Red Sorghum

Granddad moved him, the little red thing dropped into the crotch of his pants. Granddad cupped it in the palm of his hand. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, bent over the way he was. His large, rough hand shook as though the thing were burning a hole in it. ‘Uncle,’ Mother asked him, ‘what’s wrong with you?’
    She was watching the muscles in his face twitch painfully, and noticed that his pale skin seemed covered with a yellow cast; despair filled his eyes.
    ‘It’s all over. . . . Everything ended in that instant . . .’ Granddad mumbled in a voice that quavered like an old, old man’s.
    He took out his pistol and shouted, ‘You’ve ruined me! Dog!’
    He aimed the weapon at Red, who was still panting faintly, and pumped several shots into him.
    Father struggled to his feet, rivulets of fresh, warm blood coursing down the inside of his thigh. He didn’t seem to be in much pain. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘we won.’
    ‘Uncle, hurry up and take care of Douguan’s wound!’ Mother said.
    Father looked at the testicle cupped in Granddad’s hand and asked with a note of astonishment, ‘Dad, is that mine? Is it?’ A wave of nausea hit him. He fainted.
    Granddad threw down his staff, tore off two clean sorghum leaves and gently wrapped the thing up, then handed it to Mother. ‘Beauty,’ he said, ‘hold it carefully. I’m taking him to Dr Zhang Xinyi.’ He bent over, picked Father up, and then hobbled off down the road. Dogs wounded by the exploding grenades in the marshland whimpered pitifully.
    Dr Zhang Xinyi, a man in his fifties, parted his hair right down the middle, something you seldom saw in the countryside. He wore a long, dark-blue gown, and had a pale face atop a frame so thin he seemed incapable of withstanding even the slightest breeze.
    By the time Granddad had carried Father to the doctor, his back was bent almost double and his face had a ghostly pallor.
    ‘Is that you, Commander Yu? You certainly look different,’ Dr Zhang said.
    ‘Name your price, Doctor.’
    Father had been laid out on the wooden-plank bed. ‘Is this your son, Commander?’ Dr Zhang asked him.
    Granddad nodded.
    ‘The one who killed the Japanese general at the Black Water River bridge?’
    ‘I only have one son!’
    ‘I’ll do the best I can!’ Dr Zhang took some tweezers, a pair of scissors, a bottle of sorghum wine, and a vial of iodine out of his instrument bag, then bent over to examine the injury on Father’s face.
    ‘Take a look down there first, please, Doctor,’ Granddad said sombrely. Then he turned to Mother and took the sorghum leaves in which the testicle was wrapped out of her hands. He placed it on the wooden cabinet beside the bed. The leaves spread open.
    Dr Zhang picked up the messy thing with his tweezers. His long, nicotine-stained fingers shook as he stammered, ‘Commander Yu . . . not that I’m unwilling to do my best, but your son’s wound . . . My skills are not great, and I haven’t the proper medication. . . . You must see someone more talented than I, Commander. . . .’
    Granddad bent over and stuck his face right up into Dr Zhang’s, his rheumy eyes boring into the man. ‘Where can I find someone more talented?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Tell me, where can I go? Should I take him to the Japanese?’
    ‘Commander,’ Zhang Xinyi defended himself, ‘that’s not what your humble servant meant. . . . Your esteemed son is injured in a critical place, and the slightest slip could bring an end to your glorious line. . . .’
    ‘I brought him here,’ Granddad said, ‘because I have faith in you. Do what you can.’
    ‘Since Commander Yu says so,’ Zhang Xinyi said, gritting his teeth, ‘I’ll do it.’
    He soaked a cotton ball in the wine and cleaned the wound. The pain brought Father to. He tried to slide off the bed, but Granddad climbed up and held him down.
    ‘Commander Yu,’ Zhang Xinyi said, ‘we’ll have to strap him down.’
    ‘Douguan!’ Granddad said. ‘You’re my son, and I expect you to tough it out. Bite down hard!’
    ‘But, Dad,’ Father groaned, ‘it hurts. . . .’
    ‘Tough it out!’ Granddad said sternly. ‘Think about Uncle Arhat!’
    Father didn’t dare argue. Sweat covered his forehead.
    Zhang Xinyi took out a needle and sterilised it in the wine before threading it. Then he began stitching the torn scrotum closed.
    ‘Sew that back inside!’ Granddad said.
    Zhang Xinyi looked at the testicle lying in the