The sun poked its face out from behind a cloud, bestowing upon the maturing wheat plants a resplendent glow and causing the wind to change direction, which created a momentary stillness that put waves of wheat to sleep, or to death. A golden platter, seemingly extending all the way to the horizon, rose under the sun. Spikes on the ripe wheat were like tiny golden needles that set the world aglitter. The horse cart turned onto a narrow path in the middle of the field, forcing the driver to thread his way between two rows of wheat stalks. The lead horses, one apricot yellow, the other leek green, could not negotiate the path side by side, so either the yellow horse had to walk amid the wheat stalks or the green horse was forced to plod through the layer of gold. Like pouting little boys, one would push the other off the path, only to be pushed right back. And so the cart slowed, which sent the crows into a frenzy. Dozens of them landed on the heads of corpses and began pecking away, their wings drooping. “Old Titmouse” had his hands too full to worry about the birds. The crop that year was sure to be a good one, since the stalks were thick, the tassels full, and the kernels plump. Wheat spikes brushing against the horses’ bellies and scraping against the cart and its tires produced a skin-tingling scratchy sound. Dogs poked their heads out from between stalks, eyes shut to protect them from the spikes. Tracking the cart was easy; they just followed their noses.
Our procession thinned out and grew longer once we were in the wheat field. No one was wailing any longer, not even sobbing softly. Every once in a while a child would stumble and fall, and someone, usually a family member, would reach out a friendly hand and help him to his feet. In the midst of this solemn unity, children refused to cry even with a split lip. Silence reigned, but it was a tense, uneasy silence. The passing cart and mad dogs startled partridges in the field, sending them flapping into the air only to settle once again into a sea of gold. Wheat snakes, those poisonous red vipers unique to Northeast Gaomi, slithered among the wheat like lightning bolts, causing the horses to shudder; dogs crept along the ruts, not daring to look up. The sun was partially hidden behind dark clouds, the revealed half sending down scorching rays of light. Cloud shadows seemed to fly above the wheat field, momentarily extinguishing the golden flames that engulfed the sunlit stalks. As the wind changed direction, millions of spiked tassels set up wind currents; kernels of wheat, their voices hushed, relayed their frightful news.
At first, warm gusts of wind from the northeast brushed the tips of the stalks, shaped by the tassels through which they passed, and opened up tiny gurgling currents amid the tranquil sea of wheat. Then the wind picked up in intensity, cleaving its way through the wheat stalks. The red banner carried by a man up front began to flutter; clouds overhead rumbled. A golden serpent writhed in the northeastern sky, which was dyed blood red; peals of thunder rolled earthward. Another momentary hush, during which hawks circling high above wheeled toward the field and disappeared among the stalks of wheat. Crows, on the other hand, exploded skyward, trailing loud caws behind them. The storm burst, sending the wheat reeling, some of the stalks swerving from north to west and others from east to south. Long, flowing waves pushing and being pushed by short, choppy ones formed a yellow whirlpool. It looked as if the sea of wheat was boiling over a vast cauldron. Crows scattered. Pale, flimsy raindrops brought with them hailstones the size of apricot pits. Chilled air immediately cut to the bone. The hailstones pelted the wheat tassels and spikes, the horses’ rumps and ears, the exposed bellies of the dead and the bare scalps of the living. An occasional crow, its head cracked by a hailstone, fell like a stone right in front of us.
Mother held me tightly, shielding my fragile head by burying it in the warm valley between her ample breasts. She had left Eighth Sister, a superfluous human being from the moment she was born, on the kang to accompany the now mindless Shangguan Lü, who crawled into the western side room and gobbled down handfuls of donkey turds.
My sisters took off their shirts and covered their heads with them. All except Laidi, since the little green apples that were her girlish breasts showed beneath her shirt; she covered her head with her hands, but got soaked anyway. The wind plastered her shirt up against her body.
Finally, our exhausting trudging brought us to the public cemetery, ten acres of open land surrounded by wheat fields. Rotting wooden markers stood at dozens of overgrown grave mounds.
The rainsquall passed and splintered clouds skittered out of sight, giving way to a dazzling blue sky and blistering sunlight. Steam rose from the melting hailstones. Some of the damaged wheat stalks straightened up; others would never stand erect again. Cold winds abruptly turned hot, warming the ripening kernels of wheat, which were turning bright yellow.
As we massed at the edge of the cemetery, we watched our town head, Sima Ting, pace the area, scattering locusts with each step, their soft green outer wings revealing the pink wings beneath. He stopped beside a wild chrysanthemum bush, covered with little yellow blooms. Stomping on the ground, he called out: “Right here, here’s where I want you to dig.”
Seven swarthy men with spades over their shoulders walked up listlessly, casting looks back and forth, as if wanting to commit all the other faces to memory. Finally, they turned to look at Sima Ting. “What are you gawking at me for?” Sima bellowed. “Dig!” He tossed away his gong and mallet. The gong landed in a clump of white-tasseled weeds, where it startled a lizard; the mallet landed atop some dogweed. Grabbing one of the spades, he jammed the blade into the ground and stomped down with his foot, listing slightly to the side as the spade bit deeply into the earth. Straining mightily, he lifted up a spadeful of earth and grass and turned ninety degrees, holding the spade out in front of him. He then spun a hundred-eighty degrees and, with a loud grunt, sent the dirt flying, tumbling in the air like a dead rooster and landing in a clump of yellow dandelions. Handing the spade back to its owner, he said, somewhat breathlessly: “Now dig. I’m sure you can smell the stench by now.”
The men began to dig, sending dirt flying. Slowly, a ditch took shape, deeper and deeper.
By then it was noon. The sun turned the earth a shimmering white; the stench from the cart grew stronger, and even though we were upwind, the gut-wrenching odor followed us. Then the crows returned. Their wings were bathed a shiny blue-black. Sima Ting retrieved his gong and mallet and, braving the stench, ran up to the cart. “You feathered bastards, let’s see which of you has the guts to come down here! I’ll tear you limb from limb!” He banged his gong and began jumping around, shouting curses into the air. Crows circled a good fifty feet above the cart, their caws tumbling earthward along with droppings and worn-out feathers. “Old Titmouse” picked up the red-bannered staff and shook it at the crows, which separated into groups that went into steep, screeching dives, circling the heads of Sima Ting and “Old Titmouse,” with their tiny oval eyes, powerful stiff wings, and hideously filthy talons. The men fought them off, but the unyielding beaks kept finding their mark. So the men used the gong and mallet and the staff as weapons, increasing the sounds of battle. Wounded crows folded their wings and thudded into the velvet grass amid the white flowers, then limped off into the field, dragging their wings behind them. Mad dogs hidden among the stalks were on them like a shot, quickly tearing them to pieces. In no time, sticky feathers littered the ground, while the dogs retreated to the edge of the field to crouch in readiness, panting noisily, scarlet tongues lolling to the sides of their mouths. Some of the uninjured crows kept up their assault on Sima Ting and “Old Titmouse,” but the bulk of their force attacked the cart – noisily, excitedly, repulsively – their necks like springs, their beaks like awls, as they feasted on delicious human carrion, a demonic feast. Sima Ting and “Old Titmouse” fell to the ground, exhausted, runnels of sweat cobwebbed on their dusty exposed faces.