Red Sorghum

  That afternoon, the county magistrate sent Granddad back to the village in a curtained sedan chair.

  He spent the next two months convalescing on Grandma’s kang.

  Grandma rode into the county town to deliver a heavy bundle to her foster-mother as a gift.

  10

  THE TWENTY-THIRD day of the twelfth month in the year 1923; the Kitchen God is sent to heaven to make his report. A member of Spotted Neck’s gang had kidnapped my grandma that morning. The ransom demand was received in the afternoon: the distillery was to pay one thousand silver dollars for the hostage’s safe return. If they failed to do so, they could retrieve her body from the Temple of the Earth God at the eastern edge of Li Village.

  By rummaging through chests and cupboards, Granddad scraped together two thousand silver dollars, which he stuffed into a flour sack and told Uncle Arhat to deliver on one of the mules.

  ‘Didn’t they only ask for one thousand?’

  ‘Just do as I say.’

  Uncle Arhat left on the mule.

  Uncle Arhat returned with my grandma before nightfall, escorted by two mounted bandits with rifles slung over their backs.

  When they spotted Granddad they said, ‘Proprietor, our leader says you can sleep with the gate open from now on!’

  Granddad told Uncle Arhat to fetch a crock of the piss-enhanced wine for the bandits to take back with them. ‘See what your leader thinks of this wine,’ he said. Then he escorted the bandits to the edge of the village.

  When he returned home, he closed the gate, the front door, and the bedroom door behind him. He and Grandma lay on the kang in each other’s arms. ‘Spotted Neck didn’t take advantage of you, did he?’

  Grandma shook her head, but tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong? Did he rape you?’

  She buried her head in his chest. ‘He . . . he felt my breast. . . .’

  Granddad stood up angrily. ‘The baby, is he all right?’

  Grandma nodded.

  In the spring of 1924, Granddad rode his mule on a secret trip to Qingdao, where he bought two pistols and five thousand cartridges. One of the repeaters was German-made, called a ‘waist-drum’, the other a Spanish ‘goosehead’.

  After returning with the pistols, he locked himself up in his room for three days, breaking the weapons down and putting them back together over and over and over. With the coming of spring, the ice in the river melted, and fish that had spent a suffocating winter at the bottom swam sleepily to the surface to bask in the sun. Granddad took the pistols and a basketful of cartridges down to the river, where he spent the entire spring picking off fish. When there were no more large ones, he went after little ones. If he had an audience, he shot wildly, hitting nothing; but if he was alone, each round smashed a fish’s head. Summer arrived, and the sorghum grew.

  It poured rain on the seventh night of the seventh month, complete with thunder and lightning. Grandma handed Father, who was nearly four months old, to Passion and followed Granddad into the shop in the eastern compound, where they closed the doors and windows and had Uncle Arhat light the lamp. Grandma laid out seven copper coins on the counter in the shape of a plum blossom. Granddad swaggered back and forth beyond the counter, then spun around, drew his pistols, and began firing – pow pow, pow pow, pow pow pow – seven rapid shots. The coins flew up against the wall; three bullets fell to the floor, the other four were stuck in the wall.

  Grandma and Granddad walked up to the counter, where they held up the lantern and saw there wasn’t a mark on the surface.

  He had perfected his ‘seven-plum-blossom skill’.

  Granddad rode the black mule up to the wine shop on the eastern edge of the village. Cobwebs dotted the frame of the door, which he pushed open and walked inside. A strong smell of putrefaction made his head reel. Covering his nose with his sleeve, he looked around. The fat old man was sitting beneath the beam, a noose around his neck. His eyes were open; his black tongue was sticking out through parted lips.

  Granddad spat twice to clear out his mouth and led the mule to the edge of the village where he stood thoughtfully for a long time, while the mule pawed the ground and swished its hairless tail to drive away swarms of black flies as big as beans. Finally, he mounted the mule, which stretched out its neck and began heading home; but Granddad jerked back the icy metal bit in its mouth and smacked it on the rump, turning down the path by the sorghum field.

