The Republic of Wine

wails were barely audible; blood spurted from the holes in its neck, rising and falling, as if home to crabs that were foaming at the mouth. Holding up ten bloody fingers, the little demon announced calmly:
    ‘The hawk is in its death throes.’
    The bolder children crowded around, with the others falling in timidly behind, all gazing down at the hawk’s expiring body. It was still twitching, writhing on the ground, though the intensity of movement was weakening. Suddenly the hawk’s mouth opened, as if to release a screech; but instead of sound, only blood emerged, making a pattering sound as it hit the grass, sticky and hot. The little demon picked up a handful of mud and stuffed it into the hawk’s mouth. Sounds rumbled up from the throat, followed by an explosion of mud and blood.
    Children,’ the little demon demanded, ‘suffocate him, stuff up the hawk’s mouth, so he can’t eat us.’
    The children sprang into action, as ordered. In unity there is strength. Dozens of hands scrambled to dig up mud, grass, and sand, and cram it into the hawk’s mouth; then, like a downpour of rain, they covered its eyes and pinched its nostrils shut. As the children’s enthusiasm mounted, they were in the grip of euphoria, enjoying the game of life as they buried the hawk’s head in mud. That is how children are; they will gang up on a poor frog, or a snake crossing the road, or a wounded cat. And after beating it half to death, they’ll crowd around to enjoy the spectacle.
    ‘Is he dead?’
    A pop of air escaped from the hawk’s bottom.
    ‘He isn’t dead, he just farted. Keep stuffing.’
    Another deluge of mud ensued, nearly burying the hawk - yes, it was all but buried under the mud.
    When the person in charge of the Special Purchasing Section of the Culinary Academy heard a series of demonic wails in the yard outside the Meat Child Room, her neck and bladder constricted, and the demon of doom bored insect-like into her mind.
    She stood up and walked over to the telephone, but when her right hand touched the handset, what felt like an electric shock shot up her arm from her fingertip, numbing half her body. Dragging her paralyzed body back over to the desk, she sat down, feeling as if she’d been cloven in two, one side cold, the other feverishly hot. Hastily, she opened a drawer and took out a mirror to look at herself. One half of her face was dark and ruddy, the other a ghostly white. Her nerves shot, she somehow made it back to the telephone, but her hand recoiled as if lightning had struck again as soon as she reached out. She seemed on the verge of crumpling to the floor, just as a divine light emerged from her brain to illuminate a road ahead. A lightning-struck tree stood beside the road, half of it a lush green, covered with leaves and luscious fruit, the other half with bronze limbs and an iron trunk, completely denuded, emitting a magical glow in a sea of sunlight. She knew at once: That tree is me. That thought filled her heart with intense warmth, and tears of joy wetted her cheeks. As if mesmerized or infatuated, she gazed at the half of that big tree that had been petrified by lightning, turning away from the green half in disgust. She called out for lightning, summoned it to turn the green half of the tree into bronze limbs and an iron trunk, to transform the tree into one glorious whole. She then reached out to the telephone with her left hand, and her body was as if on fire. Feeling ten years younger, she ran out into the yard and from there to the lawn in front of the Meat Child Room. When she saw the buried hawk, she burst out laughing. Clapping her hands, she said:
    ‘You’ve killed him well, children, killed him well! Now you must flee, get as far away from this den of murderous monsters as you can!’
    With her in the lead, the children passed through a series of iron gates and wound their way through the labyrinthine grounds of the Culinary Academy. But her attempt was doomed to failure. With the exception of the little demon, who made good his escape, every one of the children was caught and dragged back, and the woman was discharged from her post. Why, gentle readers, do you think I've wasted so much ink on this woman? Because she is my mother-in-law. That is to say, she is the wife of Professor Yuan Shuangyu of the Brewer’s College. Everyone says she went crazy, and that’s how I see it. She spends her time these days at home writing letters of accusation, ream upon ream of