“Well, Commander Sima,” the man said, “we’ll take good care of you as long as you cooperate. The last thing we want is to carry your corpse back.”
With a laugh, Sima said, “I wouldn’t dare do anything. You escorts are crack shots, and I’m not about to present myself as a human target.”
“That’s what I’d expect you to say. Okay, then, Commander Lu, that’ll do it. After you, Commander Sima.” Sima Ku boarded the raft and sat down.
The leader of the escort team shook hands with Lu Liren again, turned, and jumped aboard. He sat at the rear, facing Sima Ku, his hand resting on his holstered pistol. “You don’t have to be that cautious,” Sima said. “My hands are tied, so if I jumped overboard, I’d drown. Sit up closer so you can help out if the raft starts to rock.”
Ignoring Sima, in a soft voice the man said to the soldiers manning the oars, “Start rowing, and make it quick.”
All the members of our family stood together on the bank, knowing something the others didn’t know. We waited to see what would happen.
The raft eased out into the river and floated off. The two soldiers sped across the dike, gradually letting out the ropes wrapped around their arms. When the raft reached the middle of the river, it picked up speed, sending waves toward the banks. Zunlong, slightly hoarse by now, called out the cadence, as the soldiers bent to their oars. Gulls followed the raft, flying low. Where the water flowed the fastest, the raft began to rock violently, and Zunlong flipped over backward, right into the river. The leader of the escort team jumped fearfully to his feet and was about to draw his pistol when Sima Ku, having snapped his bindings to free his hands, threw himself at the man like a hungry tiger, sending both of them into the raging water. The mute and the other oarsmen panicked. One by one, they too fell into the river. The soldiers on the dike let go of their ropes, freeing the raft, which went sailing downstream like a big, black fish, tossed by the waves.
All this seemed to occur simultaneously, and by the time Lu Liren and his soldiers realized what had happened, there was no one left to man the raft.
“Shoot him!” Lu Liren demanded.
A head popped up out of the murky water every few moments, but the soldiers couldn’t be sure it was Sima Ku, and didn’t dare fire. Altogether nine men were in the water, which meant there was a one-in-nine chance that the exposed head belonged to Sima Ku. Besides, the river was tearing along like a runaway horse, so even if they fired, the odds of hitting their target were slim.
Sima Ku had gotten away. Having grown up on the banks of the Flood Dragon River, he was a practiced swimmer who could stay underwater for five minutes before coming up for air. Besides, all those flatcakes and scallions had given him plenty of energy.
Lu Liren was livid. A cold glint emanated from his dark eyes as his gaze swept past us. Sima Liang, still holding the bowl of bean paste, huddled up against Mother’s legs, pretending to be scared witless. Cradling Shengli in her arms, Mother walked wordlessly down the dike, with the rest of us on her heels.
Several days later, we heard that only the mute and Zunlong had managed to make it back to dry ground. The rest, including the boastful leader of the escort team, simply vanished, and their bodies were never found. But no one doubted that Sima Ku had gotten away safely.
We were, however, more concerned about the fate of Sixth Sister, Niandi, and her American husband, Babbitt. During those days, as the flooded river continued to roar along, Mother went outside every night to pace the yard and sigh, the sound seeming to drown out even the roar of the river. Mother had given birth to eight daughters: Laidi had gone mad, Zhaodi and Lingdi were dead, Xiangdi had gone into prostitution and might as well be dead; Pandi had taken up with Lu Liren and, with bullets constantly flying around her, could die in a minute; Qiudi had been sold to a White Russian, which wasn’t much better than being dead. Only Yunii remained at her side, but, unhappily, she was blind. Maybe her blindness was the only reason she remained at Mother’s side. Now, if something were to happen to Niandi, nearly all the eight young beauties of the Shangguan family would be nothing but a memory. So amid Mother’s sighs, we heard her utter loud prayers:
Old Man in Heaven, Dear Lord, Blessed Virgin Mary, Guanyin Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea, please protect our Niandi and all the children. Place all the heavenly and worldly miseries, pains, and illnesses on my head. So long as my children are well and safe…”
A month later, after the waters had receded, news of Sixth Sister and Babbitt came to us from the opposite bank of the Flood Dragon River: There had been a horrific explosion in a secret cave deep in Da’ze Mountain. Once the dust had settled, people entered the cave and found three bodies huddled together, two women and a man. The man was a young blond foreigner. Although no one was prepared to say that one of the women was our sixth sister, when Mother heard the news, a bitter smile spread across her face. “It’s all my fault,” she said, before breaking into loud wails.
In the late fall, Northeast Gaomi’s most beautiful season, the flood had finally passed. The sorghum fields were so red they seemed black, and reeds, which grew in profusion, were so white they seemed yellow. The early-morning sun lit up the vast fields that were covered by the first frost of the year. Soldiers of the 16th Regiment moved out silently, taking with them their herds of horses and mules; after tramping across the badly damaged footbridge above the Flood Dragon River, they disappeared over the dike on the northern bank, and we saw no more of them.
Once the 16th Regiment had departed, their commander, Lu Liren, took up the newly created posts of Northeast Gaomi county head and commander of the county militia. Pandi was appointed commander of the Dalan Army District, with the mute serving as its district team leader. His first assignment was to remove everything from the Sima mansion – tables, chairs, stools, water vats, jugs, everything – and distribute it among the local villagers. But that very night, everything found its way back to the mansion gate. Next the mute delivered a carved bed frame to our front yard. “I don’t want that,” Mother said. “Take it away!” “Strip! Strip!” the mute said. So Mother turned to Commander Pandi, who was darning socks at the time, and said, “Pandi, get this bed out of here.” “Mother,” Pandi said, “it’s a trend of the times, so don’t fight it.” “Pandi,” Mother said, “Sima Ku is your second brother-in-law. His son and daughter are here in my care. What will he think when he returns one day?” Pandi put down her darning, picked up her rifle, slung it over her back, and ran outside. Sima Liang followed her out the door; when he returned, he said, “Fifth Aunt’s gone to the county government office.” He added that a two-man sedan chair had brought a VIP, with eighteen armed bodyguards, to the office. County Head Lu welcomed him with all the courtesies of a student greeting his mentor. Word had it that he was a famous land reformer, who was reputed to have come up with a slogan in Shandong’s Northern Wei area: “Killing a rich peasant is better than killing a wild rabbit.”
The mute sent men over to take the bed away. Mother sighed in relief.
“Granny,” Sima Liang said, “let’s get away from here. I think something bad is going to happen.”
“Good luck is always good,” Mother said, “and you cannot escape bad luck. Don’t worry, Liang, even if the man above sent Heavenly Generals and Celestial Troops down to Earth, what more could they do to a bunch of widows and orphans?”
The VIP never appeared in public. Two armed sentries stood at the Sima mansion gate, where county officials with rifles slung over their backs shuttled in and out. One day, after taking our goats out to pasture, we met the mute’s district team and several county and military officials on our way home. They were walking down the street with Huang Tianfu, the coffin shop proprietor, Zhao Six, the steamed bun vendor, Xu Bao, who ran the cooking oil extracting mill, single-breasted Jin, who owned the oil shop, and the local academy teacher, Qin Two, in custody. The distressed prisoners walked with hunched shoulders and bent backs. “Men,” Zhao Six said, screwing his neck around, “what are you doing this for? I’ll forget what you owe me for the steamed buns, how’s that?” One of the officers, a man with a Mount Wulian accent and a mouthful of brass-capped teeth, slapped Zhao. “You prick!” he screeched. “Who owes you anything? Where did your money come from?” The prisoners did not dare say another word as they shuffled along with bowed heads.