wide overlapping sleeves, thus lending the profession an air of mystery. My father's appearance took the confusion out of buying and selling cattle and brought an end to the darker aspects of the process. He effectively drove the shifty-eyed brokers off the stage of history. This remarkable advance in the buying and selling of cattle on the hoof could, with only a bit of exaggeration, be called revolutionary. Displays of my father's keen eye were not limited to cattle but worked with pigs and sheep as well. Like a master carpenter who can build a table but can also build a chair, and, if he's especially talented, a coffin, my father had no trouble sizing up even camels.
When I reach this point, I seem to hear the barely audible sound of sobbing from behind the Wutong Spirit. Can it really be Aunty Wild Mule? If it is, why hasn't her face changed in more than a decade? No, that's impossible, it can't be. But if she isn't, why can't I tear myself away from her? Perhaps she's Aunty Wild Mule's ghost. Legend has it that ghosts don't cast a shadow. Too bad I didn't think to see if she cast a shadow when she came in. But it's a rainy day, dark and gloomy, and no one casts a shadow when there's no sun. So it wouldn't have done me any good if I'd thought to look. What's she doing there behind the idol? Rubbing the rump of the human-headed Horse Spirit? A decade ago I heard someone say that there are women who will kneel before this idol and burn incense to plead for the restoration of their impotent husbands’ manhood, then go round to the rear and pat the rump of the handsome, powerful, magnificent young stallion. I know there's a wall behind the statue, and a little door that opens onto a tiny windowless room that's so dark you have to light a lantern to see, even in the middle of the day. The room is furnished with a wobbly bed covered by a blue quilt made of coarse cotton. The bundle of rolled wheat straw that serves as a pillow and the quilt are greasy. Hordes of fleas lie in wait, ready to jump excitedly and noisily onto anyone who enters with exposed skin, as do the bedbugs resting on the walls: ‘Meat, here comes meat!’ they seem to squeak in excitement. People eat the flesh of pigs, dogs, cows and sheep; fleas and bedbugs eat the flesh of humans. This is known as the subjugation of one species by another or, simply, tit for tat. The woman, whether or not she's Aunty Wild Mule, I want to tell her: ‘Come out here! Don't let those evil creatures spoil your sumptuous skin and flesh. And you surely don't want to pat the horse's rump. My heart aches for you and I wish you'd come out and pat me on the rump.’ I say that, even though I'm aware that, if she is my Aunty Wild Mule, then my thoughts are sinful. But I can't control my desires. If this woman will take me away with her, I'll give up my plan to join your order, Wise Monk. I can't tell any more of my story right now. I'm confused. The Wise Monk seems to be able to read my mind, since I didn't say any of this but merely thought it. But he knows. His sardonic laugh brings an end to my lustful thoughts. All right, I'll go on—
POW! 6
Father carried me on his shoulder over to the threshing ground early one summer day. After our village was turned into a huge slaughterhouse, the fields, for all intents and purposes, were left fallow, since only a fool would till a field and not take up butchering, thanks to the advent of injecting water into the meat. Then, once the fields lay fallow, the threshing ground was converted into the place where cattle were bought and sold. The township officials had wanted to use the government square, so they could collect a management fee, but the people would have none of it. When they came to the cattle exchange with soldiers, to force the people to stop doing business there, they ran up against men armed with butcher knives. Fights broke out and people nearly died. Four butchers were arrested. Their wives organized a protest and went to the county seat to stage a sit-in demonstration, some