Sandalwood Death

CHAPTER EIGHT





Divine Altar





1




He opened his eyes and was nearly blinded by sunlight streaming in through the branches of the willow trees. The horrific sight he’d witnessed from his perch flashed through his mind, and the constricting pain in his heart leveled him. At that moment the sound of drums pounded against his eardrums, like the drumbeats preceding the first act of a Maoqiang opera, followed by the doleful sounds of a suona, a horn, and then finally the circular, repetitive performance of a cat zither. These sounds, which had been a steady accompaniment for more than half of his lifetime, blunted the stabbing pain in his heart, like shearing off a mountain peak or filling in a ravine and turning it into a boundless plateau. The calls of magpies followed the rhythms of his heart as they flew in dramatic fashion, forming a blue cloud in the air above. A woodpecker attacked a tree—incessantly, tirelessly—echoing the urgent sounds around him. Willow catkins floating on breezy gusts of wind resembled the handsome beard he’d once worn. With a date-wood club in my, my, my hand and a glinting dagger tucked in my waistband~~I take a step and release a wail~~take two steps as anger blazes like a fire fanned~~I, I, I race down a meandering path, this journey too great a demand. A song of grief and indignation thundered inside him as he struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the tree trunk, his head wobbly, his feet stomping the ground. ——Bong bong bong bong bong bong——kebong kebong kebong——bong! Alas! I, Sun Bing, gaze northward to my home, where flames send black smoke into the air. My wife murdered, she, she, she is buried in the bellies of fish, and my children so fair~~cruel, how cruel, so cruel! A little boy and a little girl consigned to the Devil’s lair~~Those loathsome foreign devils with their green eyes and white hair, vipers’ hearts, bereft of conscience, slaughtered the innocent, destroyed my home, and killed my family, I am alone, I, I, I~~cruel, how cruel, so cruel!~~more than I can bear! He picked up the club that had brought such a calamity down on his head and staggered out of the woods. I, I, I am like a wild goose separated from its flock, like a tiger out in the open, a dragon caught in the shallows . . . He struck out with his club, pointing east and striking west, pointing south and hitting north, shattering bark. Willows wept. You German devils! You, you, you cruelly murdered my wife and butchered my children~~this is a blood debt that will be avenged——Bong bong bong bong bong—Clang cuh-lang clang Only revenge makes me a man. He staggered into the Masang River, swinging his club as he went, wading in till the water nearly reached his chest. The ice was breaking up, now that it was the second month, yet the water was still bone-chilling cold. But he was unmindful of the cold, as fires of vengeful loathing burned in his breast. Walking along the riverbed was difficult; the water hindered his progress like a line of foreign soldiers holding him back. He pressed forward, kept moving, striking the surface of the water with his club, pow pow pow pow pow pow! Splash, splash, water everywhere—like a tiger loose in a flock of sheep—water hit him in the face, a watery blur, a sheet of white, a sheet of blood-red. Charging into the dragon’s den, the tiger’s lair, looses a murderous river of blood, I, I, I am that judge from Hell, the messenger of death. He clawed and crawled his way up to the bank, where he fell to his knees and rubbed his hands across traces of blood that had yet to dry My beloved children, I see that you have been sent down to the Devil’s lair, and for my pain there is no gauge~~My head swims, my eyes glaze over, my world is spinning, my, my, my towering rage. His hands were stained with blood and mud. His house was still burning, releasing waves of heat and filling the sky with hot cinders. The cloyingly sweet taste of bile was caught in his throat. He leaned over and spat out a mouthful of blood.

The bloodbath had blotted out the lives of twenty-seven citizens of Masang Township. People carried their dead to the embankment, where they lined up to await the arrival of the County Magistrate. Under the direction of Second Master Zhang, young men went into the river to retrieve the bodies of Little Peach and her twin children, Bao’er and Yun’er, which the currents had taken five li downriver. They were laid out beside the other victims. Her upper body was covered by a tattered coat, leaving her horribly pale, stiff legs exposed. Sun Bing thought back to her opera roles as chaste women, in her pheasant hat, a sword at her hip, and embroidered shoes with red velvet flowers on the tips. She swirled and twirled her broad sleeves as she sang and danced, face like a peach and waist as thin as a willow branch. She sang like an oriole, exuding charm with her alluring looks. My wife, how do I accept that the blush of spring has been shattered by a hailstone chime, and worse, how do I endure the blade of wind and sword of rime, my, my, my tears of blood fall in a steady stream . . . I see the red moon sink in the west, where a silver crescent once hung high in the sky~~the shepherd’s sad song, an old crow sings in the nighttime~~bong bong goes the gong, the palanquin shafts tremble, here comes the Gaomi County Magistrate to the scene of the crime . . .

