Mo Yan - Red Sorghum

‘Douguan,’ whispered Dezhi, ‘I’ll draw them away so you two can escape.’

‘No!’ Father said emphatically.

‘Here I go!’

He burst out of the encampment and ran like the wind towards the sorghum field, with dozens of dogs on his heels. They quickly caught him and began tearing him to shreds. But Father didn’t dare watch Dezhi’s agonies, for Red continued to stare at him without blinking.

Two Japanese grenades exploded in the sorghum field where Dezhi had fled. Bent by the concussion, the stalks emitted a sigh that made the skin on Father’s cheeks crawl. First the sounds of broken canine bodies crashing to the ground, then the pitiful wails of dogs wounded in the blasts frightened the ones circling Father and Mother. They backed off, giving Mother the chance she needed to take out a muskmelon grenade and lob it into their midst. They watched the scary black object arch toward them, then let out a howl before scattering in panic. But the grenade fell harmlessly to the ground — she had forgotten to pull the pin. All the dogs fled, all except Red. When he saw Father turn to look at Mother, he sprang like lightning; the silvery rays of the sun struck this leader of dogs, his body forming a beautiful arc in the sky. Instinctively Father fell back, as Red’s claws slashed across his face.

The initial assault had failed, although a piece of skin the size of Father’s mouth had been ripped from his cheek, which was immediately covered with sticky blood. Red charged again, and this time Father raised his rifle to ward him off. Forcing the barrel of the rifle upward with his front paws, Red lowered his head to avoid the bayonet and lunged at Father’s chest. Father spotted the clump of white fur on Red’s belly and aimed a kick, just as Mother fell forward and knocked him flat on his back. Spotting his opportunity, Red fell on Father and shrewdly sank his teeth in his crotch at the very moment that Mother brought the butt of her rifle crashing down on his bony skull. Momentarily stunned, he backed up a few steps, then sprang forward in another attack. He was maybe three feet in the air when his head suddenly slumped forward as a shot rang out. One of his eyes was smashed. Father and Mother looked up to see a spindly, hunched-over, white-haired old man, holding a scorched-looking wooden staff in his left hand and a smoking Japanese pistol in his right — it was Granddad.

He took a few faltering steps forward and cracked Red over the head with his staff. ‘Rebel bastard!’ he cursed. Red’s heart was still beating, his lungs were still heaving, his powerful hind legs were scratching two deep furrows in the black earth. His rich, beautiful red fur blazed like a million tongues of flame.

THE BITE HAD been absorbed with less than full force, possibly because Father was wearing two pairs of pants, but the results were bad enough: the dog’s teeth had ripped open one side of his scrotum, leaving an elliptical testicle the size of a quail’s egg hanging by a thin, nearly transparent thread. When Granddad moved him, the little red thing dropped into the crotch of his pants. Granddad cupped it in the palm of his hand. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, bent over the way he was. His large, rough hand shook as though the thing were burning a hole in it. ‘Uncle,’ Mother asked him, ‘what’s wrong with you?’

She was watching the muscles in his face twitch painfully, and noticed that his pale skin seemed covered with a yellow cast; despair filled his eyes.

‘It’s all over…. Everything ended in that instant…’ Granddad mumbled in a voice that quavered like an old, old man’s.

He took out his pistol and shouted, ‘You’ve ruined me! Dog!’

He aimed the weapon at Red, who was still panting faintly, and pumped several shots into him.

Father struggled to his feet, rivulets of fresh, warm blood coursing down the inside of his thigh. He didn’t seem to be in much pain. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘we won.’

‘Uncle, hurry up and take care of Douguan’s wound!’ Mother said.

Father looked at the testicle cupped in Granddad’s hand and asked with a note of astonishment, ‘Dad, is that mine? Is it?’ A wave of nausea hit him. He fainted.

Granddad threw down his staff, tore off two clean sorghum leaves and gently wrapped the thing up, then handed it to Mother. ‘Beauty,’ he said, ‘hold it carefully. I’m taking him to Dr Zhang Xinyi.’ He bent over, picked Father up, and then hobbled off down the road. Dogs wounded by the exploding grenades in the marshland whimpered pitifully.

Dr Zhang Xinyi, a man in his fifties, parted his hair right down the middle, something you seldom saw in the countryside. He wore a long, dark-blue gown, and had a pale face atop a frame so thin he seemed incapable of withstanding even the slightest breeze.

By the time Granddad had carried Father to the doctor, his back was bent almost double and his face had a ghostly pallor.

‘Is that you, Commander Yu? You certainly look different,’ Dr Zhang said.

‘Name your price, Doctor.’

Father had been laid out on the wooden-plank bed. ‘Is this your son, Commander?’ Dr Zhang asked him.

Granddad nodded.

‘The one who killed the Japanese general at the Black Water River bridge?’

‘I only have one son!’

‘I’ll do the best I can!’ Dr Zhang took some tweezers, a pair of scissors, a bottle of sorghum wine, and a vial of iodine out of his instrument bag, then bent over to examine the injury on Father’s face.

‘Take a look down there first, please, Doctor,’ Granddad said sombrely. Then he turned to Mother and took the sorghum leaves in which the testicle was wrapped out of her hands. He placed it on the wooden cabinet beside the bed. The leaves spread open.

Dr Zhang picked up the messy thing with his tweezers. His long, nicotine-stained fingers shook as he stammered, ‘Commander Yu… not that I’m unwilling to do my best, but your son’s wound… My skills are not great, and I haven’t the proper medication…. You must see someone more talented than I, Commander….’

Granddad bent over and stuck his face right up into Dr Zhang’s, his rheumy eyes boring into the man. ‘Where can I find someone more talented?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Tell me, where can I go? Should I take him to the Japanese?’

‘Commander,’ Zhang Xinyi defended himself, ‘that’s not what your humble servant meant…. Your esteemed son is injured in a critical place, and the slightest slip could bring an end to your glorious line….’

‘I brought him here,’ Granddad said, ‘because I have faith in you. Do what you can.’

‘Since Commander Yu says so,’ Zhang Xinyi said, gritting his teeth, ‘I’ll do it.’

He soaked a cotton ball in the wine and cleaned the wound. The pain brought Father to. He tried to slide off the bed, but Granddad climbed up and held him down.

‘Commander Yu,’ Zhang Xinyi said, ‘we’ll have to strap him down.’

‘Douguan!’ Granddad said. ‘You’re my son, and I expect you to tough it out. Bite down hard!’

‘But, Dad,’ Father groaned, ‘it hurts….’

‘Tough it out!’ Granddad said sternly. ‘Think about Uncle Arhat!’

Father didn’t dare argue. Sweat covered his forehead.

Zhang Xinyi took out a needle and sterilised it in the wine before threading it. Then he began stitching the torn scrotum closed.

‘Sew that back inside!’ Granddad said.

Zhang Xinyi looked at the testicle lying in the open sorghum leaves on the wooden cabinet and said with embarrassment, ‘Commander Yu… it won’t do any good….’

‘Is it your intention to bring the Yu line to an end?’ Granddad asked glumly.

Large beads of sweat glistened on Dr Zhang’s gaunt face. ‘Commander Yu… think about it…. Connecting blood vessels were severed. If I put it back in, it would still be dead.’