by Mo Yan
By the time Mother and my sisters opened their eyes again, all the bodies had been removed from the yard.
We fell in behind the horse cart, piled high with corpses, dust rising in its wake. There were three horses, like the ones my sister Laidi saw that other morning: one apricot yellow, one date red, and one leek green. But now they plodded on dejectedly, their heads drooping, their coats dull. The apricot yellow lead horse had a gimp leg, and thrust its neck out with each step. The driver dragged his whip along the ground, his free hand resting on the shaft. The sides of his hair were black, the middle completely white, like a titmouse. A dozen or more dogs on the sides of the road stared hungrily at the corpses on the cart. A procession of survivors followed the cart, all but hidden in the dust; we in turn were followed by our town head, Sima Ting, and his underlings, led by Gou San and Yao Si. Some had hoes over their shoulders, others carried metal hooks; one man shouldered a bamboo pole with strips of red cloth tied to the end. Sima Ting was still holding his gong, which he struck every few dozen steps. And with every clang, the families of the deceased wailed. But they seemed reluctant to cry, and no sooner had the sound of the gong trailed off than the crying stopped. Rather than grieve for their family members, it appeared, they were carrying out duties given them by the town head.
And so it went, us following the horse cart, crying from time to time, past the church, with its collapsed bell tower, and the flour mill where Sima Ting and his younger brother, Sima Ku, had harnessed the wind five years earlier. A dozen or more rickety windmills still rose above the mill, creaking in the wind. On the right, we passed the site of a company created twenty years before by a Japanese businessman to grow American cotton. Then we passed the podium on the drying floor of the Sima compound where Niu Tengxiao, Gaomi’s county magistrate, had gotten the women to unbind their feet. Finally, the cart turned left, following the Black Water River, and drove into a field that extended all the way to the marshland. Gusts of moist air from the south carried the odor of decay. Toads in roadside ditches and in the shallows of the river croaked weakly. Swarms of fat tadpoles changed the color of the water.
The cart sped up once it entered the field. The “Old Titmouse” driver used his whip on the lead horse, gimp leg or no. The cart bounced around wildly on the uneven road, the corpses giving off a terrible stench. Something wet dripped through the cracks in the bed of the cart. By then, the crying had stopped altogether, and family members were covering their mouths and noses with their sleeves. Sima Ting and his followers brushed past us and rushed up to the cart, bent at the waist as they ran, leaving us and the cart behind, that and the stench. A dozen mad dogs set up a cacophony of howls as they leapt all over the wheat fields on either side of the road. They kept appearing and disappearing amid the wheat stalks, like seals leaping through the waves. It was a day set aside for crows and hawks. All the crows in Northeast Gaomi descended on the township’s basin, like a dark cloud settling over the horse cart. They circled the area, their excited screeches filling the air as they formed a myriad of patterns before going into nosedives. Older crows went straight for the corpses’ eyes, pecking them out with their hard, pointed beaks; younger, less experienced birds attacked the skulls, setting up a loud tattoo. “Old Titmouse” flicked his whip at them, each time bringing down at least one bird, which was turned to mush under the wheels of the cart. Seven or eight hawks circled high in the sky, sometimes forced by competing air currents down below the crows. They were just as interested in the corpses, but refused to join forces with crows, over whom they maintained smug superiority.
The sun poked its face out from behind a cloud, bestowing upon the maturing wheat plants a resplendent glow and causing the wind to change direction, which created a momentary stillness that put waves of wheat to sleep, or to death. A golden platter, seemingly extending all the way to the horizon, rose under the sun. Spikes on the ripe wheat were like tiny golden needles that set the world aglitter. The horse cart turned onto a narrow path in the middle of the field, forcing the driver to thread his way between two rows of wheat stalks. The lead horses, one apricot yellow, the other leek green, could not negotiate the path side by side, so either the yellow horse had to walk amid the wheat stalks or the green horse was forced to plod through the layer of gold. Like pouting little boys, one would push the other off the path, only to be pushed right back. And so the cart slowed, which sent the crows into a frenzy. Dozens of them landed on the heads of corpses and began pecking away, their wings drooping. “Old Titmouse” had his hands too full to worry about the birds. The crop that year was sure to be a good one, since the stalks were thick, the tassels full, and the kernels plump. Wheat spikes brushing against the horses’ bellies and scraping against the cart and its tires produced a skin-tingling scratchy sound. Dogs poked their heads out from between stalks, eyes shut to protect them from the spikes. Tracking the cart was easy; they just followed their noses.
