Red Sorghum

stubborn yellow leaves were bent before the wind. Though not strong, it cut like a knife.
    He slipped into the compound in front of the tiled buildings, where the Iron Society was meeting. On the wall of a spacious hall with a brick floor hung a large amber-coloured painting of a strange old man riding a ferocious, mottled tiger. A variety of curious objects rested on an altar beneath the painting – a monkey claw, the skull of a chicken, a dried pig gallbladder, a cat’s head, and the hoof of a donkey. Incense smoke curled upward. A man with a ring of moles around one eye was sitting on a thick, circular sheet of iron, rubbing the shaved dome of scalp above his forehead with his left hand and covering the crack in his ass with his right. He was chanting loudly: ‘Amalai amalai iron head iron arm iron spirit altar iron tendon iron bone iron cinnabar altar iron heart iron liver iron lung altarraw rice forged into iron barrier iron knife iron gun no way out iron ancestor riding iron tiger urgent edict amalai amalai amalai . . .’
    Granddad recognised the man as Northeast Gaomi Township’s infamous half-man, half-demon, Black Eye.
    His chant finished, Black Eye stood up and kowtowed three times to the iron ancestor seated on his tiger. Then he returned to his sheet of iron, sat down, and raised his fists, all ten fingernails turned in and hidden from view. He nodded towards the Iron society soldiers, who reached up with their left hands to their shaved scalps and covered their asses with their right, closed their eyes, and raised their voices to repeat Black Eye’s chant. Their sonorous shouts filled the hall with demonic airs. Half of Granddad’s anger vanished – his plan had been to murder Black Eye, but his loathing for the man was being weakened by reverence and awe.
    After completing their chant, the Iron Society soldiers kowtowed to the old demon on his tiger mount, then formed two tight ranks in front of Black Eye. Granddad had heard that the Iron Society soldiers ate raw rice, and now he watched as each of them took a bowl of it from Black Eye and gobbled it down. Then, one by one, they walked up to the altar and picked up the monkey claw, mule hoof, and chicken skull to rub on their shaved scalps.
    The white sun was streaked with red by the time the ceremony was completed, when Granddad fired a shot at the large painting, putting a hole in the face of the old demon on his tiger. The soldiers broke ranks at the sound of gunfire, took a moment to get their bearings, then rushed out and surrounded Granddad.
    ‘Who are you? You’ve got the nerves of a thief!’ Black Eye thundered.
    Granddad lifted his tattered felt cap with the barrel of his smoking gun. ‘Your venerable ancestor, Yu Zhan’ao!’
    ‘I thought you were dead!’ Black Eye exclaimed.
    ‘I wanted to see you dead first!’
    ‘You think you can kill me with that thing? Men, bring me a knife!’
    A soldier walked up with a butcher knife. Black Eye held hisbreath and gave a sign to the man. Granddad watched the blade of the knife hack Black Eye’s exposed abdomen as though it were a chunk of hardwood, but all it left were some pale scratches.
    The Iron Society soldiers began to chant in unison: ‘Amalai amalai amalai iron head iron arm iron spirit altar . . . iron ancestor riding iron tiger urgent edict amalai . . . amalai . . . amalai . . .’
    Granddad was stunned. How could anybody be impervious to knives and bullets? He pondered the Iron Society chant. Everything on the body was iron – everything, that is, but the eyes.
    ‘Can you stop a bullet with your eye?’ Granddad asked.
    ‘Can you stop a knife with your belly?’ Black Eye asked in return.
    Granddad knew he couldn’t stop a knife with his belly; he also knew Black Eye couldn’t stop a bullet with his eye.
    The Iron Society soldiers came out of the hall armed to the teeth and formed a ring around Granddad, glaring like tigers eyeing their prey.
    Granddad knew he only had nine bullets left in his pistol, and that, once he killed Black Eye, the soldiers would pounce on him like mad dogs and tear him to ribbons.
    ‘Black Eye,’ Granddad said, ‘since you’re so special, I’ll spare those pisspots of yours. Turn the bitch over and we’re square!’
    ‘Is she yours?’ Black Eye asked him. ‘Will she answer if you call her? Is she your legal wife? A widow is like a masterless dog – they both belong to whoever raises them. If you know what’s good for