As the rain pelted down on us, we were herded into a mill house, the township’s tallest building, which now served as a stockade. Thinking back now, I realize that we had plenty of opportunities to escape. The heavy rain put out the torches carried by 16th Regiment civilians, and the soldiers themselves stumbled along as they tried to protect themselves from icy raindrops that nearly blinded them. Two yellow flashlights up front were all that led the way. And yet, no one ran away. Prisoners and guards suffered equally. As we neared the dilapidated gate, the soldiers shoved us out of the way to get in.
The mill house shuddered in the deluge, and when lightning lit up the area, I saw water cascading in through the cracks in the sheet metal roof. A bright glistening cataract poured off the sheet metal eaves, sending a river of gray water down the ditch outside the gate into the street. Sixth Sister, Sima Liang, and I were separated as we slogged our way from the threshing floor to the mill house. Directly in front of me was a 16th Regiment soldier in a black palm-bark cape. His lips were too short to cover his yellow teeth and purple gums; his gray eyes were clouded. After a bolt of lightning had died out, he sneezed loudly in the dark, sending a strong whiff of cheap tobacco and radish right into my face, tickling my nose uncomfortably. Sneezes burst forth in the darkness all around me. I wanted to locate Sixth Sister and Sima Liang, but didn’t dare call out to them, so I waited until the next brief flash of lightning to look for them amid the earthshaking peal of thunder that followed, filling the air with the smell of burning sulfur. I spotted Sleepyhead’s gaunt, yellow face behind a little soldier. He looked like a graceful specter that had just climbed out of a grave. His face turned from yellow to purple, his hair looked like two pieces of felt, his silk jacket stuck to his body, his neck was stretched taut, his Adam’s apple was as big as a hen’s egg, and you could count his ribs. His eyes were graveyard will-o’-the-wisps.
Just before dawn the rain diminished and a gentler pitter-patter replaced the pounding on the sheet-metal roof. Lightning strikes had lessened a bit, and the frightful blues and greens had given way to softer yellows and whites. Thunder had moved off into the distance, while the winds blew in from the northeast, rattling the metal sheets on the roof and letting standing water pour in through the openings. As the bone-chilling wind turned our joints stiff, we all huddled together, friend and foe alike. Women and children were crying in the dark. I felt the eggs between my legs shrink, bringing stabbing pains to my intestines, and spreading to my stomach. My guts felt frozen, a mass of ice. If anyone had felt like leaving the mill house at that moment, no one would have stopped them. But none of us even tried.
A while later, some people showed up at the gate. By then I was numb, leaning against the back of someone, who was leaning against me. The splashing sounds of people wading through water came from beyond the gate, after which several swaying beams of light shone through the darkness. A bunch of men in raincoats, only their faces showing, stood in the gateway. “Men of the 16th Regiment,” someone shouted, “fall in. You must return to headquarters.” The shouts were hoarse, but I could tell that normal voice was loud and clear, capable of stirring people up. I knew who it was the second I laid eyes on him: the face above the raincoat and under the hat was that of the commander and political commissar of the demolition battalion, Lu Liren. Word of the elevation of his unit into an independent force had reached me that spring, and now here he was.
“Hurry it up,” Lu Liren ordered. “All the other units have been given quarters, so it’s time to head back, comrades, to soak your feet and drink some nice ginger tea.”
The soldiers piled out of the mill house as fast as they could and lined up on the water-soaked street. Several men who looked like cadres raised hurricane lanterns and began shouting orders. “Company Three, follow me!” Company Seven, follow me!”
The soldiers marched off behind lanterns, and were replaced by soldiers in palm-bark capes who walked up cradling tommy guns. Their squad leader saluted. “Commander,” he reported, “the security squad will stay behind to guard the prisoners.” Lu Liren returned the salute. “Guard them well. Don’t let any of them escape. I want a count first thing every morning. If I’m not mistaken,” he said, turning to the mill house with a smile, “my old friend Sima Ku is in there.”