Sun Bing watched as Magistrate Qian stepped out of his palanquin, bent at the waist. His back, which had always been as stiff and straight as a board, was strangely hunched; his normally smiling face twitched horribly. The beard, once lush and full as a stallion’s tail, looked more like the scraggly appendage of a donkey. And his eyes, usually bright and keen, were now clouded and dull. His hands clenched into fists one minute and slapped his forehead the next. A squad of bodyguards, swords at the ready, followed cautiously. Whether they were protecting him or keeping watch on him was unclear. One by one, he examined the corpses laid out on the embankment under the quiet, watchful gaze of surviving family members. As his eyes swept the line of solemn villagers, crystalline beads of sweat soaked his hair. His agitated pacing ended. He wiped his perspiring face with his sleeve and said:

“Village elders and worthy citizens, you must exercise restraint . . .”

“Laoye, we want you to plead our case . . .” Wails of grief rose from the villagers, who knelt at his feet.

“Fellow villagers, please rise. This tragic incident has struck your bereaved official like a knife to the heart. But we cannot bring the dead back to life, so please prepare coffins for your loved ones. The quicker they are buried, the earlier they will find peace . . .”

“Are you telling us they died for nothing? Are you saying the foreign devils should be free to tyrannize us?”

“Fellow villagers, I share your sorrow,” said the tearful County Magistrate. “Your fathers and mothers are my parents, your sons and daughters my children. Now I must ask you, village elders and worthy citizens, to settle your mood and not take matters into your own hands. Tomorrow I will travel to the capital to seek an audience with His Excellency the Provincial Governor. I will see that you get the justice you deserve.”

“We are going to carry our dead into the provincial capital!”

“No, you cannot do that, you mustn’t!” It was a worrying possibility. “Please trust me to vigorously argue your case. I am prepared to sacrifice my feathered official’s cap for you.”

In the midst of bitter wailing on all sides, Sun Bing watched as Magistrate Qian walked up, awkwardly avoiding the villagers, and sputtered:

“Sun Bing, please come with me.”

The music swirling around inside Sun Bing suddenly reached a fever pitch, as if the earth were opening up and mountains crumbling, a frenzied soaring. His brows arched upward, his tiger-eyes rounded, as he raised his club. You sanctimonious dog of an official, shedding crocodile tears, empty promises to plead the villagers’ case, when all along your plan is to take credit for making an arrest in haste. You speak not for the people you serve, but are a willing conspirator with the murderers we faced. My, my, my wife and children are dead, my hopes all turned to ashes, for which my vengeance they will taste. That would not change even for His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, let alone a mere Magistrate. I, I, I rub my hands and clench my fists, eager to crush the head of an official by corruption debased. He aimed his club at Magistrate Qian’s head. I care, care, care not, for a lopped-off head means only a bowl-sized scar. You are an accomplice to the ferocious tiger who deserves only death. Magistrate Qian nimbly leaped out of the way, and Sun Bing’s club merely stirred up the air. The bodyguards, seeing the danger facing their Magistrate, drew their swords and rushed Sun Bing, but they were no match for a man unafraid of death; he rent the air with a shout and leaped up like a crazed beast, as fiery sparks flew from his eyes. A roar of intimidation rose from the crowd as they advanced in anger. Sun Bing swung his club, now his weapon, and connected with a fat yayi who could not get out of the way fast enough; he tumbled head over heels down the riverbank. Magistrate Qian looked into the sky and sighed.

“Hear me out,” he breathed, “I have given this much thought, as the Son of Heaven is my witness. Countrymen, this event is tied up with foreign affairs, and you must not act rashly. Sun Bing, I must let you go today, but mark my word, you may be able to make it past the first of the month, as they say, but you will not make it past the fifteenth. You are on your own, so take care.”

Under the protection of his yayi, Magistrate Qian slipped back into his palanquin, which was hoisted up by his bearers, who beat a hasty retreat and were swallowed up by the dark of night.

The residents of Masang Township passed a sleepless night, with the rising and falling of wails from women and the sounds of coffin-making continuing till daybreak.

As the day began, with neighbors helping out, the dead were placed into coffins, which were lined up on the ground and sealed with nails.

