical demon hunter Zhong Kuei. A tragic hero, he infiltrated the heart of demonic legions wielding only a pair of butcher knives, passing through bitter tests of heroism before being murdered by the witches’ black magic. Unexpected death on the very eve of his righteous triumph caused hot tears to fall from his mother’s eyes.
The theatrical version of Lilypad, meanwhile, was as alluring and destructive as any legendary Helen of Troy, a filthy, reprehensible whore without morals or pride who forged secret plans with Long Shoubei to cajole the Lu family into selling their land before finally betraying her mistress. Her portrayal relied heavily on absurd detail and an excess of colorful, immodest language. That said, the tale gave Tiger the basic arc of the real story.
Other details still confused him, though. If Xiumi knew she couldn’t trust Lilypad, why did she hold back and pretend not to see anything for so long? Also, what was the story behind Xiumi and Lilypad both asking Long Shoubei if he was a pig?
•
Upon arriving in Meicheng, Xiumi was incarcerated in the county prison. Her personal history with Long Qingtang along with his receipt of a bail guarantee drafted by Ding Shuze and signed by over forty local dignitaries spared her from immediate execution. In his letter, Ding Shuze argued for clemency for two reasons: one, that Xiumi’s mental illness made her incapable of understanding what she was doing; and two, that she was already four months pregnant.
The magistrate consented to stay her execution until after the child was born.
Tiger knew it was Tan Si’s baby. Tan Si’s father, Tan Shuijin, spent months pulling every string he could to try to get custody of his grandchild, hoping to salvage the family’s broken lineage. But nothing came of his effort. In those days, he heard more than once from Baoshen and Magpie that there would be yet another Little Thing.
In the summer of the last year of the Xuantong emperor, Xiumi gave birth to a child in prison. It was taken from her custody by order of the magistrate and given to the wet nurse of a prison guard. The day before Xiumi was scheduled to be strangled, Sun Yat-sen led a military uprising in Wuchang that drew support from every corner of the nation and coalesced into the revolution that would b
ring down the Manchurian dynasty. On a stormy night in October, Long Qingtang killed the magistrate alongside all thirty-plus members of his family and announced Meicheng’s independence from the empire. While revolution brought new forms of chaos and bloodshed every day, Long Qingtang traveled among Wuchang, Guangdong, and Beiping, forming ties to the new faces of power. Hidden away in a dark corner of prison, Xiumi was entirely forgotten; only one old prison guard continued to bring her food and water each day.
But these events happened much later.
Before Tiger left Puji, he and his father paid a final visit to Madame Lu’s grave to say farewell. In Baoshen’s words, they were leaving Puji forever. Magpie, with nowhere to go, stayed behind to watch the estate. In fact, she would remain on the property for the rest of her life, through old age to her death. Thirty-two years later, Tiger returned to Puji in the summer of 1943 as a captain in the New Fourth Army’s advance column and set up camp in the village.
He found Magpie as an old woman in her sixties. She had never married and couldn’t remember much about her past life. Mention of former events rarely elicited any response beyond a head shake or a smile and a nod, and one could sense the ruin and disappearance of her own personal history. The trunk of the chinaberry tree in front of Little Thing’s grave had grown as wide as a rice bowl; the field of daylilies dazzled the eye as always. Tiger sat under the chinaberry tree and thought painfully of the past. The whole world had changed around him, but Little Thing was still five years old. No matter on what day or in what era he thought of him, he was always five years old.†
But this, too, happened much later.
•
After Tiger and Baoshen returned to Qinggang, Baoshen bribed the prison guards in Meicheng to let him see Xiumi. He visited the prison a total of three times; on his first two visits, Xiumi refused to see him, providing no explanation. On the third visit, she at least accepted his gift of new clothes, yet the two did not meet face-to-face. Instead, Xiumi sent the guard back with a white silk handkerchief, on which was written a short couplet: