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.
Pandi, who had been demoted to district chairwoman of the Women’s Salvation Society, rode in from the west on an old horse that was blind in one eye and had a numbered brand on its right flank. The animal kept its neck cocked at a strange angle and made a dull thudding sound as it ran up to us awkwardly on tired old hooves. Pandi hopped nimbly off the horse, even with her swollen belly. As I stared at her belly, I tried to see the child inside, but my eyes failed me, and all I saw were a few dark red spots on her gray uniform. “Don’t stop here, Mother,” Pandi said. “We’ve got water boiling up ahead. That’s where you should eat lunch.” “Pandi,” Mother said, “I tell you, we don’t want any part of your evacuation.” “You must, Mother,” Pandi said anxiously. “It’ll be different when the enemy returns this time. In the Bohai District, they slaughtered three thousand people in one day. The Landlord Restitution Corps even killed their own mothers.” “I don’t believe anyone could kill their own mothers,” Mother said. “I don’t care what you, say, Mother,” Pandi insisted. “I’m not going to let you go back. That’s walking straight into the net, sheer suicide. And if you’re not concerned about yourself, at least be concerned about all these kids.” She took a little bottle out of her knapsack, unscrewed the cap, and dumped out some little white pills, which she handed to Mother. “These are vitamin pills,” she said. “Each one supplies more nutrition than a head of cabbage and two eggs. When you’ve worn yourself out, take one of these, and give one to each of the children. After this stretch of alkaline soil, the road gets better, and the local folks of the Northern Sea will welcome us with open arms. So let’s go, Mother. This is no place to rest.” She grabbed a handful of horse’s mane, stepped into the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. As she galloped off, she shouted, “Fellow villagers, get on the road. There’s hot water and oil and salted vegetables and scallions waiting for you at Wang Family Mound!”
At her urging, the people got to their feet and continued on their way.
Mother wrapped the pills in a bandanna and tucked them away in her pocket. Then she draped the strap around her neck and picked up the handles of the cart. “Come on, kids, let’s go.”
The evacuation procession lengthened until we couldn’t see either end, front or back. We walked until we reached Wang Family Mound, but there was no hot water there, nor any oil, and certainly no salted vegetables or scallions. The donkey company had left by the time we reached the village; the ground was littered with patches of straw and donkey droppings. People lit bonfires to cook dry food, while some of the boys dug up wild garlic with spiked tree branches. As we were leaving Wang Family Mound, we saw the mute and a dozen or so of his production team members coming toward us to reenter the village. Instead of dismounting, he took two half-cooked sweet potatoes and a red-skinned turnip out from under his shirt and tossed them into one of the baskets on our cart. It nearly cracked open the head of Little Mute. I took special note of the grin he flashed at First Sister. He looked like a snarling wolf or a tiger.
When the sun fell behind the mountain, we dragged our lengthening shadows into a bustling little village, where dense white smoke poured out of every chimney. Exhausted citizens lay strewn all over the streets, like scattered logs. A group of spirited officials in gray were hopping up and down amid the local villagers. At the head of the village, people crowded around the well to fetch water. The crowd was made even denser by the addition of livestock; the taste of fresh water roused the villagers. My goat snorted loudly. Laidi, carrying a large bowl – apparently a rare ceramic treasure – tried to jostle her way up to the well, but was pushed back time and again. An old cook who worked for the county government recognized us and brought us a bucket of water. Zaohua and Laidi rushed over, got down on all fours, and banged heads as they began lapping up the water. “Children first!” Mother scolded Laidi, who paused just long enough for Zaohua to bury her face in the bucket. She lapped up the water like a thirsty calf, the only difference being that she held the sides with her filthy hands. “That’s enough. You’ll get a bellyache if you drink too much,” Mother said as she pulled her away from the bucket. Zaohua licked her lips to get every last drop, as her moistened insides began to rumble. After drinking her fill, First Sister stood up; her belly stuck way out. Mother scooped up some water for Big Mute and Little Mute. Eighth Sister sniffed the air and made her way over to the bucket, where she knelt down and buried her face in the water. “Want to drink a little, Jin- tong?” Mother asked me. I shook my head. She scooped up another bowlful of water as I let go of the goat, which would have run over to the water long before if I hadn’t wrapped my arms around its neck. The goat drank thirstily from the bucket and didn’t look up once as the water sloshed down its throat and swelled its belly. The old cook showed his feelings, not with words, but with a long sigh, and when Mother thanked him, he sighed again, even louder.
“What took you so long to get here, Mother?” Pandi asked critically. Mother didn’t give her the satisfaction of responding. Instead she picked up the handles of the cart and led us, goat and all, twisting and turning through the crowd, into a small courtyard ringed by a rammed-earth wall; we suffered no end of curses and complaints as we
