THE SKY WAS a beautiful clear blue. The sun hadn’t yet made an appearance, but the chaotichorizon on that early-winter morning was infused with a blinding red light when Old Geng shotat a red fox with a fiery torch of a tail. Old Geng had no peers among hunters in Saltwater Gap,where he bagged wild geese, hares, wild ducks, weasels, foxes, and, when there was nothing elsearound, sparrows. In the late autumn and early winter, enormous flocks of sparrows flew overNortheast Gaomi Township, a shifting brown cloud that rolled and tumbled above the boundlessland. At dusk they returned to the village, where they settled on willows whose naked, yellowinglimbs drooped earthward or arched skyward. As the dying red rays of the evening sun burnedthrough the clouds, the branches lit up with sparrows’ black eyes shining like thousands ofgolden sparks. Old Geng picked up his shotgun, squinted, and pulled the trigger. Two sparrowscrashed to the ground like hailstones as shotgun pellets tore noisily through the branches.
Uninjured sparrows saw their comrades hit the ground and flapped their wings, rising into the airlike shrapnel sent flying high into a lethargic sky.
Father had eaten some of Old Geng’s sparrows when he was young. They were delicious.
Three decades later, my older brother and I went into the sorghum field and engaged some craftysparrows in a heated battle. Old Geng, who was already over seventy by then and lived alone as apensioner, was one of our most revered villagers. Asked to speak at meetings to air grievancesagainst the old order, he invariably stripped to the waist onstage to show his scars. ‘The Japsbayoneted me eighteen times,’ he’d say, ‘until you couldn’t see my skin for all the blood. But Ididn’t die, and you know why? Because I was protected by a fox fairy. I don’t know how long Ilay there, but when I opened my eyes all I could see was a bright-red light. The fox fairy waslicking my wounds.’
In his home, Old Geng – Eighteen Stabs Geng – kept a fox-fairy memorial tablet, which someRed Guards decided to smash during the Cultural Revolution. They changed their minds and gotout of there fast when they saw him kneel in front of the tablet wielding a cleaver.
Old Geng drew a bead on the red fox, knowing exactly which way it would run; but he wasreluctant to shoot. He knew he could sell the beautiful, bushy pelt for a good price. If he wasgoing to shoot, it had to be now. The fox had already enjoyed a full life, sneaking over nightly tosteal a chicken. No matter how strong the villagers made their chicken coops, the fox alwaysfound a way inside and no matter how many traps they set, it always got away. That year thevillagers’ chicken coops seemed built solely to store its food.
Old Geng had walked out of the village as the roosters were crowing for the third time andgone straight to a low embankment alongside the swamp in front of the village, where he waitedfor the chicken thief to show up. Dried-up marsh weeds stood waist-high in the swamp, where athin sheet of nearly transparent ice, possibly thick enough to bear a man’s weight, covered thestagnant water that had accumulated during the autumn rains. Yellow tassels atop imprisonedreeds shivered in the freezing morning air, as powerful rays of light from far off in the easternsky gradually illuminated the icy surface, which gave off a moist radiance, like the scales of acarp. Then the eastern sky turned bright, staining the ice and reeds the colour of mottled blood.
Old Geng picked up the odour and saw a tight cluster of reeds part slowly like an undulatingwave, then close up quickly. He stuck his nearly frozen index finger into his mouth and breathedon it, then wrapped it around the frost-covered trigger.
The fox bounded out of the clump of reeds and stood on the ice, turning it a bright red, asthough it had gone up in flames. Congealed blood covered its pointy little snout; a chickenfeather the colour of hemp was stuck in its whiskers. It walked with stately grace across the ice.
Old Geng cried out, and it froze on the spot, squinting to get a good look at the embankment. OldGeng shivered, closed his eyes, and fired.
Like a little fireball, the fox rolled into the reeds. Old Geng, his shoulder numb from the recoil,stood up under a silvery sky, looking bigger and taller than usual. He knew the fox was hidingamid the reeds and staring at him with loathing. Something suspiciously like a guilty consciencebegan to stir in Old Geng. He thought back over the past year and the trust the fox had shown inhim: it always knew he was hiding behind the embankment, yet it sauntered across the ice asthough putting his conscience to the test. And Old Geng had always passed the test. But now hehad betrayed this friendship, and he hung his head, gazing into the clump of reeds that hadswallowed the fox, not even turning back to look when he heard the clatter of footsteps behindhim.
Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain, and stumbled forward, twisting his body, dropping hisshotgun to the ice. Something hot squirmed under his pants at the belt line. Running towards himwere a dozen uniformed figures armed with rifles and glinting bayonets. Instinctively he yelled infear, ‘Japan!’
The Japanese soldiers pounced on him and bayoneted him in the chest and abdomen. Hescreamed pitifully, like a fox howling for its mate. The blood from his wounds pitted the icebeneath him with its heat. He ripped off his tattered shirt with both hands. In his semiconsciousstate he saw the furry red fox emerge from the clump of reeds and circle round him once, thencrouch down and gaze sympathetically. Its fur glowed brilliantly and its slightly slanted eyesshone like emeralds. After a while, Old Geng felt warm fur rubbing against his body, and he laythere waiting for the razor-sharp teeth to begin ripping him apart. If he were torn to shreds, he’ddie with no complaints, for he knew that a man who betrays a trust is lower than an animal.