Then, after the dead were buried, the survivors, whose senses were dulled, as if they had awakened from a terrible nightmare, gathered at the levee and gazed out at the railroad shed erected in one of their fields. Tracks had already been laid up to Liuting, the easternmost village of Northeast Gaomi Township, no more than six li from Masang. Their ancestral graves would soon be overrun, their flood-relief channel filled in, and their thousand-year feng shui destroyed. Rumors flew that their souls would be taken by having their queues cut off and laid beneath railroad ties; everyone’s head was imperiled. The so-called mother and father officials were running dogs of the foreigners, and bitter times lay ahead for the people. Sun Bing’s hair turned white overnight; the few scraggly whiskers on his chin were like dead, brittle grass. He bounced around the village, dragging his club behind him, like a feverish old opera character. People felt sorry for him, assuming he was not in his right mind, so they were surprised to hear him speak with clarity and wisdom:

“Fellow villagers, I, Sun Bing, caused this devastation when I killed that German engineer, and you have suffered, for which I, I, I feel much anguish. I, I, I am terrified of what might happen. So tie me up and deliver me to Qian Ding and ask him to explain the situation to the Germans. He can tell them that if they alter the path of the railroad, Sun Bing will die with no regrets.”

The people lifted Sun Bing up and bombarded him with a chorus of voices:

Sun Bing, oh, Sun Bing, you are brave, upright, and bold, a man whom officials, foreign and local, must behold. Masang Township has suffered over what you did, but we knew that someday this story would be told. Better now than later, for once those foreign devils complete their railroad, all talk of peace will grow old. They say that when the fire-dragon passes, the ground trembles, and that will surely bring down our homes. We’ve heard that the Righteous Harmony Boxers have fought the foreign devils in Caozhou. So, Sun Bing, take what you need and flee for your life. Go to Caozhou and bring back those Boxers to eradicate the foreign devils, the common people’s lives to enfold.

They took up a collection for Sun Bing and sent him on his way that very night. With tears in his eyes, he chanted:

Fellow villagers, hometown water tastes fresher, hometown sentiments are more pure. I, Sun Bing, shall not forget your generosity, and will not return without the aid you seek, that is for sure.

The villagers chanted in return:

Your voyage will be long and arduous, so take great care. You must keep a clear head and be prepared for anything, foul or fair. We will await your return with great anticipation, for then the heavenly soldiers will our rescue declare.





2




One afternoon twenty days later, Sun Bing swaggered back into Masang Township in a full-length white robe under silver armor, six silver command flags sticking up over his back. His face, beneath a silver helmet with a fist-sized red tassel, was stained bright red, and his brows were drawn in the shape of an inverted spear; he wore boots with thick soles and carried his date-wood club. He was followed into town by a pair of fearsome generals—one walked with a quick, nimble step, wore a tiger-skin apron around his waist, and had a golden hoop around his head. He carried a magic cudgel and uttered shrill cries as he bounced and jumped down the street, all in all a fine replica of Sun Wukong, the magic monkey of legend. The second general, sporting a huge paunch, wore a loose monk’s robe and a square Buddhist hat. The manure rake he dragged behind him was a dead giveaway—he was Marshal Zhu Wuneng, or Zhu Bajie, the legendary Pigsy.

The threesome first appeared on the levee, sunlit apparitions breaking through a patch of dark clouds. With glistening armor, they presented a strange sight, three heavenly soldiers who had, it seemed, dropped out of the cloud-filled sky. The first person to see the figures, Young Master Wu, failed to recognize Sun Bing, so when Sun smiled at him, he did not know what to make of the man, and was terrified. He watched them enter the shop in the west where stuffed buns were made and sold; they did not reemerge.

As night fell, the villagers, as was their custom, took their coarse porcelain bowls out into the streets to eat their rice porridge. Young Master Wu ran from the east end of the village to the west, spreading the news that a trio of demonic figures had shown up. Most of the time, people discounted anything young Wu said, since his mind was more than a little muddled and he tended to spread wild stories. They were unsure whether they should believe him now, or treat it as a snack to go with their evening meal. But then, from the west end of the village, the clang of a gong rang out, and they saw the clerk Sixi emerge spiritedly from the shop wearing a black cat-skin cap, his face painted like a leopard cat, the tail of the cap swinging back and forth behind his neck. He sang out loudly as he banged his gong:

This Sun Bing, no ordinary man, in Caozhou learned from the Righteous Harmony band. He returned with two immortals, Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie, to uproot railroad tracks, kill the traitors, and drive out the foreign devils, till peace is at hand. Nights for Boxer training at the bridgehead, where old and young, men and women, come to watch and learn as best they can. When the magic is mastered, no bullet, no knife can harm them, it prolongs their lifespan. With the magic absorbed, all men are brothers, and all eat for free. With the magic absorbed, the Emperor grants amnesty to each and every clan. When that is done, men attain high rank, their wives and children honorary titles, and all receive food stores and land.

