Red Sorghum

Tonight I’m going to . . .
butcher
you. . . .’ He climbed off the kang, sword in hand, and staggered outside. The other men lay in the dark, staring wide-eyed at the moon glinting off the weapon in his hand, not daring to utter a sound.
    Yu Zhan’ao walked into the moonlit yard and looked at the glazed wine vats glistening in the light like jewels. A southern breeze swept over from the fields, carrying the bittersweet aroma of ripe sorghum and making him shiver. The sound of a woman’s giggle drifted over from the western compound. As he slipped into the tent to move the bench outside, he was met by the pawing sounds of the black mule tethered behind the feed trough. Ignoring the animal, he carried the bench over to the wall. When he stepped on it and straightened up, the top of the wall reached his chest. A light behind the windowilluminated the paper cutout. The mistress was playing games with the girl Passion on the kang. ‘Aren’t you a couple of naughty little monkeys?’ he heard the woman Liu say. ‘It’s bedtime; now, go to sleep!’ Then she added, ‘Passion, look in the pot and see if the dough has begun to rise.’
    Holding the sword in his mouth, Yu Zhan’ao climbed up onto the wall. The five dogs rushed over, looked up, and began to bark, frightening him so badly he lost his balance and tumbled into the western compound. If Grandma hadn’t rushed out to see what was going on, the dogs probably would have torn him to pieces, even if there had been two of him.
    After calling off the dogs, Grandma shouted for Passion to bring out the lantern.
    The woman Liu, rolling-pin in hand, came running out on big feet that had once been bound and screamed, ‘A thief! Grab him!’
    Passion followed, lantern in hand, the light falling on the battered face of Yu Zhan’ao. ‘So it’s you!’ Grandma said coldly.
    She picked up the sword and tucked it into her sleeve. ‘Passion, go fetch Uncle Arhat.’
    No sooner had Passion opened the gate than Uncle Arhat entered the compound. ‘What’s going on, Mistress?’
    ‘This hired hand of yours is drunk,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, he is,’ Uncle Arhat confirmed.
    ‘Passion,’ Grandma said, ‘bring me my willow switch.’
    Passion fetched Grandma’s white willow switch. ‘This’ll sober you up,’ Grandma said as she twirled the switch in the air and brought it down hard on Yu Zhan’ao’s buttocks.
    Stung by the pain, he experienced a sense of numbing ecstasy, and when it reached his throat it set his teeth moving and emerged as a stream of gibberish: ‘Mistress Mistress Mistress . . .’
    Grandma whipped him until her arm was about to fall off, then lowered the switch and stood there panting from exhaustion.
    ‘Take him away,’ she said.
    Uncle Arhat stepped up to pull Yu Zhan’ao to his feet, but he refused to get up. ‘Mistress,’ he shouted, ‘a few more lashes . . . just give me a few more . . .’
    Grandma whipped him twice on the neck with all her might, and he rolled around on the ground like a little boy, kicking the air with his legs. Uncle Arhat called for a couple of hired hands to carry him back to the bunkhouse, where they flung him down on the kang; he rolled around like a squirming dragonfly, a stream of filth and abuse gushing from his mouth. Uncle Arhat picked up a decanter, told the men to pin his arms and legs, and poured wine down his throat. As soon as the men let go, his head lolled to the side and he grew silent. ‘You drowned him!’ one of them exclaimed fearfully, bringing the lantern up. Yu Zhan’ao’s face was contorted out of shape, and he sneezed violently, extinguishing the lantern.
    He didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky. He walked into the distillery as though stepping on cotton; the men watched him curiously. Recalling the beating he’d received the night before, he rubbed his neck and his buttocks, but felt no pain. Thirsty, he picked up a ladle, scooped some wine from the flow, tipped back his head, and drank it down.
    Old Du the fiddler said, ‘Little Yu, your mistress gave you quite a beating last night. I’ll bet you won’t be climbing
that
wall again.’
    Up till then the gloomy young man had instilled a measure of fear in the others, but that had evaporated when they heard his pitiful screams, and now they outdid one another teasing him mercilessly. Without a word in reply, he grabbed one of them, raised his fist, and buried it in the man’s face. A quick exchange of