Our procession thinned out and grew longer once we were in the wheat field. No one was wailing any longer, not even sobbing softly. Every once in a while a child would stumble and fall, and someone, usually a family member, would reach out a friendly hand and help him to his feet. In the midst of this solemn unity, children refused to cry even with a split lip. Silence reigned, but it was a tense, uneasy silence. The passing cart and mad dogs startled partridges in the field, sending them flapping into the air only to settle once again into a sea of gold. Wheat snakes, those poisonous red vipers unique to Northeast Gaomi, slithered among the wheat like lightning bolts, causing the horses to shudder; dogs crept along the ruts, not daring to look up. The sun was partially hidden behind dark clouds, the revealed half sending down scorching rays of light. Cloud shadows seemed to fly above the wheat field, momentarily extinguishing the golden flames that engulfed the sunlit stalks. As the wind changed direction, millions of spiked tassels set up wind currents; kernels of wheat, their voices hushed, relayed their frightful news.
At first, warm gusts of wind from the northeast brushed the tips of the stalks, shaped by the tassels through which they passed, and opened up tiny gurgling currents amid the tranquil sea of wheat. Then the wind picked up in intensity, cleaving its way through the wheat stalks. The red banner carried by a man up front began to flutter; clouds overhead rumbled. A golden serpent writhed in the northeastern sky, which was dyed blood red; peals of thunder rolled earthward. Another momentary hush, during which hawks circling high above wheeled toward the field and disappeared among the stalks of wheat. Crows, on the other hand, exploded skyward, trailing loud caws behind them. The storm burst, sending the wheat reeling, some of the stalks swerving from north to west and others from east to south. Long, flowing waves pushing and being pushed by short, choppy ones formed a yellow whirlpool. It looked as if the sea of wheat was boiling over a vast cauldron. Crows scattered. Pale, flimsy raindrops brought with them hailstones the size of apricot pits. Chilled air immediately cut to the bone. The hailstones pelted the wheat tassels and spikes, the horses’ rumps and ears, the exposed bellies of the dead and the bare scalps of the living. An occasional crow, its head cracked by a hailstone, fell like a stone right in front of us.
Mother held me tightly, shielding my fragile head by burying it in the warm valley between her ample breasts. She had left Eighth Sister, a superfluous human being from the moment she was born, on the kang to accompany the now mindless Shangguan Lü, who crawled into the western side room and gobbled down handfuls of donkey turds.
My sisters took off their shirts and covered their heads with them. All except Laidi, since the little green apples that were her girlish breasts showed beneath her shirt; she covered her head with her hands, but got soaked anyway. The wind plastered her shirt up against her body.
Finally, our exhausting trudging brought us to the public cemetery, ten acres of open land surrounded by wheat fields. Rotting wooden markers stood at dozens of overgrown grave mounds.
The rainsquall passed and splintered clouds skittered out of sigh
t, giving way to a dazzling blue sky and blistering sunlight. Steam rose from the melting hailstones. Some of the damaged wheat stalks straightened up; others would never stand erect again. Cold winds abruptly turned hot, warming the ripening kernels of wheat, which were turning bright yellow.
As we massed at the edge of the cemetery, we watched our town head, Sima Ting, pace the area, scattering locusts with each step, their soft green outer wings revealing the pink wings beneath. He stopped beside a wild chrysanthemum bush, covered with little yellow blooms. Stomping on the ground, he called out: “Right here, here’s where I want you to dig.”
