by Mo Yan
My dieh’s eyes snapped open; he draped his prayer beads around his neck, stood up, and went to check the cauldron of oil. I could see our upside-down reflections in the oil. The surface was brighter than a mirror, and so clear I could see every pore in our faces. Dieh lifted one of the sandalwood stakes out, breaking the smooth surface and turning my reflection into the long face of a goat. What a shock! All along, my true form has been that of a goat, with a pair of horns. Meow meow. What a disappointment. Dieh’s true form is a black panther, the County Magistrate is a white tiger, my wife is a white snake, and me? I’m a bearded goat. A goat! What kind of animal is that! I didn’t want to be a damned goat! Dieh examined the stake in the sunlight, like a master blacksmith examining a newly forged sword. Bright threads of oil dripped back into the cauldron, creating little eddies on the surface of the slightly gummy oil. He waited till the last of the oil had dripped from the stake before taking out a piece of white silk and wiping the stake dry. The silk quickly absorbed all the oil residue. Dieh laid the silk on the cauldron stand, then held the stake in two hands—one on the butt, the other on the tip—and tried to bend it. I detected a slight arch when he did that; it returned to its original shape as soon as he loosened his grip. After placing the stake on the cauldron stand, he lifted out the second stake, first letting all the oil drip off, then wiping it dry with the silk, and tried to bend it. As before, when he loosened his grip, it returned to its original shape. A look of satisfaction spread across his face. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him so happy, and it affected me the same way, meow meow. What a wonderful thing, the sandalwood death, for it made my dieh happy, meow meow.
Dieh carried the two sandalwood stakes into the shed and laid them on a small table. He then knelt on the straw mat and bowed down to pay his respects, as if an invisible apparition were ensconced behind the table. His obeisance completed, he got up and sat in his chair, shielding his eyes with his hand as he gazed heavenward. The sun had begun its climb in the morning sky; normally by this time I’d have sold off all that day’s fresh pork, and it would be time to slaughter dogs. Having noted the sun’s progress, without looking at me, Dieh said:
“You can kill the rooster, son!”
Meow meow~~mew~~
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6
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My heart soared when Dieh said that! Meow meow meow, Dieh, dear Dieh, my dear dieh! My seemingly unending wait was over, and the long-delayed moment of excitement had arrived. I selected a razor-sharp paring knife from the knife hamper and showed it to Dieh. He nodded. Then I went up to the rooster, which began flapping its wings; its tail feathers jerked up, and out came a puddle of white excrement. On most mornings at this time, it would be perched on the wall at home crowing loudly, but today it was tied to a post. With the knife held between my teeth, I reached down and grabbed it by its wings and held its legs down with my foot. Dieh had told me this rooster was for its blood, not for eating, so I placed a black bowl under its neck to catch the blood. The rooster, burning hot, was struggling to free its head from my hand. I squeezed hard. Behave yourself, damn it, how am I supposed to do this if you don’t behave yourself? Pigs are stronger than you, dogs meaner, and they don’t scare me, so what makes a rooster think it can scare me? Fuck you. I plucked its neck clean, stretched it taut, and made a pass with my knife. The skin parted. No blood appeared at first, which made me nervous, because Dieh had said that if you kill a rooster prior to an execution and it doesn’t bleed, things will not go well that day. I made a second cut, and this time it worked: purplish blood gushed from the wound, like the stream a young boy makes when he gets up after a good night’s sleep. Splash splash, meow meow. More blood spurted than the bowl could take, and some of it spilled over the side. “There, Dieh,” I said as I tossed the limp bird to the ground, “that does it.” With a broad smile, he waved me over and told me to get down on my knees. Then he plunged both hands into the blood, almost as if he expected them to drink it up. Dieh’s hands come equipped with mouths, I was thinking, and can drink blood. He smiled.
“Close your eyes, son,” he said.
I closed them, as he said. I am an obedient child. Wrapping my arms around his legs, I banged my forehead into his knees and sputtered: Meow meow . . . “Dieh Dieh Dieh Dieh . . .”
Dieh clasped my head between his knees.
“Raise your head, son,” he said.