“Aha,” Young Master Wu exclaimed in happy astonishment, “so that was Sun Bing! No wonder he looked familiar, and no wonder he smiled at me.” After the evening meal, a bonfire was lit at the bridgehead to light up the night sky, attracting all able-bodied villagers, their excitement tempered by curiosity. They were there to see Sun Bing display his boxing skills.

A burner with three sticks of glowing incense had been placed between a pair of candlesticks on an octagonal table standing near the bonfire. Two thick red tallow candles flickered and burned brightly, producing a distinct air of mystery. The bonfire crackled and turned the river surface into a sheet of quicksilver. The shop door was shut tight. People were on edge.

“Sun Bing,” someone shouted, “you have been gone only a few short days. Do you think we do not know you? What good is served by acting so mysteriously? Come out and display your divine boxing skills for us.”

Sixi squeezed through the shop door and said softly:

“Not so loud. They are inside drinking the ashes of a magic charm.”

Then, with shocking abruptness, the door flew open, like the mouth of a rapacious beast. Silenced by the sight, the people waited wide-eyed for the appearance of Sun Bing and the two immortals he had brought back with him with the anticipation normally displayed for the arrival on the opera stage of a famous singer. But Sun Bing did not emerge. Silence, complete silence. Fast-flowing water crashed noisily into the bridge pilings; bonfire flames crackled like red silk snapping in the wind. The crowd was growing impatient when the silence was broken—no, shattered. The thundering, high-pitched voice of a Maoqiang old-man actor tore through the night air, a slight hoarseness enhancing its appeal:

I left my native place to avenge an evil deed. The individual words were as clipped as joints of green bamboo, climbing one by one into the clouds above, then settling slowly to earth, where they somersaulted back into the sky, higher than before, until they were out of sight. Sixi’s gong rang out wildly, abandoning all rhythm. Finally, Sun Bing emerged from the shop. He looked the same as when he’d first appeared in the village: white robe and silver helmet, painted face and extended eyebrows, thick-soled boots and a date-wood club. Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie followed close on his heels. Sun Bing took a turn around the bonfire, running so fast his feet seemed not to touch the ground, building upon the normal gait of the old-man role by adding the acrobatic moves of the sword-and-horse role, and highlighted by short, fast-moving steps that seemed as natural as drifting clouds and flowing water. He began to kick and twist, to tumble and turn somersaults, then ended his exhibition by striking a heroic pose and singing:

I acquired divine boxing skills in Caozhou, aided by immortals of every school, all to ensure that the foreign devils do not survive. Before I left, the Patriarch said to erect a divine altar in Gaomi after I arrive. Here I am to teach divine skills and demonstrate the martial arts, until the people have gained the will to move even Mt. Tai. Immortal brothers Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie have been sent down from the celestial kingdom, bequeathed by the Tao that remains alive.

By the time Sun Bing had finished his aria, the people’s faith in him had vanished. Divine boxing skills indeed! This was nothing more than his old stage show! With his hands cupped at his chest as a sign of respect, Sun Bing said:

“Fellow villagers, I traveled to Caozhou to study at the feet of the Patriarch of the Righteous Harmony Boxers. The revered elder had heard that the German devils who were laying track in Northeast Gaomi Township against the people’s wishes were on a murderous rampage, and the fires of loathing burned in his breast. At first the revered elder vowed to lead a divine army to crush the foreigners, but so many military affairs demanded his attention that he could not tear himself away. Instead he passed on to me his secrets of divine boxing and told me to return and erect a divine altar, then to teach divine boxing skills that would succeed in driving the foreign devils out of our land. My companions, Elder Brothers Wukong and Bajie, have been sent to aid me in my mission. Their bodies are impervious to all manner of weapons, a divine art that they will teach you. But first I will demonstrate the skills I have learned, in order, as the adage goes, to cast a brick to attract jade.”

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.

Sure enough, once he’d finished his rooting old sow act, his hands and feet began to speed up, until he was crawling along faster than any pig could possibly run, oinking the whole time. He crawled and he crawled, and then he rolled on the ground, rolled and rolled, quickly becoming a black whirlwind that spun him into a standing position. How, his puzzled audience wondered, had his manure rake wound up back in his hand? His movements seemed clumsy and awkward, but any expert could have told them that clumsy, awkward movements sometimes hide beauty in motion. Every move, every maneuver, was just as it should have been, and the crowd showed their appreciation with a generous round of applause.

General Yue said:

“Revered villagers, be heedful. The Jade Emperor has commanded me to take control of the divine altar in order to form and train a homeborn army to make war against the foreign devils. They are the reincarnation of Jin soldiers; you will be the disseminators of the way of Yue Fei. The foreign enemy is in possession of powerful rifles and cannons, and of sharp bayonets. How will you ward off their assaults unless you master the martial arts? The Heavenly Emperor has sent me to pass on the secrets of the divine fists, whose mastery will make you impervious to their knives and bullets, unaffected by water or fire, immune to death. Are you willing to do as your general asks?”

