“Hurry it up,” Lu Liren ordered. “All the other units have been given quarters, so it’s time to head back, comrades, to soak your feet and drink some nice ginger tea.”
The soldiers piled out of the mill house as fast as they could and lined up on the water-soaked street. Several men who looked like cadres raised hurricane lanterns and began shouting orders. “Company Three, follow me!” Company Seven, follow me!”
The soldiers marched off behind lanterns, and were replaced by soldiers in palm-bark capes who walked up cradling tommy guns. Their squad leader saluted. “Commander,” he reported, “the security squad will stay behind to guard the prisoners.” Lu Liren returned the salute. “Guard them well. Don’t let any of them escape. I want a count first thing every morning. If I’m not mistaken,” he said, turning to the mill house with a smile, “my old friend Sima Ku is in there.”
“Fuck you and your ancestors!” Sima Ku cursed from behind a large millstone. “Jiang Liren, you despicable little runt, I’m right here!”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Lu Liren said with a laugh before rushing off and leaving the leader of the security squad standing in the lamplight. “I know that some of you have weapons hidden on you,” he said. “I’m in the light and you’re in the dark, which makes me an easy target. But I strongly advise you to put such ideas out of your head, since I am the only one you’ll hit. But” – here he made a sweeping motion with his hand at the dozen or so soldiers carrying tommy guns – “once those open fire, a lot more than one of you will fall. We treat our prisoners well. At daybreak tomorrow we’ll sort you out. Those willing to join us will be welcomed with open arms. Those who aren’t will be given money for the road and sent home.”
The only sound in the mill house was the splash of water. The squad leader ordered his men to close the rotting gate. Light from his lantern streamed in through the holes and cracks and landed on several puffy faces.
Once the soldiers had departed, space opened up in the mill house, so I groped my way toward the spot where I’d heard Sima Ku just a moment before. I stumbled over hot, trembling legs and heard lots of cadenced, tuneful moans. The massive mill house was the creation of Sima Ku and his brother Sima Ting. After it was built, not a single bag of flour was ever milled there, because the blades of the windmill were blown away by violent winds the first night, leaving behind a few slivers of wood that rattled the year round. The building was big enough to accommodate a circus. An even dozen millstones the size of small hills stood obstinately on the brick floor.
Two days before, I’d come there with Sima Liang to look around, because he had suggested to his father that he convert the place into a movie theater. I shivered the minute I set foot in the mill house. A pack of ferocious rats rushed us, filling the immense building with their squeaks; they stopped just before they reached us. One big white rat with red eyes hunkered down at the head of the pack, raised its front claws, so fine they seemed carved from jade, and stroked its snowy white whiskers. Its beady eyes flashed as dozens of black rats formed a semicircle behind it, eyeing us gleefully, ready to charge. Fearfully, I backed up, my scalp tightening, cold chills running up and down my spine. Sima Liang shielded me with his body, even though he only came up to my chin. First he bent over, then he got down on his haunches and glared at the white rat. Not backing down a bit, the rat stopped stroking its whiskers and sat like a dog, mouth and whiskers twitching. Neither Sima Liang nor the rat was going to budge. What were those rats, especially the white one, thinking? And what was running through the mind of Sima Liang, a boy given to making me unhappy, but someone I was growing ever closer to? Was this a staring contest? A battle of wills, like a needle and wheat spike trying to see which was sharper? If so, who was the needle and who was the wheat spike? I actually thought I heard the rat say, This is our turf, and you’re not welcome here. Then I heard Sima Liang say, This mill house belongs to the Sima family. My uncle and my father built it, so for me it’s like going home. This is my place. The white rat said, The strong man is king, the weak man a thief. Sima Liang countered with, A thousand pounds of rat is no match for eight pounds of tomcat. To which the white rat replied, You’re a boy, not a cat. I was in my last life, Sima Liang said, an eight-pound cat. How do you expect me to believe that? the white rat said. Sima Liang put both hands on the floor as his eyes slanted and a snarl split his mouth. Meow – meow – the shrill cry of a tomcat bounced off the mill house walls. Meow – meow – meeeow – the white rat, thrown into panicky confusion, fell back on all fours and was about to beat a hasty retreat when Sima Liang pounced and caught it in his hands. He squashed it before it had a chance to bite. The others fled in all directions. Me? Following Sima Liang’s lead, I took out after them, screeching like a cat. But they were gone before I knew it. Sima Liang laughed and turned back to look at me. My god! They really were cat’s eyes, giving off those devilish green lights. He tossed the dead white rat into the hole in the center of one of the millstones. We each grabbed one of the wooden handles and pushed with all our might; the thing refused to budge, so we gave up, and started prowling the mill house, moving from one millstone to the next, finding each of the others quite easy to turn.