  The little wooden bridge over the Black Water River was still intact at the time, and whitecaps from the swollen river splashed up onto the bridge planks. The roar of the river frightened the mule, which balked at the bridgehead and refused to cross, even when Granddad showed it his fists. So he rose up in the saddle and sat down hard, forcing the mule to trot out into the middle of the bridge, its back sagging. He reined it to a halt. A shallow layer of clear water washed across the planks, and a red-tailed carp as thick as a man’s arm leaped out of the water west of the bridge, describing a rainbow in the air before splashing into the water on the eastern side.

  Granddad watched the westward flow of water as it washed the mule’s hooves clean. The mule lowered its lips to touch the spray above the churning water, which splashed its long, narrow face. It closed its nostrils and bared its white, even teeth.

  Green-tipped sorghum on the southern bank waved in the wind as Granddad rode eastward along the riverbank. When the sun was directly overhead, he dismounted and led the animal into the sorghum field. The black, rain-soaked earth was like a gooey paste that swallowed up the mule’s hooves and covered Granddad’s feet. The mule struggled to keep its heavy body moving forward. White puffs of air and green, powdery froth shot from the animal’s nostrils. The pungent, vinegary smell of sweat and the putrid stench of black mud made Granddad feel like sneezing. He and his mule parted the dense, tender green sorghum to clear a lane through the field; but the stalks righted themselves slowly, leaving no sign that anyone had passed by. Water seeped from the ground where they had walked, quickly filling the indentations.

  Granddad’s legs and the mule’s belly were splattered with mud. The sound of their movement was harsh and grating in the stifling air of the field, where the sorghum grew unchecked. Before long, Granddad was breathing hard; his throat was parched, his tongue sticky and foul-tasting. Having no more perspiration to sweat, his pores oozed a sticky liquid like pine oil, which stung his skin. The sharp sorghum leaves cut his bare neck.

  The angered mule kept shaking his head, wanting desperately to leap into the air and gallop along the tips of the sorghum, or, like our other black mule, to be at the trough feeding wearily on a mixture of sorghum leaves and scorched grain.

  Granddad walked confidently and steadfastly down a furrow, his plan well thought out. The mule, whose eyes were watering from brushing up against sorghum leaves, kept looking at its master, sometimes sadly, sometimes angrily, as it was led through the field. Fresh footprints appeared on the ground in front of them, and Granddad detected traces of the smell he had been anticipating. The mule shortened the distance between them, still snorting, still weaving its bulky body among the sorghum stalks. Granddad coughed, more loudly than necessary, and a wave of intoxicating fragrance wafted towards him from up ahead. He knew, his sixth sense told him, that he was a mere step or two from the spot that had obsessed him for so long.

  Granddad followed the trail without having to look at the footprints. He sang out to break the stillness: ‘. . . One horse far away from the state of Xiliang . . .’

  He sensed footsteps behind him, but kept walking, as though blissfully ignorant. Suddenly a hard object poked him in the ribs. He raised his hands compliantly. Hands reached into his shirt and removed his pistols. A strip of black cloth was wrapped around his eyes.

  ‘I want to see your chief,’ he said.

  A bandit wrapped his arms around Granddad, picked him up off the ground, and spun him around for a minute or two, then let him fall hard onto the spongy black ground. His forehead and ha
nds covered with mud, he climbed to his feet by grabbing on to a stalk of sorghum; his ears were ringing and he saw a flash of green, then a flash of black. He could hear the heaving breathing of the man beside him. The bandit broke off a stalk of sorghum and thrust one end into Granddad’s hand. ‘Let’s go!’ he said.

  Granddad heard the footsteps of the bandits behind him and a sucking sound as the mule pulled its hooves out of the gooey mud. When the bandit removed Granddad’s blindfold, he covered his eyes with his hands, squeezed out a dozen or so tears, then let his hands drop. In front of him was a camp trampled out of the sorghum. A dozen men with rain capes over their shoulders stood in front of the two tents, where a man sat on a wooden stump; there was a big spot on his neck.

  ‘Where’s your leader?’

  ‘Are you the proprietor of the distillery?’ Spotted Neck asked him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘To pay my respects to an expert and learn from him.’

  Spotted Neck sneered. ‘Don’t you go down to the river to shoot fish for target practice every day?’

  ‘I can’t get the knack of it.’

