8
On the day of the evacuation, shouting and bawling residents of Northeast Gaomi Township’s eighteen villages led their livestock, carried their chickens, supported their elders, and carried their very young up to the alkaline soil and weed-covered northern bank of the Flood Dragon River, their nerves on edge. The ground was covered with a layer of white alkali, like a coat of frost that wouldn’t melt. The leaves of grasses and reeds unaffected by the alkali were yellow, their cottony tassels waving and fluttering in the cold winds. Crows, always attracted by commotions below, wheeled and filled the sky with the ear-shattering noise of poets-Aahl Wahl Lu Liren, now demoted to deputy head of the county, stood before the stone sacrificial table of the huge crypt of a Qing dynasty scholar, shouting himself hoarse as he addressed the people mobilized to evacuate the area: “Now that bitter winter has settled in, Northeast Gaomi Township is about to turn into a vast battlefield, and not to evacuate is suicide.” Branches of the black pines were packed with crows, some of which even perched on the stone men and horses. Ahh! They cawed. Wahl The sounds not only infected the tone of Lu Liren’s speech, but increased the people’s sense of dread and solidified their determination to flee from danger.
With the firing of a gun, the evacuation got underway. The dark mass of people moved out with a clamor. Donkeys brayed and cows lowed, chickens flapped into the air and dogs leaped, old ladies cried and children whooped, all at once. A skilled young officer on a white pony raised a red flag that hung dejectedly from the staff and rode back and forth across the bumpy, alkali-covered road leading to the northeast. Leading the procession was a contingent of mules carrying county government files, dozens of them plodding ahead listlessly under the watchful eyes of young soldiers. Behind them came a camel left over from Sima Ku’s time. It carried a pair of metal boxes atop the long, dirty fur of its hump. It had spent so many years in Northeast Gaomi that it was more oxen than camel. Behind it came a dozen or so porters transporting the county printing press and a lathe for the production team repair shop. They were all swarthy, robust young men wearing thin shirts with padded shoulders, shaped like lotus leaves. From the way they swayed as they walked, their brows furrowed and their mouths open, it was easy to see how heavy their loads were. Bringing up the rear was the chaotic mass of locals.
Lu Liren, Pandi, and a host of county and district officials rode up and down the roadside on their mules and horses, trying their best to bring order to the mass evacuation. But the people were shoulder to shoulder on the narrow road, while more spacious roadsides beckoned. More and more of them left the road for the sides, as the route grew wider and wider. The expanded procession tramped noisily heading northeast. It was pandemonium.
We were carried along by the crowd, sometimes on the road, sometimes not; there were times we didn’t know if we were on the road or not. Mother had draped a hemp strap around her neck and was pushing a cart with wooden wheels; the handles were so far apart she was forced to spread her arms out. A pair of rectangular baskets hung from the sides of the cart. The basket on the left carried Lu Shengli and our quilts and clothing. Big Mute and Little Mute were in the basket on the right. Sha Zaohua and I, both carrying baskets, walked alongside the cart, one on each side. Blind little Eighth Sister held on to Mother’s coat and stumbled along behind her. Laidi, vacillating between clarity and confusion, walked ahead, leaning forward as she pulled the family cart with a strap over her shoulder, like a willing oxen. The sound of the creaking wheels grated on our ears. The three little ones in the cart kept looking at all the commotion around them. I could hear the crunching of my feet on the alkali ground and could smell its pungent odor. At first it seemed like fun, but after a few miles, my legs began to ache and my head grew heavy; my strength was ebbing and sweat dripped from my underarms. My little white milk goat, which was strong as an ox, trotted respectfully behind me. She knew what we were doing, so there was no need to tether her.
Strong winds from the north sliced painfully into our ears that day. Little clouds of white dust jumped up in the boundless wilderness all around us. Formed of alkali, salt, and saltpeter, the dust stung our eyes, burned our skin, and fouled our mouths. People forged ahead into the wind, their eyes mere slits. The porters’ shirts were sweat-soaked and covered with alkali, turning them white from head to toe. Once we entered the marshy lowland, keeping the cart’s wheels turning became a real problem. First Sister struggled mightily, the strap digging deeply into her shoulder. Her labored breathing was like a death rattle. And Mother? Tears flowed from her melancholy eyes, merging with the sweat on her face and creating a patchwork of purple ravines. Eighth Sister hung on to Mother, rolling around like a heavy bundle as our cart dug ruts in the road. But they were quickly trampled and torn up by carts, pack animals, and the people behind us. There were refugees everywhere, a great mass of faces – some familiar, others not. The going was treacherous – for the people, for the horses, and for the donkeys. The only ones having a relatively easy time were the chickens in old women’s arms and my goat, which pranced along, even stopping from time to time to nibble on the dead leaves of reeds.