So I did, and I was looking into his impressive face. I am an obedient child. Before I had a dieh, I obeyed my wife, but after that I obeyed my dieh. That thought reminded me of my wife, whom I hadn’t seen for a day and a half. Where had she gotten to? Meow meow . . . Dieh rubbed his blood-soaked hands all over my face, sending a stench much worse than pig’s blood into my nostrils. I hated the idea of having my face smeared with rooster blood, but Dieh had the final word on that. If I didn’t obey him, he’d send me into the yamen to be paddled, five ten fifteen twenty swats from a big wooden paddle that would leave me with a bloody behind. Meow meow. Dieh plunged his hands back into the bowl and smeared more blood over my face. Including my ears. Whether he meant to or not, he got some of it in my eyes, and—ouch!—that stung, meow meow. It also blurred my vision, veiling everything in a red haze. With a mew mew I complained, “Dieh, Dieh, you’re blinding me.” I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and mewed loudly. Everything got brighter the more I rubbed, until the light itself was blinding. Oh, no, that’s bad, meow meow, the magical tiger whisker was working again, meow meow, no more Dieh, in front of me now was a panther. It was standing on its hind legs and dipping its front paws in the blood bowl, staining them red with pearls of blood dripping from the black fur, making it look like the paws were injured. He reached up and smeared blood all over the coarse fur of his face, turning it red as a cockscomb. I was well aware that Dieh’s true form was a panther, so that was nothing to make a fuss over. But I didn’t want the power of that tiger whisker to last and last—just a little while would be plenty. But its power this time wouldn’t fade away, meow meow, and what would it take for things to return to normal? No matter how upset I was, there was nothing I could do about it. I was torn between worries and happiness. Worries over my strange inability to see human beings, happiness over the knowledge that no one but me had the ability to see people’s true forms. I took a look around, taking in all of Yuan’s government troops and the German soldiers standing guard over the parade ground—long-tailed wolves, dogs with hairless tails, plus a few raccoons and other animals. There was even one that looked like a cross between a wolf and a dog; its uniform identified it as a junior officer. It was probably the offspring of a wolf-dog mating. I gave it a name: lobo-dog. It was sneakier than a wolf and meaner than a dog; anything it bit was doomed, meow meow.
After using up all the blood in the bowl on his face and front paws, my panther dieh focused his bright black eyes on me and treated me to a barely perceptible smile, lips parted just enough to show his yellow teeth. Even though the change in his appearance was enormous, the expressions and mannerisms were unmistakably Dieh’s. I returned his smile, meow meow. He swaggered over to the purplish-red chair; his tail made his pants stand up in back. He sat down and narrowed his eyes, looking perfectly serene. I surveyed the area around us, yawned, mewed once, and sat on a board next to him, within view of the slanting shadow of the Ascension Platform on the ground. As I stroked Dieh’s tail, he stuck out his rough tongue and began licking the hair on my head. Mew, I wheezed just before falling asleep.
