3she told it exactly like it was. when construction of the jiao-ping highway reached our place,the sorghum in the fields was only waist-high. except for a handful of tiny villages, two crossingrivers, and a few dozen winding dirt paths, the marshy plain, which measured sixty by seventy-odd li – or about twenty by twenty-five miles – was covered with sorghum that waved like anocean of green. from our village we had a clear view of white horse mountain, an enormousrock formation on the northern edge of the plain. peasants tending the sorghum looked up to seewhite horse and down to see black soil that soaked up their sweat and filled their hearts withcontentment. when they heard that the japanese were building a highway across the plain, theygrew restive, awaiting the calamity they knew was coming.
the japanese said they would come, and they were as good as their word.
my father was sleeping when the japs and their puppet soldiers came to our village toconscript peasant labourers and confiscate their mules and horses. he was awakened by adisturbance near the distillery. grandma dragged him over to the compound as fast as herbamboo- shoot feet would carry her. back then there were a dozen or so huge vats in thecompound, each brimming with top-quality white liquor, the aroma of which hung over the entirevillage. two khaki-clad japanese soldiers with fixed bayonets stood there as a couple of black-clad chinese, rifles slung over their backs, untied our two big black mules from a catalpa tree.
uncle arhat kept trying to get to the shorter puppet soldier, who was untying the tethers, but thetaller comrade forced him back with the muzzle of his rifle. since uncle arhat was wearing onlya thin shirt in the early-summer heat, his exposed chest already showed a welter of circularbruises.
‘brothers,’ he pleaded, ‘we can talk this over, we can talk it over.’
‘get the hell out of here, you old bastard,’ the taller soldier barked.
‘those animals belong to the owner,’ uncle arhat said. ‘you can’t take them.’
the puppet soldier growled menacingly, ‘if i hear another word out of you, i’ll shoot yourlittle prick off!’
the japanese soldiers stood like clay statues, holding their rifles in front of them.
as grandma and my father entered the compound, uncle arhat wailed, ‘they’re taking ourmules!’
‘sir,’ grandma said, ‘we’re good people.’
the japanese squinted and grinned at her.
the shorter puppet soldier freed the mules and tried to lead them away; but they raised theirheads stubbornly and refused to budge. his buddy walked up and prodded one of them in therump with his rifle; the angered animal pawed the ground with its rear hooves, its metal shoesglinting in the mud that sprayed the soldier in the face.
the tall soldier pointed his rifle at uncle arhat and bellowed, ‘come over here and take thesemules to the construction site, you old bastard!’
uncle arhat squatted on the ground without making a sound, so one of the japanese soldierswalked up and waved his rifle in front of uncle arhat’s face. ‘minliwala, yalalimin!’ he grunted.
with the shiny bayonet glinting in front of his eyes, uncle arhat sat down. the soldier thrust hisbayonet forward, opening a tiny hole in uncle arhat’s shiny scalp.
beginning to tremble, grandma blurted out, ‘do it, uncle, take the mules for them.’
the other jap soldier edged up close to grandma, and father noticed how young andhandsome he was, and how his dark eyes sparkled. but when he smiled, his lip curled to revealyellow buck teeth. grandma staggered over to uncle arhat, whose wound was oozing blood thatspread across his scalp and down his face. the grinning japanese soldiers drew closer. grandmalaid her hands on uncle arhat’s scalp, then rubbed them on her face. pulling her hair, she leapedto her feet like a madwoman, her mouth agape. she looked three parts human and seven partsdemon. the startled japanese soldiers froze.
‘sir,’ the tall puppet soldier said, ‘that woman’s crazy.’
one of the jap soldiers mumbled something as he fired a shot over grandma’s head. she satdown hard and began to wail.
the tall puppet soldier used his rifle to prod uncle arhat, who got to his feet and took thetethers from the smaller soldier. the mules looked up; their legs trembled as they followed himout of the compound. the street was chaotic with mules, horses, oxen, and goats.
grandma wasn’t crazy. the minute the japs and the puppet soldiers left, she removed thewooden lid from one of the wine vats and looked at her frightful, bloody reflection in themirrorlike surface. father watched the tears on her cheeks turn red. she washed her face in thewine, turning it red.
like the mules he was leading, uncle arhat was forced to work on the road that was takingshape in the sorghum field. the highway on the southern bank of the black water river wasnearly completed, and cars and trucks were driving up on the newly laid roadway with loads ofstone and yellow gravel, which they dumped on the riverbank. since there was only a singlewooden span across the river, the japanese had decided to build a large stone bridge. vast areasof sorghum on both sides of the highway had been levelled, until the ground seemed covered byan enormous green blanket. in the field north of the river, where black soil had been laid on eitherside of the road, dozens of horses and mules were pulling stone rollers to level two enormoussquares in the sea of sorghum. men led the animals back and forth through the field, tramplingthe tender stalks, which had been bent double by the shod hooves, then flattening them with stonerollers turned dark green by the plant juices. the pungent aroma of green sorghum hung heavilyover the construction site.
