THREE Dog Ways
1
THE GLORIOUS HISTORY of man is filled with legends of dogs and memories of dogs: despicabledogs, respectable dogs, fearful dogs, pitiful dogs. When Granddad and Father wavered at one oflife’s crossroads, hundreds of dogs under the leadership of the three from our family – Blackie,Green, and Red – clawed out pale paths in the earth near the sorghum field south of our village,where the massacre of our people had occurred. By that time, our dogs were nearly fifteen yearsold, a time of youth for humans, but an advanced age for dogs, an age of confidence.
That massacre on the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival in 1939 decimated our village andturned hundreds of dogs into homeless strays. Drawn to the stench of human blood and gore, theywere easy targets for Granddad and Father, who lay in wait at the bridgehead over the BlackWater River. Granddad’s pistol barked loudly as it emitted puffs of scalding smoke, its barrelturning dark red under the autumn moon, which was as white and cold as frost. Father’s intenselonging for Grandma during lulls in his pitched battle with the crazed, corpse-eating dogs makesme feel lost when I think of it, lost like a homeless stray.
In the aftermath of the slaughter of the townspeople, the sorghum field was covered by pristinemoonlight, bleak, quiet, and still. Fires roared in the village, the tongues of flame franticallylicking the low sky and snapping like flags in a strong wind. Only three hours earlier, Japanesesoldiers and their Chinese puppet troops had cut a swath through the village and torched thehouses before leaving through the northern gate. Now Granddad’s right arm, wounded a weekbefore, was festering and oozing pus, hanging useless like a piece of dead meat. As Father helpedhim bandage the wound, Granddad threw his over-heated pistol onto the moist black earth of thesorghum field, where it sizzled. Once his wound was tended, he sat down and listened to thesnorts and whinnies of Japanese warhorses and the whirlwind of pounding hooves galloping outof the village to form up ranks. The sounds were swallowed up by the field, along with the braysof pack mules and the footsteps of exhausted soldiers.
Father stood beside the seated figure of Granddad, and strained to get a fix on the hoofbeats ofthe horses. Earlier that afternoon, the Japanese cavalry, tormented by Granddad’s and Father’ssniper fire, had abandoned their assault on the village’s stubborn defences to rake through thesorghum field. Father had nearly died of fright when a huge, fiery-red beast bore down on himuntil all he could see was a hoof as big as a plate coming straight at his head, the arc of thehorseshoe flashing like lightning. He screamed for his dad, then covered his head and hunkereddown among the sorghum stalks. A muddle of foul-smelling sweat and urine splashed down asthe horse passed over him, a stench he didn’t think he’d ever be able to wash off.
He remembered Grandma, seven days earlier, as she lay face up, with sorghum seeds andgrains scattered over her face. Her pearly- white teeth shone between blood- drained lips,ornamented by the diamondlike grains.
The charging horse turned with difficulty and headed back, stalks of sorghum strugglingbitterly against its rump, some bending and breaking, others snapping back into place. Theyshivered in the autumn winds like victims of malaria. Father saw the flared nostrils and fleshylips of the panting warhorse; bloody froth sprayed from between its gleaming white teeth anddripped from its greedy lower lip. Clouds of white dust from the agitated sorghum stung itswatery eyes. Seated atop the sleek warhorse was an awesome young Japanese cavalryman whosehead, encased in a little square cap, barely cleared the tops of the stalks around him. The ears ofgrain whipped, pushed, and pricked him mercilessly, even mocked him. He squinted his eyeswith loathing and repugnance for the stalks that were raising welts on his handsome face. Fatherwatched him attack the sorghum ears with his sword, lopping some off so cleanly they fellsilently, their headless stumps deathly still, while others protested noisily as they hung bythreads.
