and walked very quietly, their passage went unnoticed even by the village dogs. Grandma was holding Father’s left hand, leaving his right hand free to carry a red-paper lantern; she was holding him with her right hand, leaving her left hand free to carry her special scale, on which the names of thirty-two flowers were carved.
As they walked out of the village Father heard a southeast wind whistling through the sorghum fields and rustling the broad green leaves; he could smell the Black Water River far off in the distance. After groping along for a li or so, he grew accustomed enough to the dark to distinguish between the brown road surface and the waist- high sorghum by the roadside. The soughing of the wind through the stalks added to the mystery of the dark night, while the screeches of an owl on one of the trees out there cast a patina of terror over the enigma of the dark night.
The owl was perched in a large willow tree directly above Dead Baby Hollow. Had it been daytime, Grandma and Father would have been able to see the growths of blood-red beards on the trunk of the tree, which stood in the middle of a marshy plot of land. Father sensed the owl’s green eyes flashing solemnly amid the willow branches. His teeth chattered and chills snaked from the soles of his feet all the way up to the crown of his head. He squeezed Grandma’s hand, feeling that his head was about to explode from the terror building up inside it.
A sticky odour clung to the air above Dead Baby Hollow. White drops of rain the size of brass coins fell to the ground, gouging out scars in the impenetrable blackness. Grandma tugged on Father’s hand as a sign for him to kneel down, and as he did so his hands and legs touched wild grasses growing in crazy profusion in the marshy land; the coarse, needlelike tips of leaves jabbed his chin, upsetting the harmony in his soul. He felt countless pairs of dead babies’ eyes boring into his back and heard them kicking, squirming, laughing.
Grandma made a search of the marshy hollow while dozens of moths slammed into the red-paper covering of the lantern in her hand. Her bound feet made walking difficult on the wild grasses and the soft ground. Father was curious to know what she was looking for, but didn’t dare ask. He followed her silently.
A rolled-up straw mat lay amid a clump of thick-stemmed, broad-leafed cocklebur. Grandma handed Father the lantern, laid her scale on the ground, then bent over and picked up the mat. In the red light of the lantern her fingers looked like squirming pink worms. The mat fell open to reveal a dead infant wrapped in rags. Its bald head was like a shiny gourd. Father’s knees were knocking. Grandma picked up the scale and hooked it to the rag shroud. Holding the scale in one hand, she adjusted the weight with the other. But with a loud rip the rag gave out and the tiny corpse fell to the ground, followed by the weight, which landed on Grandma’s toe, and the scale, which flew over and hit Father on the head. He yelped in pain and nearly dropped the lantern. The owl let out a hideous laugh, as though mocking their clumsiness. Grandma picked up the scale and jammed the hook through the baby’s flesh. The horrifying sound made Father’s skin crawl. He looked away, and by the time he’d turned back, Grandma was moving the weight across the arm of the scale, notch by notch, higher and lower, until it was in perfect balance. She signalled Father to bring the lantern closer. The scale glowed red. There it was: ‘peony’.
When they reached the village Father could still hear the owl’s angry screeches.
Grandma confidently put her money on ‘peony’.
The winner that day was ‘winter sweet’.
Grandma fell gravely ill.
As Father looked at Little Auntie Xiangguan, he recalled that the mouth of the dead infant also gaped; his ears rang with the songs of the owl, and he yearned for the moist air of the marshy land, since his lips and tongue were parched by a dry northwest wind that sent dust swirling in the sky.
Father saw how Granddad was looking at Grandma, darkly malevolent, like a bird of prey about to pounce. Her back hunched suddenly as she bent over the bed of the wagon and began thumping the comforter, her face covered with tears and snot: ‘Little sister… dear little sister… Xiangguan… my baby…’
Granddad’s anger softened in the face of Grandma’s anguish. Uncle Arhat walked up beside her and said softly, ‘Mistress, don’t cry. Let’s take them inside.’
Grandma picked up Little Auntie Xiangguan’s body and carried it into the house. Granddad followed her with Second Grandma.