uncle arhat, who was sent to the southern bank of the river to haul rocks to the other side,reluctantly handed the mules over to an old geezer with festering eyes. the little wooden bridgeswayed so violently it seemed about to topple as he crossed to the southern bank, where achinese overseer tapped him on the head with a purplish rattan whip and said, ‘start luggingrocks to the other side.’ uncle arhat rubbed his eyes – the blood from his scalp wound hadsoaked his eyebrows. he picked up an average-sized rock and carried it to the other side, wherethe old geezer stood with the mules. ‘use them sparingly,’ he said. ‘they belong to the family iwork for.’ the old geezer lowered his head numbly, then turned and led the mules over to whereteams of animals were working on the connecting road. the shiny rumps of the black mulesreflected specks of sunlight. his head still bleeding, uncle arhat hunkered down, scooped upsome black dirt, and rubbed it on the wound. a dull, heavy pain travelled all the way down to histoes.
armed jap and puppet soldiers stood on the fringes of the construction site; the overseer, whipin hand, roamed the site like a spectre. the eyes of the frightened labourers rolled as theywatched uncle arhat, his head a mass of blood and mud, pick up a rock and take a couple ofsteps. suddenly he heard a crack behind him, followed by a drawn-out, stinging pain on his back.
he dropped the rock and looked at the grinning overseer. ‘your honour, if you have something tosay, say it. why hit me?’
without a word, the grinning overseer flicked his whip in the air and wrapped it around unclearhat’s waist, all but cutting him in half. two streams of hot, stinging tears oozed out of thecorners of uncle arhat’s eyes, and blood rushed to his head, which began to throb as though itmight split open.
‘your honour!’ uncle arhat protested.
his honour whipped him again.
‘your honour,’ uncle arhat said, ‘why are you hitting me?’
his honour flicked the whip and grinned until his eyes were mere slits: ‘just giving you a taste,you son of a bitch.’
uncle arhat choked off his sobs as his eyes pooled with tears. he bent over, picked up a largerock from the pile, and staggered with it towards the little bridge. the jagged edges dug deeplyinto his gut and his rib cage, but he didn’t feel the pain.
the overseer stood rooted to the spot, whip in hand, and uncle arhat trembled with fear as helugged the rock past his gaze. with the whip cutting into his neck he fell forward, landed on hisknees, and hugged the rock to his chest. it tore the skin on his hands and left a deep gash in hischin. stunned, he began to blubber like a baby; a purple tongue of flame licked out in theemptiness inside his skull.
he strained to pull his hands out from under the rock, stood up, and arched his back like athreatened, skinny old tomcat. just then a middle-aged man, grinning from ear to ear, walked up.
he took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held one up to the overseer, who parted his lipsto accept the offering, then waited for the man to light it for him.
‘revered one,’ the man said, ‘that stinking blockhead isn’t worth getting angry over.’
the overseer exhaled the smoke through his nose and said nothing. uncle arhat stared at thewhip in his twitching yellowed fingers.
the middle-aged man stuffed the pack of cigarettes into the pocket of the overseer, whoseemed not to notice; then, snorting lightly, he patted his pocket, turned, and walked away.
‘are you new here, elder brother?’ the man asked.
uncle arhat said he was.
‘you didn’t give him anything to grease the skids?’
‘those mad dogs dragged me here against my will.’
‘give him a little money or a pack of cigarettes. he doesn’t hit the hard workers, and hedoesn’t hit the slackers. the only ones he hits are those who have eyes but won’t see.’
all that morning, uncle arhat desperately lugged rocks, like a man without a soul. the scabon his scalp, baked by the sun, caused terrible pain as it dried and cracked. his hands were rawand bloody, and the stiffened gash on his chin made him drool. the purplish flame kept licking atthe inside of his skull – sometimes strong, sometimes weak, but never dying out completely.
at noon a brown truck drove up the barely negotiable road. dimly uncle arhat heard a shrillwhistle and watched the labourers stumble up to the truck. he sat mindlessly on the ground,showing no interest in the truck. the middle-aged man walked over and pulled him to his feet.