Seven swarthy men with spades over their shoulders walked up listlessly, casting looks back and forth, as if wanting to commit all the other faces to memory. Finally, they turned to look at Sima Ting. “What are you gawking at me for?” Sima bellowed. “Dig!” He tossed away his gong and mallet. The gong landed in a clump of white-tasseled weeds, where it startled a lizard; the mallet landed atop some dogweed. Grabbing one of the spades, he jammed the blade into the ground and stomped down with his foot, listing slightly to the side as the spade bit deeply into the earth. Straining mightily, he lifted up a spadeful of earth and grass and turned ninety degrees, holding the spade out in front of him. He then spun a hundred-eighty degrees and, with a loud grunt, sent the dirt flying, tumbling in the air like a dead rooster and landing in a clump of yellow dandelions. Handing the spade back to its owner, he said, somewhat breathlessly: “Now dig. I’m sure you can smell the stench by now.”
The men began to dig, sending dirt flying. Slowly, a ditch took shape, deeper and deeper.
By then it was noon. The sun turned the earth a shimmering white; the stench from the cart grew stronger, and even though we were upwind, the gut-wrenching odor followed us. Then the crows returned. Their wings were bathed a shiny blue-black. Sima Ting retrieved his gong and mallet and, braving the stench, ran up to the cart. “You feathered bastards, let’s see which of you has the guts to come down here! I’ll tear you limb from limb!” He banged his gong and began jumping around, shouting curses into the air. Crows circled a good fifty feet above the cart, their caws tumbling earthward along with droppings and worn-out feathers. “Old Titmouse” picked up the red-bannered staff and shook it at the crows, which separated into groups that went into steep, screeching dives, circling the heads of Sima Ting and “Old Titmouse,” with their tiny oval eyes, powerful stiff wings, and hideously filthy talons. The men fought them off, but the unyielding beaks kept finding their mark. So the men used the gong and mallet and the staff as weapons, increasing the sounds of battle. Wounded crows folded their wings and thudded into the velvet grass amid the white flowers, then limped off into the field, dragging their wings behind them. Mad dogs hidden among the stalks were on them like a shot, quickly tearing them to pieces. In no time, sticky feathers littered the ground, while the dogs retreated to the edge of the field to crouch in readiness, panting noisily, scarlet tongues lolling to the sides of their mouths. Some of the uninjured crows kept up their assault on Sima Ting and “Old Titmouse,” but the bulk of their force attacked the cart — noisily, excitedly, repulsively — their necks like springs, their beaks like awls, as they feasted on delicious human carrion, a demonic feast. Sima Ting and “Old Titmouse” fell to the ground, exhausted, runnels of sweat cobwebbed on their dusty exposed faces.
The pit by then was more than shoulder-deep, and all we could see were the occasional top of someone’s head and soaring clumps of wet, white mud; the air was suffused with the cool, fresh smell of raw earth.
One of the men climbed out of the pit and walked up alongside Sima Ting. “Town Head,” he said, “we’ve struck water.” Sima looked at him with glazed eyes and slowly raised his arm. “Come take a look,” the man said. “It’s deep enough.” Sima crooked a finger at the man, who was puzzled by the sign. “Idiot!” Sima growled. “Help me up.” The man bent down and helped Sima to his feet. Moaning, Sima thumped his waist with his fists and, with the other man’s help, hobbled over to the ridge of the pit. “Goddamn it,” Sima Ting cursed. “Get up here, you bastards, you’ll dig all the way down to Hell before you know it.”
The men climbed out of the pit and were pelted by the corrupt stench of the dead. Sima kicked the carter. “On your feet,” he demanded, “and get your cart over there.” The carter didn’t budge. “Gou San, Yao Si,” Sima bellowed, “toss this son of a bitch in first!”
Gou San, who was standing with the other men, grunted a reply.
“Where’s Yao Si?” Sima asked. “The itchy-footed prick slipped away already,” Gou San said angrily. “Smash that bastard’s rice bowl when we get back,” Sima said as he gave the carter another kick. “Let’s see if this one’s dead.”
