8

scattered sorghum dances on grandma’s face, one grain landing between her slightly partedlips to rest on flawless white teeth. as he gazes at her lips, which are gradually losing theircolour, father sobs ‘mom,’ and his tears fall on her breast. she opens her eyes amid the pearlydrops of sorghum. rainbows of colour, as though reflected off the pearls, are embedded in hereyes. ‘son,’ she says, ‘your dad?.?.?.’

‘my dad, he’s fighting.’

‘he’s your real dad?.?.?.’ grandma says. father nodds.

she struggles to sit up, but the movement of her body pumps streams of blood out of the twoholes.

‘mom, i’ll go and get him,’ father says.

she waves her hand and sits up abruptly. ‘douguan?.?.?. my son?.?.?. help your mom up.?.?.?.

let’s go home, go home.?.?.?.’

father falls to his knees, drapes her arms around his neck, then stands up with difficulty, liftingher off the ground. fresh blood quickly soaks his neck and assails his nose with the aroma ofsorghum wine. his legs tremble under the weight of her body; he staggers into the sorghum fieldas bullets whizz overhead. he parts the densely packed plants, stumbling forward, his sweat andhis tears merging with grandma’s fresh blood to turn his face into a demented mask. grandma isgetting heavier as the passing sorghum leaves lacerate him mercilessly. he falls, she falls on topof him. he strains to crawl out from under her, and after he lays her out on her back, she looksup, breathes a long sigh, and smiles weakly. unfathomable mystery is embedded in that smile, aniron that burns a horseshoe brand into his memory.

grandma lies on the ground, the warmth of her breast slowly dissipating. she is dimly awarethat her son is undoing her jacket, that he is covering the wound over her breast with his hand,then the wound beneath her breast. her blood stains his hand red, then green; her unsullied breastis stained green by her own blood, then red. bullets have pierced her noble breast, exposing thepink honeycomb beneath it, and father is in agony as he looks down at it. he cannot staunch theflow of blood, and as he watches it flow he can see her face pale. her body grows so light itmight float up into the air.

grandma looks contentedly at father’s exquisite face. she and commander yu had joined tocreate him in the shadows of the sorghum field; lively images of the irretrievable past streak pasther eyes like racehorses.

it was raining as she sat in the bridal sedan chair, like a boat on the ocean, and was carried intoshan tingxiu’s compound. the street was flooded with water, peppered by a layer of sorghumseeds. at the front door she was met by a wizened old man with a tiny queue in the shape of akidney bean. the rain had stopped, but an occasional drop splashed onto the watery ground.

although the musicians had announced her arrival with their instruments, no one had emerged towatch the show; grandma knew that was a bad sign. two men came out to help her perform herobeisances, one in his fifties, the other in his forties. the fifty-year-old was none other than unclearhat liu, the other was one of the distillery hands.

the musicians and bearers stood in the puddles like drenched chickens, sombrely watching thetwo dried-up men lead my soft-limbed, rosy-cheeked grandma into the dark wedding-chamber.

the men exuded a pungent aroma of wine, as if they had been soaked in the vats.

grandma was taken up to a kang in the worship hall and told to sit on it. since no one came upto remove her red veil, she took it off herself. a man with a facial tic sat curled up on a stool nextto her. the bottom part of his flat, elongated face was red and festering. he stood up and stuck aclawlike hand out towards grandma, who screamed in horror and reached into her bodice for thescissors; she glared intently at the man, who recoiled and curled up on the stool again. grandmadidn’t set down her scissors once that night, nor did the man climb down from his stool.

early the next morning, before the man woke up, grandma slipped down off the kang, burstthrough the front door, and opened the gate; just as she was about to flee the premises, a handreached out and grabbed her. the old man with the kidney-bean queue had her by the wrist andwas looking at her with hate-filled eyes.

shan tingxiu coughed dryly once or twice as his expression softened. ‘child,’ he said, ‘nowthat you’re married, you’re like my own daughter. bianlang doesn’t have what everybody says.