The fox began licking his wounds with its cold tongue.
Old Geng was adamant that the fox had repaid his betrayal by saving his life. Where else couldyou find another man who had sustained eighteen bayonet wounds yet lived to tell the tale? Thefox’s tongue must have been coated with a miraculous substance since Ol
Uninjured sparrows saw their comrades hit the ground and flapped their wings, rising into the airlike shrapnel sent flying high into a lethargic sky.
Father had eaten some of Old Geng’s sparrows when he was young. They were delicious.
Three decades later, my older brother and I went into the sorghum field and engaged some craftysparrows in a heated battle. Old Geng, who was already over seventy by then and lived alone as apensioner, was one of our most revered villagers. Asked to speak at meetings to air grievancesagainst the old order, he invariably stripped to the waist onstage to show his scars. ‘The Japsbayoneted me eighteen times,’ he’d say, ‘until you couldn’t see my skin for all the blood. But Ididn’t die, and you know why? Because I was protected by a fox fairy. I don’t know how long Ilay there, but when I opened my eyes all I could see was a bright-red light. The fox fairy waslicking my wounds.’
In his home, Old Geng – Eighteen Stabs Geng – kept a fox-fairy memorial tablet, which someRed Guards decided to smash during the Cultural Revolution. They changed their minds and gotout of there fast when they saw him kneel in front of the tablet wielding a cleaver.
Old Geng drew a bead on the red fox, knowing exactly which way it would run; but he wasreluctant to shoot. He knew he could sell the beautiful, bushy pelt for a good price. If he wasgoing to shoot, it had to be now. The fox had already enjoyed a full life, sneaking over nightly tosteal a chicken. No matter how strong the villagers made their chicken coops, the fox alwaysfound a way inside and no matter how many traps they set, it always got away. That year thevillagers’ chicken coops seemed built solely to store its food.
Old Geng had walked out of the village as the roosters were crowing for the third time andgone straight to a low embankment alongside the swamp in front of the village, where he waitedfor the chicken thief to show up. Dried-up marsh weeds stood waist-high in the swamp, where athin sheet of nearly transparent ice, possibly thick enough to bear a man’s weight, covered thestagnant water that had accumulated during the autumn rains. Yellow tassels atop imprisonedreeds shivered in the freezing morning air, as powerful rays of light from far off in the easternsky gradually illuminated the icy surface, which gave off a moist radiance, like the scales of acarp. Then the eastern sky turned bright, staining the ice and reeds the colour of mottled blood.
Old Geng picked up the odour and saw a tight cluster of reeds part slowly like an undulatingwave, then close up quickly. He stuck his nearly frozen index finger into his mouth and breathedon it, then wrapped it around the frost-covered trigger.
The fox bounded out of the clump of reeds and stood on the ice, turning it a bright red, asthough it had gone up in flames. Congealed blood covered its pointy little snout; a chickenfeather the colour of hemp was stuck in its whiskers. It walked with stately grace across the ice.
Old Geng cried out, and it froze on the spot, squinting to get a good look at the embankment. OldGeng shivered, closed his eyes, and fired.
Like a little fireball, the fox rolled into the reeds. Old Geng, his shoulder numb from the recoil,stood up under a silvery sky, looking bigger and taller than usual. He knew the fox was hidingamid the reeds and staring at him with loathing. Something suspiciously like a guilty consciencebegan to stir in Old Geng. He thought back over the past year and the trust the fox had shown inhim: it always knew he was hiding behind the embankment, yet it sauntered across the ice asthough putting his conscience to the test. And Old Geng had always passed the test. But now hehad betrayed this friendship, and he hung his head, gazing into the clump of reeds that hadswallowed the fox, not even turning back to look when he heard the clatter of footsteps behindhim.
Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain, and stumbled forward, twisting his body, dropping hisshotgun to the ice. Something hot squirmed under his pants at the belt line. Running towards himwere a dozen uniformed figures armed with rifles and glinting bayonets. Instinctively he yelled infear, ‘Japan!’
The Japanese soldiers pounced on him and bayoneted him in the chest and abdomen. Hescreamed pitifully, like a fox howling for its mate. The blood from his wounds pitted the icebeneath him with its heat. He ripped off his tattered shirt with both hands. In his semiconsciousstate he saw the furry red fox emerge from the clump of reeds and circle round him once, thencrouch down and gaze sympathetically. Its fur glowed brilliantly and its slightly slanted eyesshone like emeralds. After a while, Old Geng felt warm fur rubbing against his body, and he laythere waiting for the razor-sharp teeth to begin ripping him apart. If he were torn to shreds, he’ddie with no complaints, for he knew that a man who betrays a trust is lower than an animal.
The fox began licking his wounds with its cold tongue.
Old Geng was adamant that the fox had repaid his betrayal by saving his life. Where else couldyou find another man who had sustained eighteen bayonet wounds yet lived to tell the tale? Thefox’s tongue must have been coated with a miraculous substance since Ol