  Spotted Neck held up Granddad’s pistols and looked down the barrels, then cocked them. ‘Fine weapons. What are you practising with these for?’

  ‘To use on Nine Dreams Cao.’

  ‘Isn’t he your old lady’s foster-dad?’

  ‘He gave me three hundred and fifty lashes with the sole of his shoe! All because of you.’

  Spotted Neck laughed. ‘You murdered two men and took possession of their woman. You deserve to have your head lopped off.’

  ‘He gave me three hundred and fifty lashes!’

  Spotted Neck raised his right hand and pulled off three quick shots – pow pow pow – then did the same with his left. Granddad sat down hard on the ground, buried his head in his arms, and screeched. The bandits roared with laughter.

  ‘How could a scared rabbit like that murder anyone?’ Spotted Neck wondered aloud.

  ‘He saves his courage for sex,’ one of the bandits said.

  ‘Go home and take care of business,’ Spotted Neck said. ‘Now that the Gook is dead, your home will be the contact point.’

  ‘I want to learn how to shoot so I can kill Nine Dreams Cao!’ Granddad repeated.

  ‘I hold the life of Nine Dreams Cao in the palm of my hand, and I can take it from him any time I want,’ Spotted Neck said.

  ‘Does that mean I’ve wasted my time coming here?’ Granddad asked unhappily.

  Spotted Neck tossed Granddad’s two pistols to him. He barely caught one; the other landed on the ground, its muzzle buried in the mud. He picked it up, shook off the mud, and wiped the barrel on his sleeve.

  One of the bandits walked up to blindfold Granddad, but Spotted Neck waved him off. ‘No need for that,’ he said as he stood up. ‘Come on, let’s take a bath in the river. We’ll walk part of the way with the proprietor here.’

  One of the bandits led the mule. Granddad fell in behind the animal, followed by Spotted Neck and his gang of bandits. When they reached the riverbank, Spotted Neck looked at Granddad with a cold glint in his eyes. Granddad wiped the mud and sweat from his face. ‘I guess I was wrong to come,’ he said, ‘wrong to come. This heat’s enough to kill a man.’

  He took off his muddy clothes, casually tossed the two pistols onto the pile of clothing, then ran down to the river and dived in, splashing around like a fritter in hot oil. His head bobbed up and down; his arms flailed like those of a man trying to pull up a clump of water grass.

  ‘Doesn’t he know how to swim?’ one of the bandits asked.

  Spotted Neck just snorted.

  ‘He’ll drown, chief!’

  ‘Go in and drag him out!’ Spotted Neck ordered.

  Four bandits dived in and carried Granddad, who had swallowed a caskful of water, up to the bank, where he lay like a dead man.

  ‘Bring his mule over,’ Spotted Neck said.

  One of the men led the mule over.

  ‘Lay him across the mule’s back,’ Spotted Neck said.

  The bandits lifted him up onto the mule’s back, his bloated belly pressing down on the saddle.

  ‘Make it run!’ Spotted Neck said.

  With one bandit leading the mule, another behind, and two more holding on to Granddad, the mule trotted down the riverbank; by the time it had travelled about the distance of two arrow shots, a murky column of water shot out of Granddad’s mouth.

  The bandits lifted Granddad off the mule and laid him out naked on the dike. He looked up at the tall, hulking Spotted Neck with eyes as dull as those of a dead fish.

  Spotted Neck removed his rain cape and said with a friendly smile, ‘You just got a new lease on life, young man.’

  Granddad’s ashen cheeks twitched painfully.

  Spotted Neck and his men stripped and dived into the river. Excellent swimmers, they had a frolicking water fight, sending sprays of the Black Water River flying in all directions.

  Slowly Granddad got to his feet and draped Spotted Neck’s rain cape over his shoulders. After blowing his nose and clearing his throat, he flexed his arms and legs. His saddle was dripping wet, so he dried it off with Spotted Neck’s clothes. The mule touchingly stretched its satiny, glistening neck towards Granddad. He patted it. ‘Be patient, Blackie, be patient.’

  Granddad picked up his pistols as the bandits swam towards the riverbank like a flock of ducks. He fired seven shots in perfect cadence. The brains and blood of seven bandits were spattered across the cruel, heartless waters of the Black Water River.