“Little Uncle,” Sima Liang said, “let’s open our own mill.” I didn’t know what to say to that, since the only worthwhile things in my life were breasts and the milk they held. It was a glorious afternoon, with bright sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the sheet-metal roof and the lattice in the window and falling on the brick floor, which was a repository for rat and bat droppings; we spotted red-winged little bats hanging from the rafters, and another the size of a conical rain hat slipping through the air above them. Its squeaks sounded just right for its body, shrill and tapered, and made me shudder. Holes had been drilled in the centers of all the millstones, with China fir poles sticking up through the sheet-metal roof; the tips of the poles were the wheels on which the blades had once, and briefly, spun. Sima Ku and Sima Ting’s assumption was: so long as there’s wind, the blades will turn and the wheels will rotate, turning the China fir poles and the millstones below. But the Sima brothers’ ingenious concept had been foiled by reality.
As I moved among the millstones looking for Sima Liang, I spotted several rats scurrying up and down the poles. Someone was on top of one of the millstones, eyes blazing. I knew it was Sima Liang. He reached down and grabbed my hand with his icy claw. With his help, I stepped on the wooden handle and climbed up. It was wet, with gray water emerging from the hole.
“Remember that white rat, Little Uncle?” he asked with an air of mystery. I nodded in the darkness. “It’s right here,” he said softly. “I’m going to skin it and make earmuffs for Granny.” An anemic bolt of lightning knifed through the distant southern sky and threw some thin light into the mill house. I saw the dead rat in his hand. Its body was wet, its disgusting, skinny tail hung limp. “Throw it away,” I said. “Why should I?” he asked unhappily. “It’s disgusting. Don’t tell me it doesn’t disgust you.” In the silence that followed, I heard the dead rat drop back into the millstone hole. “What do you think, Little Uncle, what are they going to do to us?” he asked dejectedly. Yes, what were they going to do to us? The splash of water beyond the gate signaled a change of the guard. The new guards were snorting like horses. “It’s cold,” one of them complained. “It doesn’t feel like August here. Do you think the water’s going to freeze?” “Don’t be silly,” another replied.
“Do you wish you were home, Little Uncle?” Sima Liang asked. The toasty brick bed, Mother’s warm embrace, the nighttime wanderings of Big Mute and Little Mute, crickets in the oven platform, sweet goat’s milk, the creaking of Mother’s joints and her deep coughs, the silly laughter of First Sister out in the yard, the soft feathers of night owls, the sound of snakes catching mice behind the storeroom… how could I not with that? I sniffled. “Let’s run away, Little Uncle,” he said. “How can we, with guards at the door?” I said softly. He grabbed my arm. “See this fir pole?” he said as he laid my hand on the pole that went all the way up to the roof. It was wet. “We can shinny up, make a hole in the sheet-metal roof, and wriggle out.” “What then?” I asked, unconvinced. “We jump to the ground,” he said. “After that, we go home.” I tried to picture us standing on the rusty, clattery sheet-metal roof, and felt my knees begin to knock. “It’s too high,” I muttered. “We’d break a leg jumping down from there.” “Don’t worry about it, Little Uncle, leave everything to me. I jumped down off this roof once this spring. There’s a bunch of lilac bushes under the eaves. Their springy branches will break our fall.” I looked up at the spot where the pole met the sheet metal; rays of gray light shone through; bright water slithered down the pole. “It’ll be light soon, Little Uncle. Let’s go,” he urged anxiously. What could I do? I nodded.