Red Sorghum

ground and covered his face with his hands.
    The Japanese officer whistled, and the guard dog bounded back to him, dragging the leash behind it.
    ‘Skin him, and be quick about it!’ the interpreter demanded.
    Sun Five struggled to his feet, picked up his butcher knife, and staggered up to Uncle Arhat.
    Everyone’s head jerked upward as a torrent of abuse erupted from Uncle Arhat’s mouth.
    Sun Five spoke to him: ‘Elder brother . . . elder brother . . . try to bear it a little longer. . . .’
    Uncle Arhat spat a gob of bloody phlegm into Sun’s face.
    ‘Start skinning,’ shouted the interpreter. ‘Fuck your ancestors! Skin him, I said!’
    Sun Five started at the point on Uncle Arhat’s scalp where the scab had formed, zipping the knife blade down, once, twice . . . one meticulous cut after another. Uncle Arhat’s scalp fell away, revealing two greenish-purple eyes and several misshapen chunks of flesh. . . .
    Father told me once that, even after Uncle Arhat’s face had been peeled away, shouts and gurgles continued to emerge from his shapeless mouth, while endless rivulets of bright-red blood dripped from his pasty scalp. Sun Five no longer seemed human as his flawless knife-work produced a perfect pelt. After Uncle Arhat had been turned into a mass of meaty pulp, his innards churned and roiled, attracting swarms of dancing green flies. The women were on their knees, wailing piteously. That night a heavy rain fell, washing the tethering square clean of every drop of blood, and of Uncle Arhat’s corpse and the skin that had covered it. Word that his corpse had disappeared spread through the village, from one person to ten, to a hundred, from this generation to the next, until it became a beautiful legend.
    ‘If he thinks he can get away with playing games with me, I’ll rip his head off and use it for a pisspot!’
    The sun seemed to shrink as it rose in the sky, sending down white-hot rays; a flock of wild ducks flew through the rapidly dissipating mist atop the sorghum field, then another flock.Detachment Leader Leng’s troops still hadn’t shown up, and only an occasional wild hare disturbed the peace of the highway. A while later, a wily red fox darted across the highway. ‘Hey!’ Commander Yu shouted after cursing Detachment Leader Leng. ‘Everybody up. It looks like we’ve been tricked by that son of a bitch Pocky Leng.’
    That was just what the troops, tired of lying there, had been waiting to hear. They were on their way up before the sound of Commander Yu’s command had died out. Some sat on the dike to enjoy a smoke; others stood to take a long-postponed piss.
    Father jumped up onto the dike, the head of the skinned Uncle Arhat floating in front of his eyes. Wild ducks startled into flight by the sudden emergence of men on the dike began landing in small clusters on a nearby sandbar, where they waddled back and forth, their emerald and yellow feathers glistening among the water weeds.
    Mute walked up to Commander Yu, knife in one hand, his old Hanyang rifle in the other. Looking dejected, with lifeless eyes, he pointed to the sun in the southeastern sky and to the deserted highway. Finally, he pointed to his belly, grunted, and signalled in the direction of the village. Commander Yu thought for a moment, then called to the men on the western edge of the highway, ‘Come over here, all of you!’
    The troops crossed the highway and formed up on the dike.
    ‘Brothers,’ Commander Yu said, ‘if Pocky Leng’s playing games with us, I’ll lop his damned head off! The sun isn’t directly overhead yet, so we’ll wait a little longer. If the convoy hasn’t come by noon, we’ll go to Tan Family Hollow and settle accounts with Leng. For now, go into the sorghum field and get some rest. I’ll send Douguan for food. Douguan!’
    Father looked up at Commander Yu.
    ‘Go tell your mom to have the women make some fistcakes, and tell her I want lunch here by noon. Say I want her to bring it herself.’
    Father nodded, hitched up his trousers, stuck the Browning pistol into his belt, and ran down the dike. After heading north down the highway for a short distance, he cut across the sorghum field, heading northwest, weaving in and out among the plants. In the sea of sorghum he bumped into some longmule bones. He kicked one, dislodging a couple of short-tailed, furry field voles that had been feasting on marrow. They looked up fearlessly, then burrowed back into the bone. The