“We await your instructions, great general!” the crowd roared.

“Sun, Zhu, heed my command!” General Yue said.

“Your servant awaits his orders!” one said.

“Your servant awaits his orders!” the other said.

The General commanded:

“Demonstrate the Golden Bell Shield technique of divine boxing to the assembled crowd.”

“As commanded!” Sun and Zhu replied in unison.

General Yue Fei personally turned two paper tallies into ashes and told Wukong and Bajie to swallow the solution. Then he recited a secret incantation, this time clearly enunciating every word, as if wanting the crowd to commit it to memory:

“Golden Bell Shield, iron shirt, both parts of Righteous Harmony fist. Righteous Harmony fist holds up the sky, ingesting tallies as an iron immortal in the celestial mist. An iron immortal sits on an iron lotus terrace. Iron head, iron waist, iron stockade, all fortified against enemy weapons . . .”

The incantation ended, the General sprayed a mouthful of water over Wukong. Then he sprayed another mouthful over Bajie.

“It is done!” he said. “Now perform!”

Sun Wukong concentrated his strength and pointed to his head; Zhu Bajie twirled his manure rake, took aim at Sun Wukong’s head, and swung. Wukong straightened his neck—his head was unmarked.

Zhu Bajie concentrated his strength in his paunch. Sun Wukong twirled his cudgel over his head, took aim at Bajie’s paunch, and swung with such force that he recoiled backward when he hit his target. Bajie massaged his belly and laughed—ke ke ke.

General Yue said:

“If there are those among you who do not believe, come forward to see for yourselves.”

A young hothead by the name of Yu Jin, who had once felled an ox with a single punch, leaped into the ring, picked up a brick, and flung it at Wukong’s head. The brick disintegrated, but Wukong’s head suffered no injury. So then Yu Jin asked Sixi to fetch a cleaver from his shop.

“General,” he said, “may I?”

General Yue smiled but said nothing.

Zhu Bajie nodded his approval.

Yu Jin raised the cleaver and swung it with all his might at Bajie’s paunch. There was a loud clang, as if he’d struck iron. Bajie’s belly sported a new white mark; the blade of the cleaver was ruined.

There were no more disbelievers in that crowd, all of whom asked to be taught the magical boxing skills.

General Yue said:

“The most wonderful aspect of divine boxing is speed. You may lack the strength to tie up a chicken, but if you are pure of heart, the spirit will come. When you drink the ashes of an amulet, that spirit will attach itself to your body, and whichever divine host you desire will be yours. If you ask for Huang Tianba, Huang Tianba will be there; if it is Lü Dongbin you prefer, he will come. And when that divine host attaches himself to your body, you will be a master with unimaginable power. Drink down another tally, and you will have a body that can ward off all weapons and attacks, be impervious to water and fire. The virtues of Righteous Harmony fists are legion. In battle you crush the enemy, and off the battlefield it keeps you safe and healthy.”

“We accept General Yue as our leader!” the crowd erupted as one.





3




On a misty, drizzly morning ten days later—during the 1900 Qingming Festival—Sun Bing issued an order for the army whose training had just ended to launch an attack on the shed that served as the German engineers’ construction headquarters.

For ten uninterrupted days, day and night, before a divine altar erected at the bridgehead, he and his guardians, Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie, had spared no effort in drawing magic tallies and chanting incantations to propagate the physical art of warding off bayonets and bullets.

Every able-bodied young man in the township was a member of the divine army; they worshipped at the divine altar and practiced divine boxing skills. Even young men from surrounding villages came carrying their own provisions to join the army. The young shepherd from the south bank of the Masang River, Mudu, and the hothead Yu Jin became Sun Bing’s staunchest disciples. Mudu took the role of Zhang Bao, who preceded Yue Fei’s horse; Yu Jin took the role of Wang Heng, who followed it. During the training, each man chose the heroic figure, celestial or mundane, ancient or modern, whom he most revered as his possessing spirit. Yue Yun, Niu Gao, Yang Zaixing, Zhang Fei, Zhao Yun, Ma Chao, Huang Zhong, Li Kui, Wu Song, Lu Zhishen, Tuxing Sun, Lei Zhenzi, Jiang Taigong, Yang Jian, Cheng Yaojin, Qin Shubao, Yuchi Jingde, Yang Qilang, Huyan Qing, Meng Liang, Jiao Zan . . . in a word, characters from opera, heroes in books, and strange figures of legend emerged from their caves and came down from the mountains to attach themselves to the bodies of Masang Township men in order to display their magic powers. Sun Bing, the great loyalist general and leader of the resistance against Jin, Yue Fei, gathered all those heroes and paladins, the epitome of loyalty and righteousness, whose martial skills were second to none, and in the short span of ten days trained a cadre of indestructible warriors who hungered to fight the German devils to the death.