“Fuck you and your ancestors!” Sima Ku cursed from behind a large millstone. “Jiang Liren, you despicable little runt, I’m right here!”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Lu Liren said with a laugh before rushing off and leaving the leader of the security squad standing in the lamplight. “I know that some of you have weapons hidden on you,” he said. “I’m in the light and you’re in the dark, which makes me an easy target. But I strongly advise you to put such ideas out of your head, since I am the only one you’ll hit. But” — here he made a sweeping motion with his hand at the dozen or so soldiers carrying tommy guns — “once those open fire, a lot more than one of you will fall. We treat our prisoners well. At daybreak tomorrow we’ll sort you out. Those willing to join us will be welcomed with open arms. Those who aren’t will be given money for the road and sent home.”
The only sound in the mill house was the splash of water. The squad leader ordered his men to close the rotting gate. Light from his lantern streamed in through the holes and cracks and landed on several puffy faces.
Once the soldiers had departed, space opened up in the mill house, so I groped my way toward the spot where I’d heard Sima Ku just a moment before. I stumbled over hot, trembling legs and heard lots of cadenced, tuneful moans. The massive mill house was the creation of Sima Ku and his brother Sima Ting. After it was built, not a single bag of flour was ever milled there, because the blades of the windmill were blown away by violent winds the first night, leaving behind a few slivers of wood that rattled the year round. The building was big enough to accommodate a circus. An even dozen millstones the size of small hills stood obstinately on the brick floor.
Two days before, I’d come there with Sima Liang to look around, because he had suggested to his father that he convert the place into a movie theater. I shivered the minute I set foot in the mill house. A pack of ferocious rats rushed us, filling the immense building with their squeaks; they stopped just before they reached us. One big white rat with red eyes hunkered down at the head of the pack, raised its front claws, so fine they seemed carved from jade, and stroked its snowy white whiskers. Its beady eyes flashed as dozens of black rats formed a semicircle behind it, eyeing us gleefully, ready to charge. Fearfully, I backed up, my scalp tightening, cold chills running up and down my spine. Sima Liang shielded me with his body, even though he only came up to my chin. First he bent over, then he got down on his haunches and glared at the white rat. Not backing down a bit, the rat stopped stroking its whiskers and sat like a dog, mouth and whiskers twitching. Neither Sima Liang nor the rat was going to budge. What were those rats, especially the white one, thinking? And what was running through the mind of Sima Liang, a boy given to making me unhappy, but someone I was growing ever closer to? Was this a staring contest? A battle of wills, like a needle and wheat spike trying to see which was sharper? If so, who was the needle and who was the wheat spike? I actually thought I heard the rat say, This is our turf, and you’re not welcome here. Then I heard Sima Liang say, This mill house belongs to the Sima family. My uncle and my father built it, so for me it’s like going home. This is my place. The white rat said, The strong man is king, the weak man a thief. Sima Liang countered with, A thousand pounds of rat is no match for eight pounds of tomcat. To which the white rat replied, You’re a boy, not a cat. I was in my last life, Sima Liang said, an eight-pound cat. How do you expect me to believe that? the white rat said. Sima Liang put both hands on the floor as his eyes slanted and a snarl split his mouth. Meow — meow — the shrill cry of a tomcat bounced off the mill house walls. Meow — meow — meeeow — the white rat, thrown into panicky confusion, fell back on all fours and was about to beat a hasty retreat when Sima Liang pounced an
d caught it in his hands. He squashed it before it had a chance to bite. The others fled in all directions. Me? Following Sima Liang’s lead, I took out after them, screeching like a cat. But they were gone before I knew it. Sima Liang laughed and turned back to look at me. My god! They really were cat’s eyes, giving off those devilish green lights. He tossed the dead white rat into the hole in the center of one of the millstones. We each grabbed one of the wooden handles and pushed with all our might; the thing refused to budge, so we gave up, and started prowling the mill house, moving from one millstone to the next, finding each of the others quite easy to turn.
“Little Uncle,” Sima Liang said, “let’s open our own mill.” I didn’t know what to say to that, since the only worthwhile things in my life were breasts and the milk they held. It was a glorious afternoon, with bright sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the sheet-metal roof and the lattice in the window and falling on the brick floor, which was a repository for rat and bat droppings; we spotted red-winged little bats hanging from the rafters, and another the size of a conical rain hat slipping through the air above them. Its squeaks sounded just right for its body, shrill and tapered, and made me shudder. Holes had been drilled in the centers of all the millstones, with China fir poles sticking up through the sheet-metal roof; the tips of the poles were the wheels on which the blades had once, and briefly, spun. Sima Ku and Sima Ting’s assumption was: so long as there’s wind, the blades will turn and the wheels will rotate, turning the China fir poles and the millstones below. But the Sima brothers’ ingenious concept had been foiled by reality.