The carter climbed to his feet, a hangdog look on his face, and cast a fearful glance at his cart standing at the edge of the graveyard. The crows were clustered on the bed, hopping up and down with loud, piercing cries. The horses were lying on the ground, their noses buried in the grass, crows perched on their backs. The rest of the crows were on the grassy ground, feasting. Two of them were fighting over a large morsel, one backing up, the other reluctantly surging forward and forcing the other to keep retreating. From time to time, neither would budge, as they dug in their talons, flapped their wings frantically, thrust out their heads, neck feathers standing straight up to reveal the purple skin beneath, both necks seemingly about to detach themselves from the torsos behind. A dog came out of nowhere and snapped up the entrails, dragging the two birds tumbling through the grass.
“Spare me, Town Head,” the carter implored as he fell to his knees in front of Sima Ting, who picked up a dirt clod and hurled it at the crows. They barely noticed. He then walked up to the families of the deceased and muttered, “That’s it, that will do it. You folks go home.”
Mother was the first of the stunned crowd to get down on her knees, followed by the others, who raised a piteous howl. “Elder Sima, lay them to rest,” Mother begged. The rest of the crowd pleaded with him, “Please, please, lay them to rest. Father, Mother, our children …”
Sweat poured down Sima’s neck from his bowed head. With an exasperated gesture, he walked back to where his men were standing, and said softly, “Brothers, I have tolerated your bullying tactics, your thievery, your fights, your taking advantage of widows, your grave-robbing, and all the other sins against heaven and earth. One trains soldiers for a thousand days, all for a single battle. And now, today, we have a job to do, even if the crows gouge out our eyes and peck out our brains. I, the town head, will take the lead, and I will fuck eighteen generations of women in the families of any one of you who tries to slack off! After we’ve finished, I’ll take you back and get you all drunk. Now on your feet,” he said to the carter, pulling him up by his ear, “and get that cart over here! Men, pick up your weapons, the battle is on!”
At that moment, three dark-skinned youngsters swam up through the waves of wheat. It was Aunty Sun’s mute grandsons. They were all wearing the same colored shorts, and nothing else. The tallest of the three was brandishing a sword that whipped in the air, making a whistling sound. The second was carrying a wood-handled dagger; and the shortest brought up the rear dragging a long-handled sword. With wide, staring eyes, they grunted and made a series of gestures describing their anguish. As a light flickered in Sima Ting’s eyes, he patted each of them on the head. “Youngsters,” he said, “your grandma and your brothers are there on the cart. We are going to bury them. Those damned crows have gone too far. They are the Japs, so let’s take the fight to them! Do you understand what I’m saying?” Yao Si, who had reappeared from somewhere, made some signs to the boys. Tears and flames of outrage spewed from the eyes of the mutes, who charged the crows, their knives and swords flashing in the air.
“You slippery devil, where the hell have you been?” Sima demanded of Yao Si, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently.
“I went to get those three.”
The m
utes jumped up onto the back of the cart, quickly bloodying their flashing knives and swords, sending dismembered crows thudding to the ground. “Charge!” Sima Ting shouted. The men swarmed up to the cart to fight the crows. Curses, the sounds of battle, the screeches of crows, and the flapping of wings created a sheet of noise that joined a convergence of fetid smells — death, sweat, blood, mud, wheat, and wildflowers.
The torn and broken bodies were laid out pell-mell in the pit. Pastor Malory stood atop the new earth beside the pit and intoned, “Dear Lord, deliver the souls of these unfortunate victims …” Tears streamed from his blue eyes down through the purplish scars from the whip; from there they dripped onto his ripped black robe and the heavy bronze crucifix on his chest.
Sima Ting pulled him down off the ridge of the pit. “Malory,” he said, “go over there and take it easy. Don’t forget that you barely escaped the jaws of death yourself.”
As the men shoveled dirt into the pit, Pastor Malory cast a long shadow under the setting sun. Mother stood there watching him and feeling her heart race beneath her heavy left breast. By the time the sun’s rays had turned red, a massive grave mound had risen in the middle of the cemetery. Sima Ting led the survivors in kowtowing before the mound and discharging several obligatory but feeble wails. Mother urged the family members of the victims to kowtow to Sima Ting and his funeral detail to show their gratitude. “There’s no need for that,” Sima said.