don’t listen to their talk. we’ve got a good business, and bianlang’s a good boy. now thatyou’re here, the home is your responsibility.’ shan tingxiu held out to her a ring of bronze keys,but she didn’t take them from him.

grandma sat up all the next night, scissors in hand.

on the morning of the third day, my maternal great-granddad led a donkey up to the house totake grandma home; it was a northeast gaomi township custom for a bride to return to herparents’ home three days after her wedding. great-granddad spent the morning drinking withshan tingxiu, then set out for home shortly after noon.

grandma sat sidesaddle on the donkey, swaying from side to side as the animal left the village.

even though it hadn’t rained for three days, the road was still wet, and steam rose from thesorghum in the fields, the green stalks shrouded in swirling whiteness, as though in the presenceof immortals. great-granddad’s silver coins clinked and jingled in the saddlebags. he was sodrunk he could barely walk, and his eyes were glassy. the donkey proceeded slowly, its longneck bobbing up and down, its tiny hooves leaving muddy imprints. grandma had only ridden ashort distance when she began to get lightheaded; her eyes were red and puffy, her hair mussed,and the sorghum in the fields, a full joint taller than it had been three days earlier, mocked her asshe passed.

‘dad,’ grandma called out, ‘i don’t want to go back there any more. i’ll kill myself before i goback there again.?.?.?.’

‘daughter,’ great-granddad replied, ‘you have no idea how lucky you are. your father-in-lawsaid he’s going to give me a big black mule. i’m going to sell this runty little thing.?.?.?.’

the donkey nibbled some mud-splattered grass that lined the road.

‘dad,’ grandma sobbed, ‘he’s got leprosy.?.?.?.’

‘your father-in-law is going to give me a mule.?.?.?.’

great-granddad, drunk as a lord, kept vomiting into the weeds by the side of the road. thefilth and bile set grandma’s stomach churning, and she felt nothing but loathing for him.

as the donkey walked into toad hollow, they were met by an overpowering stench thatcaused its ears to droop. grandma spotted the highwayman’s bloated corpse, which was coveredby a layer of emerald-coloured flies. the donkey skirted the corpse, sending the flies swarmingangrily into the air to form a green cloud. great- granddad followed the donkey, his bodyseemingly wider than the road itself: one moment he was stumbling into the sorghum to the leftof the road, the next moment he was trampling on weeds to the right. and when he reached thecorpse, he gasped ‘oh!’ several times, and said through quaking lips, ‘poor beggar?.?.?. you poorbeggar?.?.?. you sleeping there??.?.?.’ grandma never forgot the highwayman’s pumpkin face. inthat instant when the flies swarmed into the air she was struck by the remarkable contrastbetween the graceful elegance of his dead face and the mean, cowardly expression he’d worn inlife.

the distance between them lengthened, one li at a time, with the sun’s rays slanting down, thesky high and clear; the donkey quickly outpaced great-granddad. since it knew the way home, itcarried grandma at a carefree saunter. up ahead was a bend in the road, and as the donkeynegotiated the turn, grandma tipped backward, leaving the security of the animal’s back. amuscular arm swept her off and carried her into the sorghum field.

grandma fought halfheartedly. she really didn’t feel like struggling. the three days she hadjust got through were nightmarish. certain individuals become great leaders in an instant;grandma unlocked the mysteries of life in three days. she even wrapped her arms around hisneck to make it easier for him to carry her. sorghum leaves rustled. great-granddad’s hoarsevoice drifted over on the wind: ‘daughter, where the hell are you?’

the long, sorrowful blast of a bugle near the bridge is immediately followed by the staccatorhythm of machine-gun fire. grandma’s blood continues to flow in concert with her breathing.