Father saw the Japanese cavalryman rear his horse up and begin another charge, his swordraised high. He picked up his useless Browning pistol, which earlier had both sinned against himand distinguished itself in battle, and hurled it at the oncoming horse, striking it squarely on theforehead with a dull thud. The animal raised its head as its front legs buckled; its lips kissed theblack earth, and its neck twisted to the side so it could pillow its head on the ground. The rider,thrown from the saddle, must have broken his arm in the fall, because Father saw the sword dropfrom his hand and heard a loud crack. A fragment of bone ripped through the sleeve of hisuniform, and the limp arm began to twitch as though it had a will of its own. What was at first aclean wound showing nothing more than a gleaming white piece of bone, gruesome anddeathlike, soon began to spurt fresh red blood, alternating between gushes and a slow ooze,droplets shining like so many strings of bright cherries. One of the cavalryman’s legs was pinnedbeneath the horse’s belly, the other was draped over its head, the two forming a large obtuseangle. Father never dreamed that a mighty warhorse and its rider could be brought down soeasily.
Just then Granddad crept out from among the sorghum stalks and called out softly: ‘Douguan.’
Father got uneasily to his feet and looked at Granddad.
The Japanese cavalry troops were making another whirlwind pass from deep in the sorghumfield, filling the air with a mixture of sounds, from the dull thud of hooves on the spongy blackearth to the crisp snapping of sorghum stalks.
Granddad wrapped his arms around Father and pressed him to the ground as the horses’ broadchests and powerful hooves passed over them; groaning clods of dark earth flew in their wake,sorghum stalks swayed reluctantly behind them, and golden-red grains were scattered all over theground, filling the deep prints of horseshoes in the soil.
The sorghum gradually stopped swaying in the wake of the cavalry charge, so Granddad stoodup. Father didn’t realise how forcefully Granddad had pushed him to the ground until he noticedthe deep imprints of his knees in the dark soil.
The Japanese cavalryman wasn’t dead. Shocked into consciousness by excruciating pain, herested his good arm on the ground and awkwardly shifted the leg resting on the horse’s head backinto a riding position. The slightest movement of the dislocated leg, which no longer seemed tobelong to him, made him groan in agony. Father watched sweat drip from his forehead and rundown his face through the grime of mud and gunpowder residue, exposing streaks of ghostly-paleskin. The horse hadn’t died, either. Its neck was writhing like a python, its eyes fixed on the skyand sun of the unfamiliar Northeast Gaomi Township. Its rider rested for a minute beforestraining to free his other leg.
Granddad walked up and yanked the leg free, then lifted him up by the scruff of his neck; hislegs were so rubbery the entire weight of his body was supported by Granddad’s grip. As soon asGranddad let go, he crumpled to the ground like a clay doll dunked in water. Granddad picked upthe glinting sword and swung it in two arcs – one down and one up – lopping off the heads of acouple of dozen sorghum stalks, whose dry stumps stood erect in the soil.
Then he stuck the point of the sword up under the man’s handsome, straight, pale nose andsaid in a controlled voice, ‘Where’s your arrogance now, you Jap bastard?’
The cavalryman’s shiny black eyes were blinking a mile a minute as a stream of gibberishpoured from his mouth. Father knew he was pleading for his life as he reached into his shirtpocket with his trembling good hand and pulled out a clear plastic wallet, which he handed toGranddad as he muttered: ‘Jiligulu, minluwala?.?.?.’
Father walked up to get a closer look at the plastic wallet, which held a colour photograph of alovely young woman holding a pudgy infant in her milky-white arms. Peaceful smiles adornedtheir faces.
‘Is this your wife?’ Granddad asked him.
The man jabbered brokenly.
‘Is this your son?’ Granddad asked him.
Father stuck his head up so close he could see the woman’s sweet smile and the disarminglyinnocent look of her child.
‘So you think this is all it takes to win me over, you bastard!’ Granddad tossed the wallet intothe air, where it sailed like a butterfly in the sunlight before settling slowly, carrying the sun’srays back with it. He jerked the sword out from under the man’s nose and swung it disdainfully atthe falling object; the blade glinted coldly in the sunlight as the wallet twitched in the air and fellin two pieces at their feet.
Father was immersed in darkness as a cold shudder racked his body. Streaks of red and greenflashed before his tightly shut eyes. Heartbroken, he couldn’t bear to open his eyes and see whathe knew were the dismembered figures of the lovely woman and her innocent baby.