I was awakened by raucous noise, meow meow, a mixture of horns and trumpets and gongs and Western drums, and all of it punctuated by the low rumble of cannon fire. I saw that the shadow cast by the Ascension Platform was much shorter than before and that blinding lights were making their way onto the parade ground from the street. At some point the green tarpaulins covering the cannons on the edge of the parade ground had been removed to reveal the weapons’ blue steel. Four wolfhounds behind each of the cannons were in motion
, and even though they were quite a ways away, the hair on their bodies did not escape my sharp eyes. The barrels of the cannons were like turtles’ necks, recoiling back into their shells each time a shell was spat out, followed by puffs of white smoke. The wolfhounds moved like puppets behind the cannons, comical little figures. My eyes began to sting badly, and it only took a moment’s thought to realize that I was sweating. I wiped my face with my sleeve; it came away red. That was nothing to worry about, but the scene in front of me had changed again. My dieh no longer wore the face of a panther, but his body was still that of a panther, and his pants rose up behind him because of the tail. Then the heads of the soldiers standing guard were once again human, sitting atop wolfhounds’ bodies. It was a comforting sight, and it made me feel better, knowing I was still living in the world of humans. And yet the look on Dieh’s face puzzled me, since it didn’t look especially human. But he was still my dieh, and when he licked my head, I moaned with pleasure, mew~~
A palanquin covered in blue wool was part of the contingent emerging onto the parade ground, preceded by wild animals with human heads, all carrying banners and gongs and umbrellas and fans. The chair was carried by horses with human heads and humans with horse heads, plus a few humans with cow heads. A thoroughbred horse trailed the palanquin, a bizarre wolf-headed human in the saddle, and I knew that was the German Plenipotentiary from Qingdao, Clemens von Ketteler. I’d heard that my gongdieh had shot the man’s first horse out from under him with a shotgun, so the one he was riding now he’d probably taken from one of his subordinates. More horses preceded a prison van that held a pair of cages. I thought the sandalwood death was reserved for my gongdieh alone. Why two cages? A long procession spread out behind the prison van, flanked by crowds of local residents. What I actually saw was a sea of hairy skulls, but I knew they were local residents. I was secretly thinking of someone, someone I tried to spot among all those dark heads. Do I need to say who that person was? No. I was searching for my wife. I hadn’t seen her since my dieh had sent her racing fearfully out of the house yesterday morning. I had no idea if she’d eaten or drunk anything, and though she was a white snake, she was a good white snake, like Bai Suzhen, the heroine of The Legend of the White Snake. She was Bai Suzhen, and I was her lover, Xu Xian. But who was the Green Snake Demon and who was the sorcerer Fa Hai? Of course. Yuan Shikai was Fa Hai. My eyes lit up. I see her, I see her! She’s standing with a bunch of women! Her flat white head is raised, her purple tongue flicks in and out, she’s slithering this way. Meow meow, I felt like crying out, but my dieh’s panther eyes were fixed on me.
“Son,” he said, “stop looking around!”
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7
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After three bursts of cannon fire, the official in charge of the execution announced loudly to Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler, who had taken seats in the center of the stage:
“Your humble servant, Gaomi County, respectfully reports to His Excellency the Governor that the midday hour has arrived, and the Imperial prisoner Sun Bing has been identified as the condemned. The executioners are in place and await instructions from His Honor!”
Yuan Shikai, seated on the stage, stuck his turtle neck out from under his shell, which looked like a pot lid and gave his official robe the look of an oilpaper umbrella, the very umbrella that Xu Xian had given to the White and Green Snakes. But how had that umbrella wound up on Yuan Shikai’s body? Oh, it’s not an umbrella, it’s a turtle shell. How wonderful that a turtle would be a high official, meow meow. Turtle Yuan stretched his neck toward the mouth of Gray Wolf von Ketteler and sputtered something in turtle-wolf talk; then he took a red command flag from one of his subordinates and swung it in a hard downward chop. This was no meaningless demonstration: like a knife cutting through a tangle of jute or slicing through a cake of bean curd, it was a deft and resolute action, proof that this turtle had reached profound Taoist attainments. This was no ordinary turtle; no, it was exceptional, for official status of this magnitude was beyond the reach of an ordinary reptile. Of course, he was still no match for my dieh. When the official in charge saw Excellency Yuan drop the little red flag, he sprang into action, growing half an inch in height; rays of light, green in color, surged from his eyes, menacing enough to frighten anybody. His tiger whiskers twitched; he bared his fangs. He looked good to me. Drawing on the power of his throat, he announced loudly:
“It is time——let the execution begin——”
