Pow!

walls. ‘Coal is cheaper than medicine,’ he said. Mother had no choice but to set up a stove. So she went to the train station and bought a tonne of coal to heat our new house. How I wished the doctor had said: ‘Unless you're in a hurry to die, you have to start eating meat.’ But he never did; in fact, the quack told us not to eat greasy food, to follow a bland, and if possible vegetarian, diet. It would not only keep us healthy but also help us live longer. Arsehole! He should have known that after Father ran off we were reduced to eating plain food every day, as plain as a funeral procession, as plain as snow on a mountain peak. Five long years and I'll bet the strongest soap in the world couldn't scrape a drop of grease off my intestines.

    I‘ve talked so much my mouth is parched. Fortunately, three little hailstones, no bigger than apricot pits, slant into the temple and land at my feet. If it isn't the Wise Monk, whose powers allow him to see into my heart, who has magically commanded those three hailstones to land at my feet, then it must be a happy coincidence. I sneak a look at him as he sits as straight as a rod, his eyes closed, totally relaxed; but the black hairs poking out amid the gathered flies on his ears quiver and I know he's listening. I was a precocious child of wide experience, who saw many bizarre events and many strange people, but the only person I've ever seen whose ears can boast a clump of black hairs is the Wise Monk. That ear hair alone is enough to inspire reverence for the man; but then there are his extraordinary talents and uncanny tricks. I pick up one of the hailstones and put it in my mouth. As I move it round to keep it from freezing my mucous membranes, it rattles against my teeth. A fox, whose rain-soaked coat gives it a gaunt, scruffy appearance, pauses in the doorway, a sad, pitiful look in its slitted eyes, but before I can react it scurries into the temple and disappears behind the clay idol. It doesn't take long for the rank smell of wet fur to fill the air. I don't find the smell unpleasant, because I‘ve encountered a fox before. I'll talk about that later. Back home, for a while, there was a craze over raising foxes. By then the foxes had lost their legendary mystique, though they still seemed furtive and mysterious; even in cages they were capable of stealth and magical powers. Until, that is, the village butchers began slaughtering them like pigs, like dogs, to be skinned and eaten. Once the foxes could no longer display their reputed supernatural qualities, the legends about them died. Outside, the peals of thunder have turned to crackles, sounds of fury, and wave after wave of scorched air tumbles into the temple, making me tremble with fear and jogging my memory about the legend of the Thunder God smiting sinful beasts and humans. Could this fox have been one of those sinning beasts? If so, then taking refuge here in the temple is like hiding in a strongbox, for the Thunder God will not flatten the temple, no matter how angry he becomes or how violently the Heavenly Dragon writhes, isn't that right? The Wutong Spirit is, in fact, five transcendent beasts. God has permitted them to become divine spirits and has erected a temple to house their iconic representations. They can thus enjoy the worshipful attendance of humans as well as their supply of wonderful food and beautiful women. Why then can't that fox become one of them? Look, another fox has slunk into the temple. I couldn't tell if the first one was male or female but this one is obviously a female, a pregnant one at that. How do I know? Because her sagging belly and swollen teats brush against the wet doorjamb as she slips in. That and her movements, which are less agile than those of her predecessor. Could the first one be her mate? If so, they're safe now, for nothing is fairer than natural law, and heavenly justice will never bring harm to a fox foetus. Little by little the hailstone in my mouth melts, until it's gone, just as the Wise Monk opens his eyes a crack and looks at me. He seems not to have noticed the foxes, nor is he aware of the sounds of wind, thunder and rain out in the yard, which reminds me of the great divide between us. All right, I'll keep talking —

POW! 3

    The north wind was howling that morning, drawing loud complaints from the fire in the stove. The sheet metal lining the bottom of the flue turned bright red and grey metal filings flew off in bursts. The frost covering