‘elder brother, come on, it’s mealtime. try some japanese rice.’
uncle arhat stood up and followed him.
large buckets of snowy white rice were handed down from the truck, along with a basket ofwhite ceramic bowls with blue floral patterns. a fat chinese stood next to the baskets, handingbowls to the men as they filed past. a skinny chinese stood beside the buckets, ladling rice. thelabourers stood around the truck, wolfing down their food, bare hands serving as chopsticks.
the overseer walked up, whip in hand, the enigmatic grin still on his face. the flame in unclearhat’s skull blazed, illuminating thoughts of the hard morning that he had tried to cast off.
armed japanese and puppet sentries walked up and stood around a galvanised-iron bucket to eattheir lunch. a guard dog with a long snout and trimmed ears sat behind the bucket, its tonguelolling as it watched the labourers.
uncle arhat counted the dozen or so japs and the dozen or so puppet soldiers standing aroundthe bucket eating their lunch; the word ‘escape’ flashed into his mind. escape! if he could makeit to the sorghum field, these fuckers wouldn’t be able to catch him. the soles of his feet were hotand sweaty; the moment the idea to flee entered his mind, he grew fidgety and anxious.
something was hidden behind the calm, cold grin on the face of the overseer. whatever it was, itmade uncle arhat’s thoughts grow muddled.
the fat chinese took the bowls from the labourers before they were finished. they licked theirlips and stared longingly at kernels of rice stuck to the sides of the buckets, but didn’t dare move.
a mule on the northern bank of the river brayed shrilly. uncle arhat recognised the familiarsound. tethered to rolling stones beside the newly ploughed roadbed, the listless mules nibbledstalks and leaves of sorghum that had been trampled into the earth.
that afternoon a man in his twenties darted into the sorghum field when he thought theoverseer wasn’t looking. a bullet followed his path of retreat. he lay motionless on the fringe ofthe field.
the brown truck drove up again as the sun was sinking in the west. uncle arhat’s digestivesystem, used to sorghum, was intent on ridding itself of this mildewy white rice, but he forced thefood past the knots in his throat. the thought of escape was stronger than ever; he longed to seehis own compound, where the pungent odour of wine pervaded the air, in that village a dozen orso li away. the distillery hands had all fled with the arrival of the japanese, and the wine cookernow stood cold. even more he longed to see my grandma and my father. he hadn’t forgotten thewarmth and contentment she had bestowed upon him alongside the pile of sorghum leaves.
after dinner the labourers were herded into an enclosure of fir stakes covered with tarpaulins.
wires the thickness of mung beans had been strung between the stakes, and the gate was made ofthick metal rods. the jap and puppet soldiers were billeted in separate tents several yards away;the guard dog was tethered to the flap of the jap tent. two lanterns hung from a tall post at theentrance of the enclosure, around which soldiers took turns at sentry duty. mules and horses weretethered to posts in a razed section of the sorghum field west of the enclosure.
the stench inside the enclosure was suffocating. some of the men snored loudly; others got upto piss in a tin pail, raising a noisy liquid tattoo, like pearls falling onto a jade plate. the lanternscast a pale light, under which the sentries’ long shadows flickered.
as the night stretched on, the cold became unbearable, and uncle arhat couldn’t sleep. withhis thoughts focused on escape, he lay there not daring to move; eventually he fell into a muddledsleep. in his dream his head felt as though it were being carved by a sharp knife, while his handfelt seared as if he clasped a branding iron. he awoke covered in sweat; his pants were soakedwith piss. the shrill crow of a rooster floated over from the distant village. the mules and horsespawed the ground and snorted. stars winked slyly through holes in the tattered tarpaulin abovehim.
the man who had come to his aid that day quietly sat up. even in the relative darkness of theenclosure, uncle arhat could see his blazing eyes, and could tell that he was no ordinary man. helay there, watching silently.
as the man knelt in the enclosure opening, he raised his arms slowly and deliberately. unclearhat’s eyes were riveted on his back and his head, around which hung an aura of mystery. theman took a deep breath, cocked his head, and thrust out his hands, like arrows from a bow, tograb two metal rods. a green glare shot from his eyes, and seemed to crackle when it struck anobject. the metal rods silently parted, admitting more light into the enclosure from the lanternsand overhead stars, and revealing the shoe of a sentry. uncle arhat saw a dark shadow dart out ofthe enclosure. the jap sentry grunted, then, in the man’s vicelike grip, crumpled to the ground.
the man picked up the jap’s rifle and slipped silently into the darkness.
it took uncle arhat a moment to realise what had happened. the middle-aged man had shownhim the way to escape! cautiously, he crawled out through the opening. the dead jap lay on theground, face up, one leg still twitching.
after crawling into the sorghum field, uncle arhat straightened up and followed the furrows,taking care not to bump the stalks and get them rustling. he found his way to the bank of theblack water river, where the three stars – rigel, betelgeuse, and bellatrix – hung directlyoverhead. a heavy predawn darkness had fallen around him. stars glistened in the water. as hestood briefly on the riverbank, he shivered from the cold, his teeth chattered, and the ache in hischin spread to his cheeks and ears, finally merging with the throbbing pain in his festering scalp.