His body shrank back to normal as soon as the proclamation ended, and his whiskers retreated to his cheeks. You don’t have to reveal your identity. I know you’re Qian Ding. That may be an official’s cap resting on your tiger head and a red robe girding your body, and while you may be able to hide your tail under your clothes, I knew it was you as soon as I heard you speak. His proclamation ended, he stood beside the execution stand, bent at the waist, his back arched, as his face slowly regained its human form; drenched in perspiration, it made for a pitiful sight. Three more thunderous blasts from the dozen cannons shook the ground. Now that it was nearly time to join Dieh in our spectacle, I took one last look around. There were, I saw, throngs of people surrounding the parade ground—men and women, young and old, some in their true form, others having reverted to their human form, and others still in the midst of changing from one to the other—half human, half beast. At that distance I couldn’t tell Zhang Three from Li Four, whether pigs or dogs or cows or sheep, nothing but a swarm of heads, big and small, all awash in sunlight. Feeling a surge of pride, I threw out my chest and raised my chin, meow meow, and then looked down at the new ritualistic clothes I was wearing: a black Buddhist robe with a vestment over my left shoulder, a wide red sash with long tassels around my waist, black trousers tied at the ankles, and high deerskin boots. I couldn’t see the hat with a circular crown that rested on my head, of course, but everybody else could. My face and ears were smeared with a layer of rooster blood, which had dried and begun to crack, making my skin feel funny. But no matter how it felt, it had to be done, since it was a tradition handed down by our ancestors. My dieh often said that traditions are the essence of any endeavor. Because the dried blood on his face had begun to crack, in my eyes he was looking more and more human—now a half man–half panther dieh. His paws were becoming hands, and his face was changing, but he still had the ears of a panther: thin and nearly transparent, they stuck up in the air and were topped by bristly hairs. Dieh reached out to straighten my clothes and said softly:
“Don’t be afraid, son. Just do as your dieh taught you, courageously. It is time for father and son to show what we can do!”
“I’m not afraid, Dieh!”
Dieh looked at me with tenderness in his eyes.
“You are a good son!”
Dieh Dieh Dieh Dieh, do you know that people say the County Magistrate and I are in the same pot fighting over a ladle . . .
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8
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I noticed right away that there were two cages on the prison van, with a Sun Bing in each of them. Two cages, two Sun Bings. At first glance they looked identical; but a closer look revealed significant differences. The true form of one was a big black bear, the other a big black pig. My wife’s father was too heroic a character to be a pig, so he had to be the bear. The eighty-third story my dieh told me was about a fight between a black bear and a tiger. In the story, the bear and the tiger always fought to a draw, until finally the tiger won. The bear lost not because it was an inferior fighter, but because it was too practical an animal. After each fight, the tiger went hunting for food—pheasants, gazelles, or rabbits—and went to drink from a mountain stream. But there was no food or drink for the bear, which angrily dug up trees on the battlefield, since it never felt there was enough space. Once the tiger had eaten and drunk its fill, it returned to start the fight all over. Eventually, the bear, its strength sapped, was beaten, and the tiger was anointed king of the beasts. I could also tell which of
the two was my gongdieh by the look in his eyes. Sun Bing’s eyes were bright and lively, and when they settled on something, they seemed to emit sparks. The fake Sun Bing’s eyes were dark, his gaze evasive, sort of fearful. The fake Sun Bing looked familiar somehow, and it didn’t take much thought to figure out that he was Xiao Shanzi, a member of the beggar community, Zhu Ba’s right-hand man. Each year, on the fourteenth day of the eighth month, Beggars’ Day, a pair of chili peppers hung from his ears in his role as a matchmaker. Now he’d assumed the role of my gongdieh. What did the fool think he was doing?
My dieh had seen that there were two criminals even before I had, but he’d witnessed so much in his life that one more criminal, or ten for that matter, had no effect on him. I overheard him say under his breath:
“I’m glad I prepared an extra stake.”
My dieh was a man of foresight, a modern-day Zhuge Liang.
Who would be first? First impale the real criminal or the imposter? I tried to find the answer in my dieh’s face. But his gaze was glued to the face of the official in charge of the execution, Qian Ding, who was returning the look, though his gaze was clouded, sort of like a blind man. The look in Qian Ding’s eyes told my dieh that he was seeing nothing. It was up to my dieh to choose the first to be impaled. So he turned his eyes to the two criminals in front of him. The eyes of the fake Sun Bing were unfocused. Those of the real Sun Bing emitted a strong, steady gaze. He nodded to my dieh and said loudly:
“You are well, I assume, Qinjia!”
My dieh responded with a smile and a respectful bow with his fists closed over his chest.
“A joyous day for you, Qinjia!” he replied.