‘mom,’ father pleads, ‘don’t let your blood run out. you’ll die when it’s all gone.’ he scoops upa handful of black dirt and smears it over her wound; blood quickly seeps out from under it. hescoops up another handful. grandma smiles in gratitude, her eyes fixed on the azure sky, deepbeyond imagining, and fixed on the warm, forgiving, motherly, nurturing sorghum around her. aglossy green path, bordered by tiny white flowers, appears in her mind.

grandma rode the donkey down this path, leisurely and carefree, while from deep amid thesorghum the stalwart young man raised his voice in a serenade that skimmed the top of the field.

she was drawn to the serenade, her feet barely touching the tips of the sorghum plants, as thoughriding a green cloud.?.?.?.

the man placed grandma on the ground, where she lay as limp as a ribbon of dough, her eyesnarrowed like those of a lamb. he ripped away the black mask, revealing his face to her. it’s him!

a silent prayer to heaven. a powerful feeling of pure joy rocked her, filling her eyes with hottears.

yu zhan’ao removed his rain cape and tramped out a clearing in the sorghum, then spread hiscape over the sorghum corpses. he lifted grandma onto the cape. her soul fluttered as she gazedat his bare torso. a light mist rose from the tips of the sorghum, and all around she could hear thesounds of growth. no wind, no waving motion, just the white- hot rays of moist sunlightcrisscrossing through the open cracks between plants. the passion in grandma’s heart, built upover sixteen years, suddenly erupted. she squirmed and twisted on the cape. yu zhan’ao, gettingsmaller and smaller, fell loudly to his knees at her side. she was trembling from head to toe; aredolent yellow ball of fire crackled and sizzled before her eyes. yu zhan’ao roughly tore openher jacket, exposing the small white mounds of chilled, tense flesh to the sunlight. answering hisforce, she cried out in a muted, hoarse voice, ‘my god?.?.?. ,’ and swooned.

grandma and granddad exchanged their love surrounded by the vitality of the sorghum field:

two unbridled souls, refusing to knuckle under to worldly conventions, were fused together moreclosely than their ecstatic bodies. they ploughed the clouds and scattered rain in the field, addinga patina of lustrous red to the rich and varied history of northeast gaomi township. my fatherwas conceived with the essence of heaven and earth, the crystallisation of suffering and wild joy.

the braying donkey threaded its way into the sorghum field, and grandma returned from thehazy kingdom of heaven to the cruel world of man. she sat up in a state of utter stupefaction, herface bathed in tears. ‘he really does have leprosy,’ she said. as granddad knelt down, a swordappeared in his hand, as if by magic. he slipped it out of its scabbard; the two-foot blade wascurved, like a leaf of chive. with a single swish, it sliced through two stalks of sorghum, the tophalves thudding to the ground, leaving bubbles of dark-green liquid on the neat, slanted wounds.

‘come back in three days, no matter what!’ granddad said.

grandma looked at him uncomprehendingly. he dressed while she tidied herself up, then puthis sword away – where, she didn’t know. granddad took her back to the roadside and vanished.

three days later, the little donkey carried grandma back, and when she entered the village shelearned that the shans, father and son, had been murdered and tossed into the inlet at the westernedge of the village.

grandma lies there soaking up the crisp warmth of the sorghum field. she is as light as a houseswallow gracefully skimming the tips of the plants. the fleeting images begin slowing down:

shan bianlang, shan tingxiu, great- granddad, great- grandma, uncle arhat?.?.?. so manyhostile, grateful, savage, sincere faces appear and disappear. she is writing the final page of herthirty-year history. everything in her past is like a procession of sweet, fragrant fruit fallingrapidly to the ground. as for her future, she can only dimly see a few holes of light, which arequickly extinguished. she is holding on to the fleeting present with all her might.

grandma feels father’s little paws stroking her. he calls out ‘mom!’ timidly. all her hate andher love evaporate. she longs to raise her arm and stroke father’s face, but it won’t do herbidding. rising into the air, she sees a multicoloured ray of light streaming from above, and hearsheaven’s solemn music, played by horns and woodwinds, large and small.