the crisp air of freedom, filtered through the juices of the sorghum plants, entered his nostrils,his lungs, and his intestines. the ghostly light of the two lanterns shone weakly through the mist;the dark outline of the fir-stake enclosure was like an immense graveyard. astonished at havinggot away so easily, he strode onto the rickety wooden bridge, above splashing fish and ripplingwater, as a shooting star split the heavens. it was as though nothing had happened. he was free toreturn to his village to let his wounds mend and to go on living. but as he was crossing thebridge, he heard the plaintive braying of a mule on the southern bank. he turned back forgrandma’s mules. this decision would lead to a grand tragedy.
horses and mules had been tied to a dozen or more tethering posts not far from the enclosure,in an area saturated with their foul-smelling urine. the horses were snorting and eating sorghumstalks; the mules were gnawing on the tethering posts and shitting loose stool. uncle arhat,stumbling three times for every step, stole in among them, where he smelled the welcome odourof our two big black mules and spotted their familiar shapes. time to free his comrades insuffering. but the mules, strangers to the world of reason, greeted him with flying hooves.
‘black mules,’ uncle arhat mumbled, ‘black mules, we can run away together!’ the iratemules pawed the earth to protect their territory from their master, who was unaware that thesmell of his dried blood and new wounds had changed his identity to them. confused and upset,he stepped forward, and was knocked down by a flying hoof. as he lay on the ground, his sidestarted turning numb. the mule was still bucking and kicking, its steel-crescent shoes glintinglike little moons. uncle arhat’s hip swelled up painfully. he clambered to his feet, but fell back.
as soon as he hit the ground, he struggled back up. a thin-voiced rooster in the village crowedonce more, as the darkness began to give way to a glimmer of stars that illuminated the mules’
rumps and eyeballs.
‘damned beasts!’
with anger rising in his heart, he stumbled around the area looking for a weapon. at theconstruction site of an irrigation ditch he found a sharp metal hoe. now armed, he walked andcursed loudly, forgetting all about the men and their dog no more than a hundred paces distant.
he felt free – fear is all that stands in the way of freedom.
a red solar halo crumbled as the sun rose in the east, and in the predawn light the sorghum wasso still it seemed ready to burst. uncle arhat walked up to the mules, the rosy colour of dawn inhis eyes and bitter loathing in his heart. the mules stood calmly, motionlessly. uncle arhatraised his hoe, took aim on the hind leg of one of them, and swung with all his might. a coldshadow fell on the leg. the mule swayed sideways a couple of times, then straightened up, as abrutish, violent, stupefying, wrathful bray erupted from its head. the wounded animal thenarched its rump, sending a shower of hot blood splashing down on uncle arhat’s face. seeing anopening, he swung at the other hind leg. a sigh escaped from the black mule as its rump settledearthwards and it sat down hard, propped up by its forlegs, its neck jerked taut by the tether; itbleated to the blue-grey heavens through its gaping mouth. the hoe, pinned beneath its rump,jerked uncle arhat into a squatting position. mustering all his strength, he managed to pull itfree.
the second mule stood stupidly, eyeing its fallen comrade and braying piteously, as thoughpleading for its life. when uncle arhat approached, dragging his hoe behind him, the mulebacked up until the tether seemed about to part and the post began to make cracking sounds.
dark-blue rays of light flowed from its fist-sized eyeballs.
‘scared? you damned beast! where’s your arrogance now? you evil, ungrateful, parasiticbastard! you ass-kissing, treacherous son of a bitch!’
as he spat out wrathful obscenities, he raised his hoe and swung at the animal’s long,rectangular face. it missed, striking the tethering post. by twisting the handle up and down, backand forth, he finally managed to free the head from the wood. the mule struggled so violentlythat its rear legs arched like bows, its scrawny tail was noisily sweeping the ground. uncle arhattook careful aim at the animal’s face – crack – the hoe landed smack on its broad forehead,emitting a resounding clang as metal struck bone, the reverberation passing through the woodenhandle and stinging uncle arhat’s arms. not a sound emerged from the black mule’s closedmouth. its legs and hooves jerked and twitched furiously before it crashed to the ground like acapsized wall, snapping the tether in two, with one end hanging limply from the post and theother coiled beside the dead animal’s head. uncle arhat watched quietly, his arms at his sides.
the shiny wooden handle buried in the mule’s head pointed to heaven at a jaunty angle.
a barking dog, human shouts, dawn. the curved outline of a blood-red sun rose above thesorghum field to the east, its rays shining down on the black hole of uncle arhat’s open mouth.