As I moved among the millstones looking for Sima Liang, I spotted several rats scurrying up and down the poles. Someone was on top of one of the millstones, eyes blazing. I knew it was Sima Liang. He reached down and grabbed my hand with his icy claw. With his help, I stepped on the wooden handle and climbed up. It was wet, with gray water emerging from the hole.
“Remember that white rat, Little Uncle?” he asked with an air of mystery. I nodded in the darkness. “It’s right here,” he said softly. “I’m going to skin it and make earmuffs for Granny.” An anemic bolt of lightning knifed through the distant southern sky and threw some thin light into the mill house. I saw the dead rat in his hand. Its body was wet, its disgusting, skinny tail hung limp. “Throw it away,” I said. “Why should I?” he asked unhappily. “It’s disgusting. Don’t tell me it doesn’t disgust you.” In the silence that followed, I heard the dead rat drop back into the millstone hole. “What do you think, Little Uncle, what are they going to do to us?” he asked dejectedly. Yes, what were they going to do to us? The splash of water beyond the gate signaled a change of the guard. The new guards were snorting like horses. “It’s cold,” one of them complained. “It doesn’t feel like August here. Do you think the water’s going to freeze?” “Don’t be silly,” another replied.
“Do you wish you were home, Little Uncle?” Sima Liang asked. The toasty brick bed, Mother’s warm embrace, the nighttime wanderings of Big Mute and Little Mute, crickets in the oven platform, sweet goat’s milk, the creaking of Mother’s joints and her deep coughs, the silly laughter of First Sister out in the yard, the soft feathers of night owls, the sound of snakes catching mice behind the storeroom … how could I not with that? I sniffled. “Let’s run away, Little Uncle,” he said. “How can we, with guards at the door?” I said softly. He grabbed my arm. “See this fir pole?” he said as he laid my hand on the pole that went all the way up to the roof. It was wet. “We can shinny up, make a hole in the sheet-metal roof, and wriggle out.” “What then?” I asked, unconvinced. “We jump to the ground,” he said. “After that, we go home.” I tried to picture us standing on the rusty, clattery sheet-metal roof, and felt my knees begin to knock. “It’s too high,” I muttered. “We’d break a leg jumping down from there.” “Don’t worry about it, Little Uncle, leave everything to me. I jumped down off this roof once this spring. There’s a bunch of lilac bushes under the eaves. Their springy branches will break our fall.” I looked up at the spot where the pole met the sheet metal; rays of gray light shone through; bright water slithered down the pole. “It’ll be light soon, Little Uncle. Let’s go,” he urged anxiously. What could I do? I nodded.
“I’ll go first and move the sheet metal out of the way,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder to show he had everything under control. “Give me a boost.” He wrapped his arms around the slippery pole, jumped up, and rested his feet on my shoulders. “Stand up,” he urged, “stand up!” With my arms around the pole, I stood up, my legs shaking. Rats clinging to the pole squeaked as they jumped to the floor. I felt him press down with his feet as he plastered himself up against the pole like a gecko. In the muted light seeping in, I watched him shinny up the pole, slipping back every once in a while, until he finally made it to the top.
There he hit the sheet metal with his fist, making loud clangs and letting more rainwater in. It landed on my face, some of it entering my mouth and leaving the bitter taste of rust, not to mention tiny metal filings. He was breathing hard in the dark and grunting from exertion. I heard the sheet metal shift as a cascade of water hit me, and I held tightly to the pole to keep from being swept off the millstone. Sima Liang pushed with his head to make the hole bigger. It strained for a moment before giving way, and a raggedy triangle opened up in the roof, through which beams of gray starlight streamed. Amid the stars in the sky, I spotted several that hardly shone at all. “Little Uncle,” he said from beyond the rafters, “wait there while I take a look around. Then I’ll come down and help you up.” With an upward surge, he stuck his head up through the new skylight to look around.
“Somebody’s on the roof!” a soldier at the gate shouted. Bright tongues of light split the darkness as bullets ricocheted off the sheet metal with loud pings. Sima Liang slid down the pole so fast he nearly flattened me. He wiped the water from his face and spat out a mouthful of metal filings. His teeth were chattering. “It’s freezing up there!”