General Yue’s prestige was at its zenith—his every call drew a response from his followers in an army that numbered eight hundred. He recruited local women to dye red cloth for use in making turbans and sashes for the warriors under his command. He personally designed a fiery red battle flag embroidered with the seven stars of the Big Dipper. His eight hundred men were divided into eight contingents, each further divided into ten squads. Contingent commanders and squad leaders were appointed. Squad leaders reported to the contingent commanders, who took orders from the two guardians, Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie, who in turn obeyed the commands of Yue Fei.

As the sun rose on a hazy Qingming morning, General Yue and his two guardians set up an incense stand and planted the General’s flag at the bridgehead. Red turbans and sashes had been distributed the night before. When the cock crowed the third time, the order to muster at the bridgehead was given. Women in all the homes had risen before dawn to prepare food. What exactly? General Yue ordered: Today before the fight, warriors must eat their fill, white flour cakes and red preserved eggs will hunger pangs still. To improve the taste of the food, he told the women of each family to prepare yellow onions in broad-bean sauce. The women, who loved hearing General Yue speak, did as he asked. General Yue said that anyone who did not do as he was told was asking for trouble. What sort of trouble? On the battlefield, their amulets would lose their power, and a bullet does not have eyes. General Yue also told his warriors that they must abstain from relations with a woman that night so their bodies could ward off enemy bullets. Everyone took General Yue’s words to heart—their lives depended on it.

When the early birds had exhausted their songs, all the many heroic warriors, in twos and threes, mustered at the bridgehead, as if on their way to market. General Yue was disappointed in the sloppy way they answered the call, but upon further consideration, he decided not to punish them, as he might have done. Ten days earlier, after all, they had been farmers, used to being carefree and undisciplined, and joining him now, during a holiday season between crops, spoke well of them. In fact, some of the more committed individuals had actually shown up before him.

General Yue looked up into the misty sky. Though he could not see the sun, he figured it must be mid-morning. He had wanted to surprise the Germans in their beds, but it was too late for that. The plan to attack, however, would not be affected, given the difficulty in bringing together so many people at one time. The good news was that enthusiasm was running high. The men were talking and laughing, unlike the days soon after the massacre, when so many families had lost loved ones. After conferring with his two guardians, General Yue decided to start without delay by performing rites before the altar and the flags.

Sixi, the youngster in the cat-skin cap, who had been assigned to transmit General Yue’s orders, raised a ferocious beat on his gong to quiet the noisy gathering of warriors. The General jumped onto a bench and issued his orders:

“Find your contingents and squads, then line up to pay your respects at the divine altar.”

Following a brief commotion, they managed to fall in line, all sporting red turbans and red sashes. Some of them—descendants of men trained in martial arts, families in possession of weapons of war—carried spears; others held cleavers, and still others had shown up with tiger-tail whips. Far more men had arrived with ordinary tools: shovels, pitchforks, double-sided hooks, and manure rakes. But there is strength in numbers, and seven or eight hundred men made a force to be reckoned with. General Yue’s excitement was palpable, for he knew that only by being fired in a furnace does iron become steel, and only by the baptism of battle does a group of men become a fighting force. Transforming a bunch of farmers into the assemblage before him in a mere ten days was nothing short of miraculous. Having no experience in the business of organizing and deploying forces, he had relied on instructions passed quietly to him by Zhu Bajie, who had put in time as a soldier at a small military center in Tianjin, where he had received training in modern drilling, and had even had the privilege of seeing the famous Yuan Shikai, who was overseeing training at the center.

“Pay respects at the altar!” General Yue ordered. “And to the flags!”

The so-called divine altar was in reality an octagonal table with an incense burner. A pair of flags on fresh, unstripped willow branches had been planted in the ground behind the table, one white, the other red. The red flag was the altar banner, with the seven stars of the Big Dipper embroidered in white. The white flag was the commander’s banner, with a large “Yue” embroidered in red. The needlework was the contribution of two nimble-fingered unmarried daughters of tailor Du. Married women were not permitted to do this work, since the hands of married women are considered dirty and would break the spell.