The Japanese cavalryman dragged his pain-racked body over to Father, where he grabbed thetwo halves of the plastic wallet. Blood dripped from the tips of his yellow fingers. As he clumsilytried to fit the two halves of his wife and son together with his usable hand, his dry, chapped lipsquivered, his teeth chattered, and broken fragments of words emerged: ‘Aya?.?.?. wa?.?.?. tu?.?.?.
lu?.?.?. he?.?.?. cha?.?.?. hai?.?.?. min?.?.?.’
Two streaks of glistening tears carved a path down his gaunt, grimy cheeks. He held thephotograph up to his lips and kissed it, a gurgling sound rising from his throat.
‘You goddamn bastard, so you can cry, too? Since you know all about kissing your wife andchild, why go around murdering burs? You think that if you squeeze out a few drops of stinkingpiss I won’t kill you?’ Granddad screamed as he raised the glinting blade of the Japanese swordover his head.
‘Dad –’ Father screamed, grabbing Granddad’s arm with both hands. ‘Dad, don’t kill him!’
Granddad’s arm shook in Father’s grasp. With teary, pity-filled eyes, Father pleaded withGranddad, whose heart had been hardened so much that killing had become commonplace.
As Granddad lowered his head, the wind carried a barrage of earthshaking thuds fromJapanese mortars and the crackle of machine-gun fire raking the ranks of village defenders. Fromdeep in the sorghum field they heard the shrill whinnies of Japanese horses and the heavypounding of their hooves on the dark soil. Granddad shook his arm violently, tossing Fatheraside.
‘You little shit, what the hell’s got into you?’ he lashed out. ‘Who are those tears for? For yourmother? For Uncle Arhat? For Uncle Mute and all the others? Or maybe it’s for this no-good sonof a bitch! Whose pistol brought him down? Wasn’t he trying to trample you and slice you in twowith his sword? Dry your tears, son, then kill him with his own sword!’
Father backed up, tears streaming down his face.
‘Come here!’
‘No – Dad – I can’t –’
‘Fucking coward!’
Granddad kicked Father, took a step backward, and raised the sword over his head.
Father saw a glinting arc of steel, then darkness. A liquid ripping sound blotted out the thudsof Japanese mortars, pounding Father’s eardrums and tying his guts into knots. When his visionreturned, the handsome young Japanese cavalryman lay on the ground sliced in half. The bladehad entered his left shoulder and exited on the right, beneath his ribs. His multicoloured innardswrithed and quivered, emitting a steamy, powerful stench. Father felt his own intestines twist andleap into his chest. A torrent of green liquid erupted from his mouth. He turned and ran.
Although Father didn’t have the nerve to look at the Japanese cavalryman’s staring eyesbeneath those long lashes, he couldn’t escape the image of the body lying there sliced in two.
With one stroke of the sword, Granddad seemed to have cut everything in two. Even himself.
The grotesque illusion of a blood-soaked sword glinting in the sky suddenly flashed in front ofFather’s eyes, slicing people in two, as if cleaving melons: Granddad, Grandma, Uncle Arhat, theJapanese cavalryman and his wife and child, Uncle Mute, Big Liu, the Fang brothers,Consumptive Four, Adjutant Ren, everyone.
Granddad threw the sword to the ground and took off after Father, who was running blindlythrough the sorghum. More Japanese cavalry troops bore down on them; mortar shells shriekedthrough the sky above the sorghum field and exploded among the men stubbornly defending theirvillage with shotguns and homemade cannons.
Granddad caught up with Father, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and shook him hard.
‘Douguan! Douguan! You little bastard! Have you gone crazy? What do you want, to crawl intoa hole somewhere and die?’
Father clawed at Granddad’s powerful hands and shrieked, ‘Dad! Dad! Dad! Take me home.
Take me home! I don’t want to fight any more. I don’t want to fight! I saw Mom! I saw Master! Isaw Uncle!’
Granddad slapped him hard across the mouth. Father’s neck snapped to the side and went limpfrom the force of the blow. His head rolled against his chest; a bloody froth oozed from thecorner of his mouth.