grandma is exhausted: the handle of the present, the handle of the world of men, is slippingfrom her grasp. is this death? will i never again see this sky, this earth, this sorghum, this son,the lover who has led his troops into battle? the gunfire is so far away, beyond a thick curtain ofmist. douguan! douguan! come help your mom. pull your mom back. your mom doesn’t wantto die. my heaven?.?.?. you gave me a lover, you gave me a son, you gave me riches, you gave methirty years of life as robust as red sorghum. heaven, since you gave me all that, don’t take itback now. forgive me, let me go! have i sinned? would it have been right to share my pillowwith a leper and produce a misshapen, putrid monster to contaminate this beautiful world? whatis chastity then? what is the correct path? what is goodness? what is evil? you never told me, soi had to decide on my own. i loved happiness, i loved strength, i loved beauty; it was my body,and i used it as i thought fitting. sin doesn’t frighten me, nor does punishment. i’m not afraid ofyour eighteen levels of hell. i did what i had to do, i managed as i thought proper. i fear nothing.

but i don’t want to die, i want to live. i want to see more of this world.?.?.?.

grandma’s sincerity moves the heavens. fresh drops of a crystalline moisture ooze from herdry eyes, which emit a strange light. once again she sees father’s golden face and two eyes thatare so like granddad’s. her lips quiver, she calls douguan’s name. ‘mom,’ father shoutsexcitedly, ‘you’re going to be okay! you’re not going to die. i’ve stopped the bleeding, it’sstopped! i’ll go get dad, i’ll tell him to come. mom, you can’t die, you have to wait for dad!’

father runs off, his retreating steps turning into a gentle monologue, then into the music fromheaven that grandma had heard a moment earlier. it is the music of the universe, and it emanatesfrom the red sorghum. she gazes at the sorghum, and through the dimness of her vision the stalksturn crafty and surpassingly beautiful, grotesque, and bizarre. they begin to moan, to writhe, toshout, to entwine her; they are demonic one minute, intimate the next, and in her eyes they coillike snakes. but then they suddenly stretch out like spikes, and it is beyond her power to describetheir brilliance. they are red and green, they are black and white, they are blue and green; theyare laughing heartily, they are crying pitifully. their tears are raindrops beating against thedesolate sandbar of her heart.

the blue sky shines through the spaces between the sorghum stalks. it is so high, yet so low.

grandma feels as though heaven and earth, man, and the sorghum are intertwined, huddledbeneath a gigantic canopy. white clouds dragging earthly shadows behind them brush leisurelyagainst her face. a flock of white doves swoops down and perches on the stalks’ tips, where theircooing wakes grandma, who quickly distinguishes their shapes. the doves’ red eyes, the size ofsorghum seeds, are fixed on her. she smiles with genuine affection, and they return her smile. mydarlings! she cries silently. i don’t want to leave you! the doves peck at the sorghum grains, theirchests slowly expanding, their feathers fanning out like petals in the wind and rain.

a large flock of doves had once nested in the eaves of our home. in the fall, grandma placed alarge basin of clear water in the yard, and when the doves returned from the fields they perchedneatly on the rim of the basin to spit the sorghum seeds from their crops into water in which theirreflections shimmered. then they swaggered around the yard. doves! driven from their nests bythe storms of war, they grieve over grandma’s imminent death.

grandma’s eyes glaze over once again, as the doves take flight, soaring through the vast bluesky, filling it with the rhythmic flapping of their wings. she floats upward to join them, spreadingher newly sprouted wings to glide weightlessly in the air above the black soil and sorghum stalks.

she gazes longingly at the ruins of her village, at the meandering river, at the crisscrossing roadsand paths, at the bullet holes in the sky, and at the doomed creatures beneath her. for the lasttime she smells the aroma of sorghum wine and the pungent odour of hot blood. a scene shenever witnessed suddenly takes shape in her mind: caught in a hail of gunfire, hundreds of herfellow villagers, their clothes in rags, lie in the sorghum field, arms and legs writhing in amacabre dance.?.?.?.

the final thread linking her to mankind is about to part; all her melancholy and suffering, heranxieties and dejection settle onto the field below, striking the sorghum like hailstones andcontinuing down to the black soil to take root and give birth to bitter fruit for generations tocome.

grandma has completed her liberation. she flies off with the doves. her shrinking thoughts,which might fit into a human fist, embrace only joy, contentment, warmth, comfort, andharmony. she is at peace. with genuine devotion she exclaims:

‘heaven! my heaven?.?.?.’