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dressed in mourning clothes, father stood facing southwest on a high bench and thumped thewaxwood butt of his rifle on the ground as he shouted: ‘mother – mother – head southwest – abroad highway – a long treasure boat – a fleet-footed steed – lots of travelling money – mother –rest in sweetness – buy off your pain –’
the funeral master had ordered him to sing this send-off song three times, since only a lovedone’s calls can guide the spirit to the southwestern paradise. but he got through it only oncebefore choking on hot, sour tears of grief. another long-drawn-out ‘mom’ escaped from his lips,fanned out, and glided unsteadily in the air like a scarlet butterfly, its wings carrying it to thesouthwest, where the wilderness was broad and the airstream swirled, and where the brightsunlight raised a white screen over the black water river. powerless to scale the translucentscreen, the wisp of ‘mom’ turned and headed east after a momentary hesitation, despite father’sdesire to send her to the southwestern paradise. but grandma didn’t want to go there. instead shefollowed the meandering dike, taking fistcakes to granddad’s troops, turning her head back fromtime to time to signal her son, my father, with her golden eyes.
twenty days earlier, father had gone with granddad to dig up grandma’s grave. it wasdefinitely not a good day for swallows, for a dozen sodden clouds, like torn cotton wadding, hungin the low sky, reeking like rotting fish and spoiled shrimp. an ill wind carried a stream ofsinister air down the black water river, along whose banks the corpses of dogs shattered bymuskmelon grenades during the battle with humans the previous winter lay decomposing amidthe sallow water grass; swallows migrating north from hainan island flew across the river withdread, as frogs below began their mating ritual, gaunt bodies caught up in the passions of lovefollowing a winter of hibernation.
father stood with granddad and nineteen iron society soldiers, all carrying hoes and pickaxes,at the head of grandma’s grave. golden flowers of bitterweed, the first of the year, dotted thefaded black earth of the column of mounds.
three minutes of silence.
‘douguan, you’re sure this is the one?’ granddad asked.
‘it’s this one,’ father replied. ‘i could never forget.’
‘okay,’ granddad said. ‘start digging!’
the iron society soldiers raised their tools, but were reluctant to start. so granddad took apickaxe from one of them, aimed at the mound, which arched up like a woman’s breast, andswung with all his might, to bury the tool in the soil with a heavy thud. he then pulled it towardshim, scooping out a chunk of the black earth.
father’s heart knotted up as the pickaxe split the grave mound, and at that instant heexperienced fear and loathing for granddad’s ruthlessness.
‘dig it up,’ granddad said feebly.
forming a ring around grandma’s grave, the soldiers began to chop and dig, levelling themound in no time. father’s thoughts returned to the night of the ninth day of the eighth lunarmonth, 1939, when they had buried grandma. fires raging on the bridge and torches ringing herbody had illuminated her dead face, nearly bringing it back to life, before it was swallowed up bythe black earth. now the likeness was being dug up again, and father grew tense as the layerswere pared away, until he thought he saw grandma’s smile as she kissed death through the earthseparating them.
the iron society soldiers stopped digging when the final layer of soil covering the sorghumwas removed and cast pleading looks at granddad and father, who saw their noses twitch as theoverpowering stench of decay rose from the grave. to father, who breathed in greedily, it wasthe odour of the milk he’d suckled at grandma’s breast.
‘clear it away!’ granddad ordered, his black eyes devoid of pity. ‘clear it away!’
reluctantly they bent down and began pulling the sorghum out of the grave. transparent dropsof water oozed from the naked stalks, turned by decay into the glossy red of moist jade.
deeper and deeper they went, the stench growing stronger. but to father it was the rich aromaof sorghum wine, intoxicating, dizzying. he wanted to see grandma as soon as possible, but theprospect also frightened him. the sorghum covering grew ever thinner, yet he felt the distancebetween him and grandma increase. the final layer of stalks suddenly rustled loudly, wrenchingshouts of alarm from some of the soldiers and striking others dumb with fear. their faces wereashen, and only granddad’s insistence gave them the courage to peek down into the grave.
father watched as four brown field voles scrambled up the sides of the unearthed grave, whilea fifth one, pure white, squatted on a supremely beautiful sorghum stalk in the middle of thegrave. everyone stared at the brown voles as they scampered away; meanwhile, the white oneperched haughtily without stirring, staring back with its tiny, jet-black eyes. father picked up aclod of earth and hurled it into the grave. the vole sprang two feet into the air, fell back, andscurried madly around the edges. with loathing swelling their insides, the soldiers rained clods ofearth down on the white vole until it lay smashed in the middle of the grave.
according to father, grandma emerged from the resplendent, aromatic grave as lovely as aflower, as in a fairy tale. but the faces of the iron society soldiers contorted whenever theydescribed in gory detail the hideous shape of her corpse and the suffocating stench issuing fromthe grave. father called them liars. his senses were particularly keen at the time, he recalled, andas the last few stalks were removed, grandma’s sweet, beautiful smile made the area crackle asthough swept by a raging fire. his only regret was how fleeting the moment had been. for, whengrandma’s body was lifted out of the grave, her lustrous beauty and delicate fragrance turnedinto a mist and floated gently away, leaving behind only a white skeleton.
after lifting the body out of the grave, the soldiers ran down to the bank of the black waterriver and vomited dark-green bile into the dark-green water. granddad spread out a piece ofwhite cloth and told father to help him lift grandma’s skeleton onto it. infected by the sound ofvomiting in the river, father felt a spasm in his neck, and hacking sounds erupted from his throat.
he hated the thought of touching the pale-white bones.
‘douguan,’ granddad said, ‘you don’t think your own mom’s bones are too dirty to touch, doyou? not you!’
moved by the rare tragic look on granddad’s face, father bent down and tentatively reachedout to touch grandma’s pale leg bone, which was so icy it froze his guts. granddad tried to liftthe skeleton by the shoulder blades, but it disintegrated and landed in a heap on the ground. apair of red ants crawled in the sockets that had once been home to grandma’s limpid eyes, theirantennae vibrating. father threw down grandma’s leg bone, turned tail, and ran, filling the airwith howls of grief.