Father stayed on the street to watch Uncle Arhat lead the mule out from between the shafts of the wagon, its sides rubbed raw by the narrow shafts. Then he untied the other one from behind the wagon. They shook themselves violently, filling the sky with fine dust clouds, before Uncle Arhat led them into the eastern compound. Father fell in behind him. ‘Go home, Douguan,’ Uncle Arhat said, ‘go on home.’
Grandma was sitting on the floor stoking a fire in the stove, on which a half-filled pot of water stood. As soon as Father slipped into the room, he spotted Second Grandma lying on the kang, eyes open, cheeks twitching ceaselessly. He also saw Little Auntie Xiangguan lying across the top of the kang, a red bundle covering her hideous countenance. Once again he thought back to that night when he had accompanied Grandma to Dead Baby Hollow to weigh the dead infant. The braying of the mules in the eastern compound sounded incredibly like the owl’s screeching. Soon, Xiangguan would be lying in Dead Baby Hollow to feed the wild dogs. He had never dreamed that the dead could look so hideous, yet he could barely resist removing the red bundle to stare at Xiangguan’s repulsive face.
Grandma walked into the room with a brass basin full of hot water and placed it beside the kang. ‘Go outside!’ she said, giving Father a shove.
Reluctantly, resentfully, he went into the outer room and heard the door shut behind him. Unable to control his curiosity, he stuck his eye up against a crack in the door to see what was happening inside. Granddad and Grandma were kneeling beside the kang undressing Second Grandma. When they flung her clothes to the floor, her soaked pants landed with a loud thud. The nauseating stink of blood assailed Father’s nostrils. Second Grandma flailed her arms weakly as ghastly sounds emerged from her mouth.
‘Hold her arms down,’ Grandma pleaded. Both Grandma’s and Granddad’s faces were blurred in the rising steam from the brass basin.
Grandma took a steaming sheepskin towel and wrung it dry, the excess water dripping loudly into the basin. The towel was so hot it scalded her hands, even when she flipped it from one to the other. After shaking it open, she placed it on Second Grandma’s soiled face. Poor Second Grandma twisted her neck, and screams of terror, owl- like screeches, filtered up through the towel. When Grandma removed the towel, it was filthy. She swished it in the basin, then wrung it dry, and slowly wiped down Second Grandma’s body.
Less and less steam rose from the brass basin, while beads of condensed steam dotted Grandma’s face. ‘Dump the dirty water,’ she said to Granddad, ‘and bring me some clean water.’
Father ran out into the yard to watch Granddad. His back was bent as he staggered over to the low wall of the privy to dump the water on the other side. Father ran back and put his eye up to the crack in the door again. By now Second Grandma’s body was glowing like polished sandalwood. Her protests were low and laboured, no more than agonised moans. Grandma had Granddad lift her up so she could remove the kang mat. Then she took a clean one and spread it over the kang. After Granddad laid Second Grandma back down, Grandma put a big wad of cotton between her legs and covered her with a sheet. ‘Little sister,’ she said softly, ‘sleep, go to sleep, Zhan’ao and I will stay with you.’
Second Grandma closed her eyes peacefully.
Granddad went out to dump some more water.
While Grandma was washing Little Auntie Xiangguan’s body, Father slipped rashly into the room and stood in front of the kang. Grandma saw him but didn’t chase him away. As she wiped the dried blood from Little Auntie’s body, pearl-like strands of tears fell from her eyes. When she was finished, she leaned her head against the bedroom wall and didn’t move for a long time, as though she, too, were dead.
At sunset Granddad wrapped Little Auntie’s body in a blanket and held it in his arms. Father followed him to the door. ‘Go on back, Douguan. Stay with Mom and Second Mom.’
Uncle Arhat stopped Granddad at the southern-compound gate. ‘Manager Yu,’ he said, ‘you go back, too. I’ll take care of it.’
Granddad returned to the doorway, where he held Father’s hand and watched Uncle Arhat walk out of the village.
