Red Sorghum

whirled around. Father watched him raise his arm, as a dark-red cast came over his black eyes. The Browning spat out a puff of white smoke. An explosion erupted above Father’s head, and shards of shattered ceramic fell around him, one landing against his neck. He shrugged his shoulder, and it slid down into his pants. He didn’t utter a sound. The blood had drained from Grandma’s face. Detachment Leader Leng sat down hard on a stool. ‘Good shooting,’ he said after a moment.
    ‘Good boy!’ Commander Yu said proudly.
    The Browning pistol in Father’s hand seemed to weigh a ton.
    ‘I don’t have to show you,’ Commander Yu said. ‘You know how to shoot. Have Mute get his men ready.’
    Gripping his pistol tightly, Father darted through thesorghum field, crossed the highway, and ran up to Mute, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, honing his sabre knife with a shiny green stone. Some of his men were seated, others lying down.
    ‘Get your men ready,’ Father said to him.
    Mute looked at Father out of the corner of his eye, but kept honing his knife for another moment or so. Then he picked up a couple of sorghum leaves, wiped the stone residue from the blade, and plucked a stalk of grass to test its sharpness. It fell in two pieces the instant it touched the blade.
    ‘Get your men ready,’ Father repeated.
    Mute sheathed his knife and laid it on the ground beside him, his face creased in a savage grin. With one of his mammoth hands he signalled Father to come closer.
    ‘Uh! Uh!’ he grunted.
    Father shuffled forward and stopped a pace or so from Mute, who reached out, grabbed him by the sleeve, jerked him into his lap, and pinched his ear so hard that he grimaced. Father jammed his Browning pistol up into Mute’s rib cage. Mute grabbed Father’s nose and pinched it until tears came to his eyes. An eerie laugh burst from Mute’s mouth.
    The seated men laughed raucously.
    ‘A lot like Commander Yu, isn’t he?’
    ‘Commander Yu’s seed.’
    ‘Douguan, I miss your mom.’
    ‘Douguan, I feel like nibbling those date-topped buns of hers.’
    Father’s embarrassment quickly turned to rage. Raising his pistol, he aimed it at the man wishfully thinking of date-topped buns, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked, but no bullet emerged.
    The man, ashen-faced, jumped to his feet and wrenched the pistol away. Father, still enraged, threw himself on the man, clawing, kicking, biting.
    Mute stood up, grabbed Father by the scruff of his neck, and flicked him away. He flew through the air and crashed into a thicket of sorghum stalks. A quick somersault and he was on his feet, railing and swearing as he charged Mute, who merely grunted a couple of times. The steely look in his eyes frozeFather in his tracks. Mute picked up the pistol and pulled back the bolt; a bullet fell into his hand. Holding it in his fingers, he looked at the notch in the casing from the firing pin, and made some unintelligible hand signs to Father. Then he stuck the pistol into Father’s belt and patted him on the shoulder.
    ‘What were you doing over there?’ Commander Yu asked.
    Father was embarrassed. ‘They . . . they said they wanted to sleep with Mom.’
    ‘What did you say?’ Commander Yu asked sternly.
    Father wiped his eyes with his arm. ‘I shot him!’
    ‘You shot somebody?’
    ‘The gun misfired.’ Father handed Commander Yu the shiny dud.
    Commander Yu took it from him, examined it, and gave it a casual flick. It described a beautiful arc before plopping into the river.
    ‘Good boy!’ Commander Yu said. ‘But use your gun on the Japanese first. After you’ve finished them off, anybody who says he wants to sleep with your mom, you shoot him in the gut. Not in the head, and not in the chest. Remember, in the gut.’
    Father lay on his belly alongside Commander Yu; the Fang brothers were on his other side. The cannon had been set up on the dike, aimed at the stone bridge, its barrel stuffed with cotton rags, a fuse sticking out behind. Fang Seven had placed a bundle of sorghum tinder next to him, some of which was already smouldering. A gourd filled with gunpowder and a tin of iron pellets lay beside Fang Six.
    Wang Wenyi was to Commander Yu’s left, curled up, holding his long-barrelled fowling piece in his hands. His wounded ear was stuck to the white bandage covering it.
    The sun was stake-high, its white core girded by a pink halo. The flowing water glittered. A flock of wild ducks flew over