The deep darkness just before dawn had passed, and the inside of the mill house began to turn light. Sima Liang and I were huddled together; I could feel his heart beating fast against my ribs, like a feverish sparrow. I was weeping out of despair. Brushing my chin with the top of his nice, round head, he said, “Don’t cry, Little Uncle, they won’t dare hurt you. Your fifth brother-in-law is their superior officer.”
There was now enough light to get a good look at our surroundings. The twelve enormous millstones, one of which Sima Liang and I occupied, shimmered majestically. His uncle, Sima Ting, occupied another. Water dripped from the tip of his nose as he winked at us. Wet rats covered the tops of the other millstones, huddled together, their beady little eyes a glossy black, their tails like worms. They looked pitiful and loathsome at the same time. Water puddled on the floor and dripped in through the roof. The soldiers of the Sima Battalion stood in tight little groups, their green uniforms, now black, sticking to their bodies. The looks in their eyes and the expressions on their faces were terrifyingly similar to those on the rats. For the most part, the civilian prisoners were off by themselves, only a few choosing to mix with the soldiers, like the occasional stalk of wheat in a cornfield. There were more men than women, some of whom held whimpering children in their arms. The women sat on the floor; most of the men were on their haunches, except for a few who leaned against the walls. Those walls had been whitewashed at one time, but now that they were wet, the plaster rubbed off on the men’s backs, changing their color. I spotted the cross-eyed girl in the crowd. She was sitting in the mud with her legs out in front, leaning against another woman. Her head was lolling against her shoulder, as if her neck were broken. Old Jin, the woman with one breast, was sitting on the buttocks of a man. Who was he? He was sprawled in the water, facedown, white whiskers floating on the surface, clots of black blood shifting in the water around them like little tadpoles. Only Old Jin’s right breast ever developed; the left side of her chest was flat as a whetstone, which made the
one breast seem to stick up higher than normal, like a lonely hill on the plains. The nipple was big and hard, nearly bursting through her thin blouse. People called her “Oilcan,” since they said that whenever her nipple was aroused, you could hang an oilcan from it. Decades later, when I finally had the chance to lie atop her naked body, I noticed that the only sign of a breast on her left side was a little nipple the size of a bean, like a mole announcing its existence. She was sitting on the dead man’s buttocks, rubbing her face, as if deranged; she’d rub her face, and then rub her hands on her knees, as if she had just crawled out of a spider hole and was tearing translucent cobwebs off her face. The other people were in a variety of postures and attitudes. Some were crying, others were laughing, while still others were mumbling with their eyes shut. One woman was rocking her head back and forth, like a water snake or a crane at water’s edge. Married to Geng Da’le, the shrimp paste seller, she had a long neck and a small head, much too small for her body. People said she was a transformed snake, and her head sure looked like it. It stuck up out of a group of women whose heads all hung forward, and in the dank coldness of the mill house, with its muted light, the way her head swayed back and forth was all the proof I needed that she’d once been a snake and was now turning back into one. I didn’t have the nerve to go take a look at her body, but even when I forced myself to look away, her image stayed with me.
A lemon-colored snake slithered down one of the China fir poles. It had a flat head like a spatula and a purple tongue that kept darting in and out of its mouth. Each time its head touched the top of the millstone, it went limp, turned a right angle, and slithered off in a new direction, heading straight for rats in the center of the millstone. The rats raised their claws amid a frenzy of squeaks. As the snake’s head moved in a straight line, its thick body slithered smoothly down the pole, uncoiling as it went, as if the pole and not the snake were turning. When it reached the center of the millstone, the head abruptly rose at least a foot into the air and leaned backward, like a hand. The spot behind its head contorted, flattened out and widened, displaying a latticework pattern. The movement of the purple tongue quickened, a horrifying sight accompanied by a bone-chilling hiss. The rats made themselves as small as possible, squeaking all the while. One large rat stood up on its hind legs and bared its claws, like holding a book, then shifted its rear legs before leaping into the air, straight into the triangular opening of the snake’s mouth. The snake closed its mouth, leaving the back half of the rat sticking out straight, its rigid tail still waving comically.