Red Sorghum

street. They hung limply over his shoulder, their dragging feet making pale designs in the dirt, the blood seeping from their wounds leaving red patterns on the ground. Yu Zhan’ao carried the bodies over to the western inlet, whose glassy surface reflected half the stars in the sky. A few sleepy white water lilies floated gracefully like sprites in a fairy tale. Thirteen years later, when Mute shot Yu Zhan’ao’s uncle, Big Tooth Yu, there was hardly any water at this spot in the river, but these lilies were still there. Yu Zhan’ao dumped the bodies into the water with a loud splash. They sank quickly to the bottom, and when the ripples died, the sky once again owned the surface.
    Yu Zhan’ao rinsed his hands, his face, and his sword in the river, but no matter how long he washed, he couldn’t remove the smells of blood and mildew. He then headed down the road, forgetting all about retrieving his rain cape from the Shan compound. When he’d travelled about half a li, he turned into the stand of sorghum, and immediately stumbled and fell. Suddenly realising how tired he was, he rolled over on his back, oblivious to the dampness, and gazed at the stars until he fell asleep.

5
    FIVE MONKEYS SHAN, knowing there was something fishy about the fire that night, seriously considered getting up and helping to fight it, thus carrying out his responsibilities as village chief. But Little White Lamb, the voluptuous opium peddlar, wrapped her arms around him and wouldn’t let go. Two bandit gangs had once fought over this girl, with her fairskin and moist, captivating, suggestive eyes – what is called ‘fighting over the nest’ in bandit parlance. She was a living sign that the war being waged by Gaomi County Magistrate Nine Dreams Cao was far from won.
    In 1923, Nine Dreams Cao had been serving the Northern Warlord Government as magistrate for nearly three years, and his ‘three torches’ were blazing. For him the earthly scourges were banditry, opium, and gambling, and the only way to put the world in order was to annihilate bandits, stamp out opium, and outlaw gambling. His favourite punishment was a beating with the sole of a shoe; hence his nickname, Shoe Sole Cao the Second. A complex individual for whom the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are woefully inadequate, he was involved in many important ways with my family, so it is appropriate to include him in this narrative as a link to what follows.
    In two years of draconian decrees, Nine Dreams Cao had achieved considerable results in his rampage against the three scourges. But Northeast Gaomi Township was a long way from the county seat, and behind the scenes gambling, opium, and bandits flourished as never before.
    Five Monkeys Shan slept till dawn with Little White Lamb in his arms. She awoke first. After lighting the bean-oil lamp, she stuck a silver pin into an opium pellet and thrust it into the flames. Once it caught fire, she stuffed it into a silver pipe and handed it to Five Monkeys Shan, who curled up in bed and inhaled for a minute or so. A tiny white dot glowed on the pellet. After holding his breath for two minutes, he exhaled streams of thin blue smoke through his mouth and nostrils, just as one of the Shan family’s hired hands banged frantically on the door and reported: ‘Village Chief! Terrible news! Murder!’
    Five Monkeys Shan accompanied the hired hand into the Shan compound, with several other men on his heels. Then he followed the trail of blood to the inlet at the western edge of the village. The crowd behind him swelled.
    ‘The bodies must be at the bottom of the river,’ he said.
    No one made a sound.
    ‘Who’ll go down and drag them up?’
    The men exchanged glances, but said nothing.
    The emerald-green water was smooth as glass. Water lilies floated placidly on the surface, with scattered dewdrops sticking to the leaves nearest the water, as moist and round as pearls.
    ‘One silver dollar. Now who’ll go?’
    Still no sound.
    An acrid stench rose from the inlet, and an unimaginably foul red glare emerged from a puddle of purplish blood in the reeds at the water’s edge. The sun rose above the field, white at the top and green at the bottom, sizzling like a chunk of partially fired steel. A line of black clouds above the horizon of sorghum tips stretched far off into the distance, so level you’d think your eyes were playing tricks on you. The inlet sparkled like a river of gold, broken only by the water lilies, which