1
THE GLORIOUS HISTORY of man is filled with legends of dogs and memories of dogs: despicabledogs, respectable dogs, fearful dogs, pitiful dogs. When Granddad and Father wavered at one oflife’s crossroads, hundreds of dogs under the leadership of the three from our family – Blackie,Green, and Red – clawed out pale paths in the earth near the sorghum field south of our village,where the massacre of our people had occurred. By that time, our dogs were nearly fifteen yearsold, a time of youth for humans, but an advanced age for dogs, an age of confidence.
That massacre on the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival in 1939 decimated our village andturned hundreds of dogs into homeless strays. Drawn to the stench of human blood and gore, theywere easy targets for Granddad and Father, who lay in wait at the bridgehead over the BlackWater River. Granddad’s pistol barked loudly as it emitted puffs of scalding smoke, its barrelturning dark red under the autumn moon, which was as white and cold as frost. Father’s intenselonging for Grandma during lulls in his pitched battle with the crazed, corpse-eating dogs makesme feel lost when I think of it, lost like a homeless stray.
In the aftermath of the slaughter of the townspeople, the sorghum field was covered by pristinemoonlight, bleak, quiet, and still. Fires roared in the village, the tongues of flame franticallylicking the low sky and snapping like flags in a strong wind. Only three hours earlier, Japanesesoldiers and their Chinese puppet troops had cut a swath through the village and torched thehouses before leaving through the northern gate. Now Granddad’s right arm, wounded a weekbefore, was festering and oozing pus, hanging useless like a piece of dead meat. As Father helpedhim bandage the wound, Granddad threw his over-heated pistol onto the moist black earth of thesorghum field, where it sizzled. Once his wound was tended, he sat down and listened to thesnorts and whinnies of Japanese warhorses and the whirlwind of pounding hooves galloping outof the village to form up ranks. The sounds were swallowed up by the field, along with the braysof pack mules and the footsteps of exhausted soldiers.
Father stood beside the seated figure of Granddad, and strained to get a fix on the hoofbeats ofthe horses. Earlier that afternoon, the Japanese cavalry, tormented by Granddad’s and Father’ssniper fire, had abandoned their assault on the village’s stubborn defences to rake through thesorghum field. Father had nearly died of fright when a huge, fiery-red beast bore down on himuntil all he could see was a hoof as big as a plate coming straight at his head, the arc of thehorseshoe flashing like lightning. He screamed for his dad, then covered his head and hunkereddown among the sorghum stalks. A muddle of foul-smelling sweat and urine splashed down asthe horse passed over him, a stench he didn’t think he’d ever be able to wash off.
He remembered Grandma, seven days earlier, as she lay face up, with sorghum seeds andgrains scattered over her face. Her pearly- white teeth shone between blood- drained lips,ornamented by the diamondlike grains.
The charging horse turned with difficulty and headed back, stalks of sorghum strugglingbitterly against its rump, some bending and breaking, others snapping back into place. Theyshivered in the autumn winds like victims of malaria. Father saw the flared nostrils and fleshylips of the panting warhorse; bloody froth sprayed from between its gleaming white teeth anddripped from its greedy lower lip. Clouds of white dust from the agitated sorghum stung itswatery eyes. Seated atop the sleek warhorse was an awesome young Japanese cavalryman whosehead, encased in a little square cap, barely cleared the tops of the stalks around him. The ears ofgrain whipped, pushed, and pricked him mercilessly, even mocked him. He squinted his eyeswith loathing and repugnance for the stalks that were raising welts on his handsome face. Fatherwatched him attack the sorghum ears with his sword, lopping some off so cleanly they fellsilently, their headless stumps deathly still, while others protested noisily as they hung bythreads.