A drizzle began to fall while they were paying their respects to the flags; there was no wind. Both flags hung limply. A flag that did not wave spoiled an otherwise perfect scene, but that could not be helped. On the other hand, the red turbans were resplendent against the overcast sky and in the light drizzle. The red wetness filled General Yue’s eyes and raised his excitement to a fever pitch.

In his role as the young hero Ai Hu in the novel The Seven Heroes and Five Gallants, Sixi raised an ear-splitting din on his gong; he had been banging it so hard over a period of days that he had nearly destroyed the brass instrument and had broken the skin on the hand that was holding it, which was now wrapped in white cloth. The urgent beat of the gong focused the men’s minds and bodies on the task before them. A solemn, reverential mood settled heavily over the assemblage; a mystical aura grew in intensity. Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie lifted a lamb with its legs bound onto the octagonal table. The animal struggled, raising its head up off the table, and rolled its eyes as it pierced the air with a fearful bleat, a cry that wound its way around the men’s hearts and aroused sympathy for the animal. But sympathy was an emotion that had no place at that moment. War entails sacrifice. Before taking on the foreign devils, it was important to first sacrifice a lamb in anticipation of auspicious results. Sun Wukong pressed the lamb hard onto the table and stretched out its neck; Zhu Bajie picked up a hay-chopping knife and gripped the handle with both hands after spitting in them. He then took two steps backward, raised the knife over his head, and, with a shout, chopped the lamb’s head off. Sun Wukong held the severed head up to show everyone as a fountain of blood spewed from the animal’s truncated neck.

General Yue, a grave look frozen on his face, caught some of the blood in his hands and splashed it onto the limp flags, then got down on his knees and kowtowed. His men fell to their knees. After the General was back on his feet, he splashed the remaining blood over the heads of the people; there were far too many people and too little blood to reach more than a few of those nearest to him, who were thrilled to have been so honored. As he released the blood in his hands, the General chanted something, a request to all the spirits, since, as he had made clear to all, there would not be enough time to invite each and every spirit to attach itself to one of the men’s bodies. And so General Yue assumed the task of inviting all the spirits. “If you are pure of heart, the spirits will come,” he had said. Now he told them to call up their individual spirits in their minds and to enter a semi-hypnotic state. After the passage of some time, the General intoned loudly:

“Spirits of Heaven, spirits of the Earth, I respectfully invite you patriarchs to make your presence known. First, the Tang monk Tripitaka and Zhu Bajie; second, Sandy the Monk and Monkey Sun Wukong; third, Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang; fourth, Guan Gong and Zhao Zilong; fifth, Ji Dian, the Buddha; sixth, Li Kui, the Black Whirlwind; seventh, Shi Qian and Yang Xiangwu; eighth, Wu Song and Luo Cheng; ninth, Bianque, curer of maladies; and tenth, I invite the Heavenly King Natha and his three sons—Jinzha, Muzha, and Nazha—to lead a hundred thousand celestial soldiers down to earth to help exterminate the foreign army, for when that is done, the world will be at peace. I beseech the Jade Emperor to urgently give the command——”

The response was immediate, as a rush of extraordinary power infused the body of every man there; blood vessels dilated, energy levels rose, muscles grew taut—they were bursting with strength. A chorus of shouts rent the sky as they leaped and jumped, like big, predatory cats; they frothed at the mouth and glared in anger, flexing arms and kicking legs, every one of them assuming a superhuman pose.

General Yue issued his command:

“We march!”

The General, club in hand, set out on his horse. Sun Wukong, with the red altar flag, Zhu Bajie, with the white commander’s flag, and the little hero, Ai Hu, the gong beater, were hard on his heels. The spirited army marched behind them shouting out a cadence.

Masang Township had been built on the bank of the river; its southern boundary was the great Masang River levee, while a seemingly endless plain marked its northern end. A semicircular defensive wall, with a western, an eastern, and a northern gate, had been built to keep roving bandits at bay. The wall, as tall as an average man, was fronted by a moat with a drawbridge.

General Yue, at the head of his army, passed through the northern gate, followed by a contingent of thrill-seeking children. Armed with tree branches, dry sorghum stalks, and sunflower stems, they had painted their faces with ashes or red coloring. Taking their cue from the adults, they raised shouts in immature voices and swaggered in high spirits as they marched along. Old folks had taken positions on the wall to burn incense and pray for a battlefield victory.

General Yue picked up the pace when they reached the outskirts of town. Ai Hu’s urgent gong beats increased the speed of marching. The railroad shed was not far from town; in fact, it was visible as soon as the army passed through the gate. A light drizzle created patches of mist over the fields. Winter wheat had already turned green; the smell of mud was in the air. Flowers on the sowthistle facing the sun in ditches and furrows looked like specks of gold. Roadside wild apricots were in full bloom, turning the trees a snowy white. A pair of turtledoves, startled by the marching column, flew out of the underbrush; cuckoos made a racket in a distant grove.