  Granddad fired seven more shots.

  By then Spotted Neck had crawled up onto the shore. The Black Water River had washed his skin as clean as a snowflake. Standing fearlessly in a clump of yellowing grass at the river’s edge, he commented with considerable admiration, ‘Nice shooting!’

  The blazing, golden sun lit up the drops of water rolling down his naked body.

  ‘Spotty,’ Granddad asked him, ‘did you touch my woman?’

  ‘What a rotten shame!’

  ‘What got you into this business, anyway?’

  ‘You won’t die in bed,’ Spotted Neck replied.

  ‘Aren’t you going back in the water?’

  Spotted Neck backed up until he was standing in the shallow water. ‘Shoot me here,’ he said, pointing to his heart. ‘The head is so messy!’

  ‘All right,’ Granddad agreed.

  The seven bullets Granddad fired surely turned Spotted Neck’s heart into a honeycomb. He merely moaned once as he fell backward, his legs sticking out of the water like fins for a moment before he sank to the bottom like a fish.

  The following morning, Granddad and Grandma rode their black mules over to the home of Great-Granddad, who was melting silver into longevity ingots. When they burst in on him, he knocked over the smelting kettle in alarm.

  ‘I hear Nine Dreams Cao rewarded you with ten silver dollars,’ Granddad said.

  ‘Spare me, worthy son-in-law. . . .’ Great-Granddad fell to his knees.

  Granddad took out ten silver dollars and stacked them on Great-Granddad’s shiny scalp.

  ‘Hold your head up straight, and don’t move!’ he demanded.

  He moved back a few steps. Pow pow. Two silver dollars sailed into the air.

  Two more shots sent two more silver dollars flying.

  Before Granddad had fired ten shots, Great-Granddad lay in a blubbering heap on the floor.

  Grandma took out a hundred silver dollars and tossed them on the floor, which shone like silver.

  11

  GRANDDAD AND FATHER returned to their razed home, where they retrieved fifty silver dollars from a hiding place in the wall. Then, dressed as beggars, they went to a small shop in town, near the railway station, where a red lantern hung. They bought five hundred bullets from a heavily made-up woman, then hid out for several days, until they found a way to sneak out through the town gate. They planned to settle
accounts with Pocky Leng.

  On the afternoon of the sixth day following the ambush and battle at the Black Water River bridge – the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month in the year 1939 – Granddad and Father drove a billy goat, nearly dead from the dung building up inside it, to the sorghum field at the western edge of the village. More than four hundred Japs and six hundred of their puppet soldiers had encircled our village like a steel hoop on a barrel. Granddad and Father hurriedly cut open the billy goat’s stitched-shut rectum, and after relieving itself of pounds of dung, it dumped several hundred cartridges onto the ground. They quickly scooped them up, ignoring the stinking filth, and engaged the invaders in a solemn and stirring battle in the sorghum field.

  Although they killed dozens of Japanese soldiers and dozens of puppet soldiers, they were still outnumbered. As night fell, the villagers tried to breach the encirclement at the southern edge of the village, where there was no gunfire, but were met by a withering hail of machine-gun fire. Hundreds of men and women were killed instantly in the sorghum field, and their mortally wounded comrades crushed countless stalks of red sorghum in their own death agonies.

  The Japs torched the village before withdrawing. Flames shot up into the heavens, and kept burning, turning half the sky white. The moon that night was full and blood-red, but the war below turned it pale and weak, like a faded paper cutout hanging grimly in the sky.

  ‘Where to now, Dad?’

  No response.

  THREE

  Dog Ways

  1

  THE GLORIOUS HISTORY of man is filled with legends of dogs and memories of dogs: despicable dogs, respectable dogs, fearful dogs, pitiful dogs. When Granddad and Father wavered at one of life’s crossroads, hundreds of dogs under the leadership of the three from our family – Blackie, Green, and Red – clawed out pale paths in the earth near the sorghum field south of our village, where the massacre of our people had occurred. By that time, our dogs were nearly fifteen years old, a time of youth for humans, but an advanced age for dogs, an age of confidence.