Father saw the Japanese cavalryman rear his horse up and begin another charge, his swordraised high. He picked up his useless Browning pistol, which earlier had both sinned against himand distinguished itself in battle, and hurled it at the oncoming horse, striking it squarely on theforehead with a dull thud. The animal raised its head as its front legs buckled; its lips kissed theblack earth, and its neck twisted to the side so it could pillow its head on the ground. The rider,thrown from the saddle, must have broken his arm in the fall, because Father saw the sword dropfrom his hand and heard a loud crack. A fragment of bone ripped through the sleeve of hisuniform, and the limp arm began to twitch as though it had a will of its own. What was at first aclean wound showing nothing more than a gleaming white piece of bone, gruesome anddeathlike, soon began to spurt fresh red blood, alternating between gushes and a slow ooze,droplets shining like so many strings of bright cherries. One of the cavalryman’s legs was pinnedbeneath the horse’s belly, the other was draped over its head, the two forming a large obtuseangle. Father never dreamed that a mighty warhorse and its rider could be brought down soeasily.
Just then Granddad crept out from among the sorghum stalks and called out softly: ‘Douguan.’
Father got uneasily to his feet and looked at Granddad.
The Japanese cavalry troops were making another whirlwind pass from deep in the sorghumfield, filling the air with a mixture of sounds, from the dull thud of hooves on the spongy blackearth to the crisp snapping of sorghum stalks.
Granddad wrapped his arms around Father and pressed him to the ground as the horses’ broadchests and powerful hooves passed over them; groaning clods of dark earth flew in their wake,sorghum stalks swayed reluctantly behind them, and golden-red grains were scattered all over theground, filling the deep prints of horseshoes in the soil.
The sorghum gradually stopped swaying in the wake of the cavalry charge, so Granddad stoodup. Father didn’t realise how forcefully Granddad had pushed him to the ground until he noticedthe deep imprints of his knees in the dark soil.
The Japanese cavalryman wasn’t dead. Shocked into consciousness by excruciating pain, herested his good arm on the ground and awkwardly shifted the leg resting on the horse’s head backinto a riding position. The slightest movement of the dislocated leg, which no longer seemed tobelong to him, made him groan in agony. Father watched sweat drip from his forehead and rundown his face through the grime of mud and gunpowder residue, exposing streaks of ghostly-paleskin. The horse hadn’t died, either. Its neck was writhing like a python, its eyes fixed on the skyand sun of the unfamiliar Northeast Gaomi Township. Its rider rested for a minute beforestraining to free his other leg.
Granddad walked up and yanked the leg free, then lifted him up by the scruff of his neck; hislegs were so rubbery the entire weight of his body was supported by Granddad’s grip. As soon asGranddad let go, he crumpled to the ground like a clay doll dunked in water. Granddad picked upthe glinting sword and swung it in two arcs – one down and one up – lopping off the heads of acouple of dozen sorghum stalks, whose dry stumps stood erect in the soil.
Then he stuck the point of the sword up under the man’s handsome, straight, pale nose andsaid in a controlled voice, ‘Where’s your arrogance now, you Jap bastard?’
The cavalryman’s shiny black eyes were blinking a mile a minute as a stream of gibberishpoured from his mouth. Father knew he was pleading for his life as he reached into his shirtpocket with his trembling good hand and pulled out a clear plastic wallet, which he handed toGranddad as he muttered: ‘Jiligulu, minluwala?.?.?.’
Father walked up to get a closer look at the plastic wallet, which held a colour photograph of alovely young woman holding a pudgy infant in her milky-white arms. Peaceful smiles adornedtheir faces.
‘Is this your wife?’ Granddad asked him.
The man jabbered brokenly.
‘Is this your son?’ Granddad asked him.
Father stuck his head up so close he could see the woman’s sweet smile and the disarminglyinnocent look of her child.
‘So you think this is all it takes to win me over, you bastard!’ Granddad tossed the wallet intothe air, where it sailed like a butterfly in the sunlight before settling slowly, carrying the sun’srays back with it. He jerked the sword out from under the man’s nose and swung it disdainfully atthe falling object; the blade glinted coldly in the sunlight as the wallet twitched in the air and fellin two pieces at their feet.
Father was immersed in darkness as a cold shudder racked his body. Streaks of red and greenflashed before his tightly shut eyes. Heartbroken, he couldn’t bear to open his eyes and see whathe knew were the dismembered figures of the lovely woman and her innocent baby.
