Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

experienced a feeling that was hard to describe. Staying with my father as an independent farmer had not been a choice I’d made after careful consideration. It was actually something I’d decided in the heat of the moment, sort of like watching a play in which one of the roles is missing and deciding to go up onstage as a stand-in. A performance requires a stage and an audience; I had neither. I was lonely. I stole a look at my brother, who had his back to me as he sent the tips of reeds flying every which way with his whip, like a sword. The ice on the river had begun to melt, cracks revealing the blue water below and reflecting blinding rays of light. The land on the other side of the river belonged to the state-run farm. Rows of modern buildings with red roofs created a stark contrast with the rammed-earth, thatch-roofed farmhouses in the village. A deafening roar came our way from across the river, and I knew that the spring plowing was about to get under way; the farm equipment teams were testing and repairing the machinery. I could even see the ruins of primitive ovens they’d used to smelt steel some years earlier; they looked like un-tended graves. My brother stopped snapping reed tips with his whip, stood up straight, and said coldly:
    “You shouldn’t be doing his dirty work!”
    “You shouldn’t be so proud of yourself!” I had to give him tit for tat.
    “Starting today, I’m going to hit you every day until you bring your ox into the commune.” He still had his back to me.
    “Hit me?” He was so much bigger and stronger than me that I had to hide my fear with bluster. “Hah, try it! I’ll beat you so badly there won’t be enough of you left to bury.”
    He turned and faced me.
    “Fine,” he said with a laugh. “Now’s your chance.”
    He reached out with the butt of his whip, picked my hat off my head, and laid it gently on a clump of weeds.
    “I don’t want to make Mother angry by dirtying your hat.”
    Then he rapped me on the head with the butt.
    It didn’t hurt much; in school, I banged my head on the door frame a lot and the other kids frequently hit me with chips of brick and tile, and all that hurt much more. But nothing made me as mad. Explosions of thunder in my head merged with the roar of machines on the far side of the river, and I saw stars. Without a second thought, I threw down the halter and rushed him. He jumped out of the way and kicked me in the pants on my way by. I wound up spread-eagled in the weeds, where a snakeskin almost wound up in my mouth.
    Snakeskin, also known as snake slough, has medicinal properties. One year, a boil the size of a small saucer on his leg had Jinlong screeching in pain. Mother was told to fry some snake slough with eggs, so she sent me out to look for some. When I couldn’t find any, Mother said I was worse than useless. So Father took me back out, where we found a six-foot-long black snake with a fresh layer of skin, which meant it had recently molted. The snake’s black forked tongue licked out at us from very close. Mother fried the slough with seven eggs, a golden plateful that smelled wonderful and made me salivate. I tried to keep from looking at it, but my eyes slanted that way on their own. What a good brother you were then. Come on, you said, let’s share. I said, No, none for me, you need this to get better. I saw tears in your eyes . . . now you’re beating me. I picked the skin up with my teeth and imagined myself to be a poisonous snake as I rushed him again.
    This time he didn’t manage to get out of the way; I wrapped my arms around him and stuck my head up under his chin to push him over. But he adroitly slipped his leg between mine, grabbed me by the shoulders, and hopped on one leg to keep from falling. My eyes accidentally fell on you, the bastard offspring of a Simmental ox and Mongol ox, standing off to the side, just standing there quietly, looking despondent and sort of helpless, and I have to admit I was disappointed in you. I was fighting someone who’d bit off part of your ear and bloodied your nose; why didn’t you come help me? To knock him over, all you had to do was give him a gentle nudge in the small of his back. Put a little more into it, and he’d sail through the air, and when he landed, I’d pin him to the ground. I win, he loses. But you didn’t move. Now, of course, I understand why — he was your son, while I was your best friend. I brushed your coat, I chased away the gadflies, I