Red Sorghum

smelling the delicate fragrance of pear blossoms. . . .
    He felt no remorse, though, over murdering Shan Bianlang, only disgust. The flames gradually died down, but the sky was still brightly lit. A ghostly shadow rustled at the base of the wall; the village was engulfed by a swelling tide of barking. Metal rims of water buckets clattered loudly; water sizzled and sputtered as it hit the roaring flames.
    Six days earlier: The downpour had soaked the sedan bearers until they looked like drenched chickens, and the only dry spot on the young bride was her back. He stood with the other bearers and musicians in mud puddles, watching two slovenly old men lead the bride into the house. Not a single person in the large village came out to watch the excitement, and the bridegroom was nowhere in sight. A rusty odour seeped through the open door, and the sedan bearers knew without being told that the bridegroom, who wouldn’t show his face, was indeed a leper. Seeing that there were no witnesses to the excitement, the musicians settled for a bland little tune.
    A wizened old man came outside with a little basket of copper coins and croaked, ‘Here’s your reward! Come and get it!’ as he scattered a handful of coins on the ground. The bearers and musicians watched the coins splash in the puddles, but none made a move to pick them up. The old man bent over and picked up the coins, one at a time. That was when the idea of burying a knife in the old man’s scrawny neck formed in Granddad’s mind.
    Now flames were lighting up that same compound and the couplets pasted up alongside the gate. Since he wasn’t completely illiterate, he read them, and when he had finished, flames of indignation drove every trace of coolness out of his heart. He used some folk wisdom to absolve himself: charity for the sake of karma doesn’t mean you’ll die in bed; murder and arson are a sure path to the good life. Besides, he’d giventhe young woman his word, and had already murdered the man’s son; by sparing the father, he’d only be subjecting him to the grief of seeing his son’s corpse. There was no turning back. Now that he’d knocked over the gourd and spilled all the oil, he’d create a new life for the young woman. ‘Old Man Shan,’ he mumbled under his breath, ‘this day next year will be your first anniversary!’
    The fire was dying out, returning the compound to darkness and the stars to the sky, although a few cinders remained in the pile of leaves. When water was dumped on the hot spots, white steam and glowing cinders rose dozens of feet into the air. The men stood, buckets in hand, casting large shadows on the ground.
    ‘Don’t be sad, Master. Financial losses, lucky bosses,’ said the voice of reason.
    ‘Heaven has no eyes. . . . Heaven has no eyes . . .’ Shan Tingxiu mumbled.
    ‘Let the men go inside and get some rest, Master. They have to be up for work early in the morning.’
    ‘Heaven has no eyes . . . Heaven has no eyes. . . .’
    The men staggered into the eastern compound. Yu Zhan’ao hid behind the screen wall as the clatter of buckets on carrying poles moved past him, followed by silence. Shan Tingxiu stood in the gateway mumbling, but finally began to lose interest and carried his tile crock back into the compound, the two family dogs leading the way. Clearly exhausted, when they spotted Yu Zhan’ao they merely barked once or twice and headed for their pen, where they plopped down and didn’t make another sound.
    Yu Zhan’ao could hear the big mule in the eastern compound grind its teeth and paw the ground. The three stars had moved to the western sky, so it was after midnight. He braced himself, gripped his sword, and waited until Shan Tingxiu was a mere three or four paces from the door, then rushed him with such force that he buried the sword in his chest, past the hilt. The old man flew backward, his arms spread out, as if he were taking off into the air, before falling on his back. His tile crock crashed to the ground and blossomed like a flower. The dogs barked listlessly a few more times and took no morenotice. Yu Zhan’ao withdrew his sword, rubbed both sides of the blade on the old man’s clothes, and turned to leave. But he stopped himself.
    After dragging Shan Bianlang’s body out into the yard, he removed some rope from a carrying pole at the base of the wall, tied the two frail corpses together at the waist, then hoisted them up and carried them out to the