the backstroke or ploughing a field. In today's society, Wise Monk, the best that labouring people can hope for is to make enough to live a decent life. Most never even manage that, satisfied if they have enough to eat and a means of keeping warm. Only the bold, the heartless and the shameless find ways to strike it rich. Take that bastard Lao Lan. If he wants money he gets it; if he wants fame he gets it; and if he wants status he gets it—what does that say about social equality? The monk just smiles. I know my anger isn't worth anything, sort of like a beggar venting his anger by grinding his teeth, but perhaps that's where I am now, and perhaps I'll take such things more calmly after shaving my head, becoming a monk and undergoing three years of Buddhist cultivation. But for now I'm just someone who says what's on his mind, and that, Wise Monk, is reason enough to take me on as a novice. If enlightenment eludes me, you can drive me out with your staff. Look, Wise Monk, that marauding Lao Lan has had a rifle sent over. I wonder if he really has the guts to turn the Wutong Temple that his ancestors built into a slaughterhouse. I'll bet he does. I know what he's capable of. He's taken the big-bore rifle from the hands of his sweaty, panting assistant. To be precise, it ought to be called a musket. It doesn't look like much but it's a powerful weapon. My dieh had one of those in the past. Lao Lan is spewing filth, and those yellow eyes of his look like gold-plated balls. Don't be fooled by his suit and his polished shoes—he's still a thug, through and through. He looks at the ostriches; they cock their heads and look back at him. He pulls the trigger just as a gob of bird shit lands on his nose. He tucks his neck down into his shoulders, jerks the barrel into the air and sends a musket ball in a blast of flames across a broad swath of temple eaves. Amid the dying roar of the explosion rain down shards of broken tiles just beyond the temple door, no more than a couple of paces from where we're sitting. A cry of alarm escapes my lips but the Wise Monk remains seated peacefully, as if nothing has happened. Enraged, Lao Lan flings the musket to the ground and wipes the filth off his face with tissues handed to him by his assistant. Then he looks up into the sky, which is deep blue, nearly black, except where dark clouds gather. A scattered flock of white-bellied magpies loudly announces its passage from north to south. The fouler of Lao Lan's nose is a member of that flock. ‘That's magpie shit, Boss Lan,’ his assistant says, ‘and that's a good sign.’ ‘Enough of your arse-kissing!’ snaps Lao Lan. ‘Magpie shit is still shit. Reload the musket. I'm going to blow every fucking one of those birds out of the sky.’ An underling rushes up, kneels on one knee—his right—and lays the musket across his upturned knee—his left. He opens the sleek powder horn and pours in a measure of powder. ‘More powder,’ Lao Lan commands. ‘Fill it up, damn it. I've had nothing but bad luck today. A couple of good shots should blast that away.’ As he bites down on his lip, the underling stuffs the powder into the barrel with a ramrod as Fan Zhaoxia walks up with the girl in her arms: ‘What sort of shitty birdbrain antics are you up to? Look what you did to our poor Jiaojiao!’ My heart lurches when I hear that name. A mixture of rage and sorrow twists and turns its way into my head. They actually named their daughter Jiaojiao, the same as my little sister? Was it deliberate? And was it kindness or malice? Images of Jiaojiao's adorable face when she was healthy and her face twisted in pain just before she died flash through my mind. One of Lao Lan's underlings, a youthful boy with a girlish face, walks up and says with respectful earnestness: ‘Boss Lan, Madam, we shouldn't be wasting time here, we should be at the ceremony site getting the camels ready. If they perform well, the reviews will be positive. As far as the ostriches are concerned, we can try again next year.’ Fan Zhaoxia gives