Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

Sun Bing laid down his club, took some sheets of yellow mounting paper from a bundle Sun Wukong was carrying, and lit them from a candle. The paper curled as it burned in his hand and rose into the air, where it merged with the swirling currents above the bonfire. When all the paper had been burned, he knelt in front of the incense stand and performed three solemn kowtows. Back on his feet, he reached into his own bundle and removed a tally, which he laid in a large black bowl and set on fire. Then he unhooked a gourd from his waistband and poured its watery contents into the black bowl, stirring the muddy ash with an unused red chopstick. After placing the bowl on the incense stand, he knelt a second time and performed three more kowtows. This time, however, he remained on his knees as he picked up the bowl with both hands and drank down the contents. Having drunk the tally, he kowtowed three more times before closing his eyes and beginning to chant. An occasional word seemed discernible in his incantation, but to the untrained ear it was speaking in tongues, ranging from high to low, the notes lingering in the air like unbroken threads in a piece of beautiful embroidery and affecting those who heard it like a soporific, replete with yawns and drooping eyes. That somnolent air was abruptly shattered by a piercing shout, as he began to foam at the mouth and his body was wracked by spastic jerks, just before he keeled over backward. The crowd reacted with fear and shock, but before they could rush to his aid, Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie stopped them.

Slowly the crowd settled down and fixed their eyes on Sun Bing as he flopped up and down, like a fish on dry land, until his stalwart body began to levitate, light as a feather, attaining a height of three feet or more before settling firmly back to earth. Well acquainted with Sun Bing, the locals knew him as an outdoor opera actor, a man who was breathless after a couple of somersaults on stage. Seeing him perform so expertly now left them speechless and secretly amazed. In the blazing flames of the bonfire, they saw strange lights in Sun Bing’s eyes and a vivid expression sweep across his red face, one that struck everyone who saw it as intimate and unfamiliar at the same time. Normally they knew what to expect when he spoke, but this time they heard things they could not believe were coming from his mouth. An unfamiliar modulation rang with majestic power and proclaimed a noble, stern, indomitable spirit:

“I am the heroic general of the Great Song Dynasty, Yue Fei, known as Pengju, a resident of Tangyin in Henan Province.”

The people’s hearts seemed suddenly and precariously suspended, like red apples hanging heavily from supple branches, swaying in a breeze before snapping off and falling with a metallic thud to the ground.

“It’s the great General Yue!”

“It’s the spirit of the martyred Yue Fei!”

Someone in the crowd fell to his knees; others followed, until no one was left standing. Sun Bing, now the transformed spirit of General Yue Fei, circled the area with flying kicks, light and nimble on his feet, all with remarkable poise and skill. As his body rose and fell, the commanding flags behind his back fluttered in the wind. Waves of light glinted off the scales of his silver armor. At this moment, Sun Bing was no longer a man, he was a mythical dragon among men. After the dance, he clutched his date-wood club and whirled it like a silver spear, stabbing left and parrying right, thrusting upward, thwarting below, like a strange python, a coiled snake. The people were dazzled as they watched him—he had won their hearts. One by one, they fell to their knees and kowtowed. Now that his club display had ended, he raised his golden voice:

The hateful twelve edicts have doomed the nation, the three armies howl in protest, as waves on the Yellow River in rage implore. Alas, the aged suffer. Alas, the Imperial carriage does not return to the palace. When will dust from barbarian hordes be swept from the northern shore? My fury at treacherous court officials will not easily be appeased. To whom can I vent the grief and indignation in my heart? I look to heaven, sword in hand, and roar.

I am Yue Fei, Yue Pengju. I have descended onto the divine altar and taken possession of the body of Sun Bing by Imperial Demand. I shall transmit my martial skills to you who will engage the foreign devils in a life-or-death struggle. Wukong, heed my command .

The general who had taken on the appearance of Wukong took a step forward and knelt on one knee.

“Your servant is here!” he replied in a childish voice.

“I command you to demonstrate for this crowd the eighteen stages of cudgel fighting.”

“As you command!”

Sun Wukong adjusted the apron around his waist, raised one hand, and brushed it across his face. When the hand fell away, it was as if a mask had been put in place. It was now a lively, vigorous face, like that of a monkey—nose twitching, eyes winking. The crowd nearly laughed at this strange simian behavior, but dared not. After demonstrating the range of facial expressions, he uttered a peculiar cry, grabbed his cudgel with both hands, and executed a perfect somersault. The crowd roared its approval. He responded to the acclamation with a more impressively spirited performance: flinging his cudgel high into the air, he sprang up after it, made two complete flips, and landed solidly on his feet, where he steadily, silently, confidently reached up and caught the falling cudgel before it hit the ground. Every move, every maneuver, was accomplished with perfection, and the crowd reacted with frenzied applause; the Monkey King performed his cudgel artistry in the light of the bonfire: he became a coiled dragon, his cudgel a swimming dragon. Jab, strike, brush, sweep, pound, press, block, draw, mix, poke, every move done with precision, each maneuver a sight to behold. The cudgel whistled like the wind as it flew through the air. The demonstration came to an end when he flung it to the ground, where it stood on end like a stake. He leaped into the air, landed with one foot on the top of the cudgel, and assumed the golden rooster stance, shading his eyes with his hand, like a monkey gazing into the distance. The finale: a backward leap sent him back to the ground, where he landed solidly, brought his hands together in front of his chest, and bowed to his audience. Neither breathing hard nor sweating, he was perfectly poised, entirely natural, an extraordinary individual. The crowd applauded and shouted:

“Bravo!”

General Yue Fei issued a second command:

“Bajie, heed my command—”

The general who had taken on the appearance of Zhu Bajie waddled forward.

“Your servant is here!” he replied in a muffled voice.

“I order you to demonstrate for this crowd the eighteen models of manure rake skills.”

“As you command!”

Dragging his manure rake up in front of the crowd, Zhu Bajie greeted them with a foolish laugh— ke ke ke —the way a simple-minded farmer would approach a pile of manure to be raked. There was no mistaking his weapon: it was an ordinary manure rake, the sort that all families owned and all farmers knew how to use. Dragging it behind him, he circled the crowd with a silly grin, did it again, and then a third time. The crowd laughed, but they were getting annoyed, as they wondered whether walking around them with a silly grin was all this general was capable of doing. After the third revolution, he threw away his rake, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled on the ground, making pig noises— oink oink —like an old sow rooting for food. The crowd could hold back no longer. An explosion of laughter greeted this sight, but stopped abruptly when the people glanced at General Yue, who stood ramrod straight and immobile as a statue. Maybe, the people wondered, maybe this third general is leading up to some unique skills.