The sunlight raised a painful glare on the alkali ground cover, so bright we had to close our eyes. The glare shimmered along the ground like quicksilver. Wilderness that spread out before us seemed like the legendary Northern Sea.
At noon, as if in the grips of an epidemic, the people began sitting down in groups without being told to do so. Deprived of water, their throats were smoky and their tongues were so thick and brackish they no longer functioned properly. Hot air spurted from their nostrils, but their backs and bellies were cold; the northern winds tore through sweaty clothes, turning them hard and stiff.
As she sat on a cart handle, Mother reached into one of the baskets and took out some windblown steamed buns, which she broke into pieces and handed to us. First Sister took a single bite and her lip split, oozing blood that stained the bun. The little ones in the cart, with their dusty faces and dirty hands, looked to be seven parts temple demon and three parts human. Hanging their heads, they refused the food. Eighth Sister nibbled on one of the dry buns with her dainty white teeth. “For all this you can thank your daddies and mommies,”
Mother said with a sigh. “Let’s go home, Grandma,” Sha Zaohua pleaded. Without answering, Mother looked up at the crowds of people on the hill and sighed once more. Then she looked at me. “Jintong,” she said, “you’re going to start eating differently from today on.” She reached into her bundle and took out an enamel mug stamped with a red star. Then she walked over to my goat, bent down, and cleaned the dirt off of one of its teats. When the goat balked, Mother told me to hold it. After wrapping my arms around its cold head, I watched her squeeze the animal’s teat until a white liquid began dripping into the mug. I could tell that the goat was not comfortable, for it was used to having me lie down and drink directly from its teats. It kept moving its head and arching its back like a cobra. All this time, Mother muttered a terrifying phrase over and over: “Jintong, when will you start eating regular food?” In days past, I’d tried a variety of foods, but even the best of them gave me a stomachache, after which I’d start vomiting until all that came up was a yellow liquid. I looked at Mother with shame in my eyes and launched a severe self-criticism. Because of my eccentric behavior, I’d brought Mother, not to mention myself, no end of trouble. Sima Liang had once promised to cure me of this eccentricity, but he hadn’t shown his face from the day he’d run away. His cunning little face flashed before my eyes. The lights that emanated from the gunmetal blue bullet holes in the foreheads of Sima Feng and Sima Huang made my skin crawl. I conjured up the sight of them lying side by side in their tiny willow coffins. Mother had pasted little red pieces of paper over the holes, turning bullet holes into little beauty marks. After filling the mug half full, Mother stood up and found the milk bottle the female soldier named Tang had given her for Sha Zaohua years earlier. She twisted off the top and poured the milk in, then handed me the bottle and watched me eagerly and somewhat apologetically. Although I hesitated before accepting the bottle, I didn’t want to let Mother down, and at the same time wanted to take my first step toward freedom and happiness. So I stuck the yolk-colored rubber nipple into my mouth. Naturally, it couldn’t compare with the real things on the tips of Mother’s breasts – hers were love, hers were poetry, hers were the highest realm of heaven and the rich soil under golden waves of wheat – nor could it compare with the large, swollen, speckled teats of my milk goat – hers were tumultuous life, hers were surging passion. This was a lifeless object; though it was slippery, it wasn’t moist. But what I found downright scary was that it had no taste. The mucous membranes of my mouth felt cold and greasy. But for Mother’s sake, and for my own, I forced back the feelings of disgust and bit down on it. It spoke to me as a stream of milk, tinged with the acrid taste of alkaline soil, squirted awkwardly over my tongue and up against the walls of my mouth. I took another mouthful and reminded myself, This is for Mother. Another mouthful. This is for Shangguan Jintong. I kept taking in mouthfuls and swallowing them. This is for Shangguan Laidi, for Shangguan Zhaodi, for Shangguan Niandi, for Shangguan Lingdi, for Shangguan Xiangdi, for all the Shangguans who have loved me, cared for me, and helped me, and for that lively little imp, Sima Liang, who hasn’t a drop of Shangguan blood flowing through his veins. I held my breath and, with this new tool, took the life-sustaining liquid into my body. Mother’s face was bathed in tears when I handed the bottle back to her. Laidi laughed gleefully. “Little Uncle’s grown up,” Sha Zaohua said. Forcing myself to endure the spasms in my throat and the secret pain in my gut, I took several steps forward, as if everything were perfectly all right, and pissed with the wind, spiritedly trying to see how high and how far I could send the stream of golden yellow liquid. I saw the bank of the Flood Dragon River laid out not far from where I stood; and there, vaguely, were the steeple of our village church and the towering poplar in the yard of Fan the Fourth. After traveling all morning, we’d managed such a pitifully short distance.