The Japanese cavalryman dragged his pain-racked body over to Father, where he grabbed thetwo halves of the plastic wallet. Blood dripped from the tips of his yellow fingers. As he clumsilytried to fit the two halves of his wife and son together with his usable hand, his dry, chapped lipsquivered, his teeth chattered, and broken fragments of words emerged: ‘Aya?.?.?. wa?.?.?. tu?.?.?.
lu?.?.?. he?.?.?. cha?.?.?. hai?.?.?. min?.?.?.’
Two streaks of glistening tears carved a path down his gaunt, grimy cheeks. He held thephotograph up to his lips and kissed it, a gurgling sound rising from his throat.
‘You goddamn bastard, so you can cry, too? Since you know all about kissing your wife andchild, why go around murdering burs? You think that if you squeeze out a few drops of stinkingpiss I won’t kill you?’ Granddad screamed as he raised the glinting blade of the Japanese swordover his head.
‘Dad –’ Father screamed, grabbing Granddad’s arm with both hands. ‘Dad, don’t kill him!’
Granddad’s arm shook in Father’s grasp. With teary, pity-filled eyes, Father pleaded withGranddad, whose heart had been hardened so much that killing had become commonplace.
As Granddad lowered his head, the wind carried a barrage of earthshaking thuds fromJapanese mortars and the crackle of machine-gun fire raking the ranks of village defenders. Fromdeep in the sorghum field they heard the shrill whinnies of Japanese horses and the heavypounding of their hooves on the dark soil. Granddad shook his arm violently, tossing Fatheraside.
‘You little shit, what the hell’s got into you?’ he lashed out. ‘Who are those tears for? For yourmother? For Uncle Arhat? For Uncle Mute and all the others? Or maybe it’s for this no-good sonof a bitch! Whose pistol brought him down? Wasn’t he trying to trample you and slice you in twowith his sword? Dry your tears, son, then kill him with his own sword!’
Father backed up, tears streaming down his face.
‘Come here!’
‘No – Dad – I can’t –’
‘Fucking coward!’
Granddad kicked Father, took a step backward, and raised the sword over his head.
Father saw a glinting arc of steel, then darkness. A liquid ripping sound blotted out the thudsof Japanese mortars, pounding Father’s eardrums and tying his guts into knots. When his visionreturned, the handsome young Japanese cavalryman lay on the ground sliced in half. The bladehad entered his left shoulder and exited on the right, beneath his ribs. His multicoloured innardswrithed and quivered, emitting a steamy, powerful stench. Father felt his own intestines twist andleap into his chest. A torrent of green liquid erupted from his mouth. He turned and ran.
Although Father didn’t have the nerve to look at the Japanese cavalryman’s staring eyesbeneath those long lashes, he couldn’t escape the image of the body lying there sliced in two.
With one stroke of the sword, Granddad seemed to have cut everything in two. Even himself.
The grotesque illusion of a blood-soaked sword glinting in the sky suddenly flashed in front ofFather’s eyes, slicing people in two, as if cleaving melons: Granddad, Grandma, Uncle Arhat, theJapanese cavalryman and his wife and child, Uncle Mute, Big Liu, the Fang brothers,Consumptive Four, Adjutant Ren, everyone.
Granddad threw the sword to the ground and took off after Father, who was running blindlythrough the sorghum. More Japanese cavalry troops bore down on them; mortar shells shriekedthrough the sky above the sorghum field and exploded among the men stubbornly defending theirvillage with shotguns and homemade cannons.
Granddad caught up with Father, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and shook him hard.
‘Douguan! Douguan! You little bastard! Have you gone crazy? What do you want, to crawl intoa hole somewhere and die?’
Father clawed at Granddad’s powerful hands and shrieked, ‘Dad! Dad! Dad! Take me home.
Take me home! I don’t want to fight any more. I don’t want to fight! I saw Mom! I saw Master! Isaw Uncle!’
Granddad slapped him hard across the mouth. Father’s neck snapped to the side and went limpfrom the force of the blow. His head rolled against his chest; a bloody froth oozed from thecorner of his mouth.