The Qingdao-to-Gaomi portion of the Jiaozhou-Jinan line was basically completed; the tracks lay cold and detached in the open field, like a dragon whose head was visible but whose tail extended out of view. Men were already out working on the tracks, pounding spikes into the ground and creating a symphony of metallic rhythms. Milky white smoke streamed into the sky from the railroad shed, and even at that distance—several li—General Yue detected the aroma of meat cooking.

When he was about one li from the railroad shed, General Yue turned to look at his troops. A disciplined army when it set out from town had devolved into a ragtag assemblage of men with mud-caked shoes, stomping along like wayward bears. The General had Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie slow down and told Ai Hu to stop beating the gong. Once the main body of troops had caught up, he issued his orders:

“Clean the mud from your feet, my sons, and get ready to attack!”

They did as he commanded, but gobs of mud wound up in other men’s faces, which led to unpleasant grumblings. Some of the men shook their feet so hard that their shoes flew off with the mud. Seeing that the time was ripe, General Yue announced loudly:

“Iron head, iron waist, iron stockade, impervious to bullets. Valiant warriors, charge the enemy, tear up the tracks, kill the foreign soldiers, and bring peace for generations to come!”

After exhorting his troops, General Yue raised his club and, with a war whoop, bravely led the charge, with Sun Wukong and Zhu Bajie right behind him, holding high the war flags. Ai Hu fell face first into the mud and lost his shoes to the gooey mess. But he scrambled to his feet and took off running barefoot. Shouts emerged from the throats of the rest of the army as they launched their attack on the railroad shed like a swarm of bees.

The men working on the tracks thought it was an opera troupe heading their way, not realizing that the masses were rebelling until the invaders were nearly upon them. They threw down their tools and fled for their lives.

Guarding the work under way was a squad of German marines, a mere dozen men. The earsplitting shouts interrupted their breakfast, and bad news greeted the squad leader when he stepped outside to see what was happening. He rushed back inside and ordered his men to grab their rifles. By the time General Yue and his men were ten or fifteen meters from the shed, the armed Germans were already outside with their rifles.

General Yue saw puffs of white smoke emerge from several of the German rifles and heard the crack of gunfire. Someone screamed behind him, but he had the time neither to turn back to look nor to think. He envisioned himself as a piece of driftwood propelled by surging waves as he virtually flew into the German devils’ shed, in the center of which stood a large table with a pot of stewed pork and some shiny silverware. The meaty smell filled his nostrils. The top half of a German marine had made it under the table; his long legs had not. Zhu Bajie’s rake quickly made its mark on the man’s legs, producing a long and loud shriek. The words sounded like gibberish, but the meaning was clear—he was crying out for his mother and father. General Yue ran out of the shed to lead the pursuit of the fleeing German marines. Most were headed for the sub-grade of the tracks, trying to escape the mob of shouting men behind them.

One of the marines was running in the opposite direction. General Yue and Ai Hu went after him. The man did not seem to be running all-out, and the distance between them shrank rapidly. General Yue watched in fascination as the man stumbled along stiff-legged, as if he had sticks for legs. It was almost comical. Then, without warning, the German dove into a ditch, out of which a puff of green smoke rose almost immediately. An instant later, Ai Hu, who was running ahead of the General, jerked upward before tumbling headlong to the ground. At first he thought the youngster had gotten his legs tangled up, but only until he saw fresh blood seeping from a hole in his forehead. Ai Hu, he knew for certain, had been hit by a bullet from the German’s gun, and he was grief-stricken. He charged the enemy marine, swinging his club over his head, and was nearly brought down by a bullet that whizzed past his ear. But in no time he was upon the German, who came out to meet him, a bayonet attached to his rifle. One swing of his club knocked the rifle out of the man’s hands; with a fearful shout, he turned and ran down the ditch, with General Yue hot on his heels. The German’s high-topped boots slurped in the mud with every step, as if he were dragging mud buckets behind him. General Yue swung his club again, this time connecting with the nape of the man’s neck. A strange bleat burst from the man’s lips, whose body released a muttony odor, and the General’s immediate thought was that the man’s mother might have been a ewe.

The German tripped and fell, burying his face in the mud, and he no sooner realized what had happened than General Yue’s club had flattened his tall helmet. The General was about to keep clubbing him when he saw that the man’s blue eyes were like those of the lamb they’d sacrificed earlier—sad eyes, blinking pitifully, and the General’s wrist failed him. This time the club hit the German marine not on the head but on the shoulder.