Red Sorghum

eyes.
    ‘I came to see how sorghum is converted into wine,’ Grandma said.
    Uncle Arhat moved a stool over for her.
    The men, favoured by her presence, worked as never before. The stoker kept the fires blazing under the cookpots. The water bubbled, sending sizzling steam snaking its way up through the distiller to merge with the panting sounds of the workers. When they had filled the distiller with mash, they covered itwith a tight-fitting honeycombed lid to let the mixture cook until wisps of steam began to ooze from the tiny openings in the lid. They quickly brought over a double-plate pewter object with a concave centre. Uncle Arhat told Grandma it was the distiller. She walked over to get a closer look, then returned to the stool without a word.
    The men placed the pewter distiller over the wooden one to block out the steam. The only sounds came from the roaring fires beneath the cookpot. The wooden distiller was white one minute and orange the next, as a delicate, sweet aroma, sort of like wine but not quite, seeped through the wooden vessel.
    ‘Add cool water,’ Uncle Arhat said.
    The men climbed up onto a bench and began pouring cool water into the concave centre of the pewter distiller. One of them stirred the water rapidly with what looked like an oar, and after about half the time it takes a joss stick to burn down, Grandma’s nostrils were filled with the smell of wine.
    ‘Get ready to catch the wine,’ Uncle Arhat ordered.
    Two men ran up with wine crocks woven of wax reeds and covered with ten layers of paper, then sealed with many coats of varnish. They placed the crocks under distiller spouts that looked like duck beaks.
    Grandma stood up and stared at the spouts as the stoker shoved pieces of pine-oil-soaked firewood into the stoves, which crackled loudly and spat out clouds of white smoke that lit up the men’s greasy, sweaty chests.
    ‘Change the water!’ Uncle Arhat shouted.
    Two men rushed into the yard and came running back with four buckets of cool well water. The man on the stool pulled a lever, releasing the heated water from the top of the distiller. Then he poured in the fresh water and continued stirring.
    Grandma was stirred by the solemn, sacred labour. Just then she felt my father move inside her belly, and looked over at Yu Zhan’ao, who was lying on the pile of firewood staring at her with a sinister glint in his eyes, the only cold spots in the steamy distilling tent. The stirring in her heart cooled off. She averted her eyes and calmly watched the two men with the crocks, who were waiting for the wine to flow.
    The aroma grew heavier as wisps of steam escaped throughthe seams of the wooden distiller. Grandma watched the spouts brighten, the glow freezing for a moment, then slowly beginning to stir as clear, bright drops of liquid rolled down into the wine crocks like tears.
    ‘Change the water!’ Uncle Arhat yelled. ‘Stoke the fire!’
    Hot water poured from the open taps as more cool water was dumped in, maintaining a steady temperature on the lid, causing the steam between the layers to cool and form a liquid, which gushed out through the spouts.
    The first wine out was warm, transparent, and steamy. Uncle Arhat picked up a clean ladle, half-filled it, and handed it to Grandma. ‘Here, Mistress, taste it.’
    The rich aroma made her tongue itch. Father stirred in her belly again. He was thirsty for the wine. First she sniffed it and touched it to her tongue, then took a sip to savour its bouquet. It was amazingly aromatic and slightly pungent. She took a mouthful and swished it around with her tongue. Her cheeks softened as though they were being rubbed gently with silky cotton. Her throat went slack, and the mouthful of warm wine slid down. Her pores snapped open, then closed, as a feeling of incredible joy suffused her body. She swigged three mouthfuls in rapid succession, her belly feeling as though it were being massaged by a greedy hand. Finally, she tipped back her head and drained the ladle. By then her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled; she had never looked so beautiful, so irresistible. The men gaped with astonishment, neglecting their work.
    ‘Mistress, you sure know how to drink!’ they complimented her.
    ‘It’s the first drink I’ve ever had,’ she replied modestly.
    ‘If that’s how you handle the first one, with a little practice you could finish off a whole crock.’
    By now the wine was gushing from the spouts – one crock, then