Call to Arms Read online

Two years ago, Mrs. Sevenpounder remembered, her husband in a fit of drunkenness had cursed Seventh Master Zhao as a “bastard.” Hence she at once realized instinctively the danger her husband was in, and her heart started pounding.

  As Seventh Master Zhao passed them, all those sitting eating stood up and, pointing their chopsticks at their rice bowls, invited him to join them. He nodded greetings to them all, urging them to go on with their meal, while he made straight for Sevenpounder's table. Sevenpounder's family got up at once to greet him. Seventh Master Zhao urged them with a smile, “Go on with your meal, please!” At the same time he took a good look at the food on the table.

  “That dried rape smells good—have you heard the news?” Seventh Master Zhao was standing behind Sevenpounder opposite Mrs. Sevenpounder.

  “There's an emperor again on the Dragon Throne,” said Sevenpounder.

  Wathcing Seventh Master's expression, Mrs. Sevenpounder forced a smile. “Now that there's an emperor on the throne, when will there be a general amnesty?” She asked.

  “A general amnesty?... All in good time.” Suddenly Seventh Master spoke more sternly, “But what about Sevenpounder's queue, eh? That's the important thing. You know how it was in the time of the Long Hairs: keep your hair and lose your head; keep your head and lose your hair.”

  Sevenpounder and his wife had never read any books, so this classical lore was lost on them; but this statement from a learned man like Seventh Master convinced them that the situation must be desperate, past saving. It was as if they had received their death sentence. Their ears buzzed, and they were unable to utter another word.

  “Each generation is worse than the last.” Old Mrs. Ninepounder, feeling put out, seized this chance to speak to Seventh Master Zhao. “The Long Hairs nowadays just cut off men's queues, leaving them looking neither Buddhist nor Taoist. The old Long Hairs never did that. Seventy-nine years I've lived and that's enough. The old Long Hairs wore red satin turbans with one end hanging down, right down to their heels. The prince wore a yellow satin turban with one end hanging down... yellow satin. Red satin, yellow satin... I've lived long enough... seventy-nine.”

  “What's to be done?” muttered Mrs. Sevenpounder, standing up. “Such a big family, old and young, and all dependent on him....”

  “There's nothing you can do.” Seventh Master Zhao shook his head. “The punishment for having no queue is written down clearly in a book, sentence by sentence. The size of a man's family makes no difference.”

  When Mrs. Sevenpounder heard that it was written in a book, she really gave way to despair. Beside herself with anxiety, she felt a sudden fresh hatred for Sevenpounder. Pointing her chopsticks at the tip of his nose, she cried. “As you make your bed, so you must lie on it! Didn't I say at the time of the revolt: don't go out with the boat, don't go to town. But go he would. Off he rolled, and in town they cut off his queue, his glossy black queue. Now he looks neither Buddhist nor Taoist. He's made his own bed, he'll have to lie on it. But what right has the wretch to drag us into it? Jail-bird zombie....”

  Seventh Master Zhao's arrival in the village made all the villagers finish their supper quickly and gather round Sevenpounder's table. Sevenpounder knew how unseemly it was for a prominent citizen to be cursed in public like this by his wife. So he raised his head to retort slowly:

  “You've plenty to say today, but at the time....”

  “Jail-bird zombie!...”

  Widow Ba Yi had the kindest heart of all the onlookers there. Carrying her two-year-old, born after her husband's death, she was watching the fun at Mrs. Sevenpounder's side. Now she felt things had gone too far and hurriedly tried to make peace.

  “Never mind, Mrs. Sevenpounder. People aren't spirits—who can foretell the future? Didn't you yourself say at the time there was nothing to be ashamed of in having no queue? Besides, no order's come down yet from the big mandarin in the yamen....”

  Before she had finished, Mrs. Sevenpounder's ears were scarlet. She turned her chopsticks to point at the widow's nose. “Aiya, what a thing to say, Mrs. Ba Yi! I'm still a human being, ain't I—how could I have said anything so ridiculous? Why, at the time I cried for three whole days. Ask anyone you like. Even this little devil Sixpounder cried....” Sixpounder had just finished a big bowl of rice and was holding out her empty bowl clamouring to have it refilled. Mrs. Sevenpounder, being in a temper, smacked her chopsticks down between the twin tufts on the child's head. “Who wants you to barge in?” She yelled, “Little slut!”

  Chuck! The empty bowl in Sixpounder's hand thudded to the ground striking the corner of a brick so that a big piece broke off. Sevenpounder jumped to his feet and picked up the broken bowl. Having fitted the pieces together he examined it, swearing, “Mother's!” He gave Sixpounder a slap that knocked her over. Sixpounder lay there crying until Old Mrs. Ninepounder took her hand and led her away repeating, “Each generation is worse than the last.”

  Now it was Widow Ba Yi's turn to be angry. “How can you hit out at random like that, Mrs. Sevenpounder!” she shouted.

  Seventh Master Zhao had been looking on with a smile, but after Widow Ba Yi's statement that no order had come down from “the big mandarin in the yamen” he began to lose his temper. Coming right up to the table, he declared, “Hitting out at random doesn't matter. The Imperial Army will be here any time now. I'd have you know the new Protector is General Zhang, who's descended from Zhang Fei of the former state of Yan. With his huge lance eighteen feet long, he dares take on ten thousand men. Who can stand against him?” Raising both hands as if grasping a huge invisible lance, he took a few swift paces towards Widow Ba Yi. “Are you a match for him?”

  Widow Ba Yi was trembling with rage as she held her child. But the sudden sight of Seventh Master Zhao bearing down on her with glaring eyes, his whole face oozing sweat, gave her the fright of her life. Not daring to say more, she turned and fled. Then Seventh Master Zhao left too. The villagers as they made way for him deplored Widow Ba Yi's interference, while a few men who had cut their queues and started growing them again hid hastily behind the rest for fear Seventh Master should see them. However, without making a careful inspection Seventh Master passed through the group, dived behind the tallow trees, and with a parting “Think you're a match for him!” strode on to the one-plank bridge and swaggered off.

  The villagers stood there blankly, turning things over in their minds. All felt they were indeed no match for Zhang Fei, hence Sevenpounder's life was as good as lost. And since Sevenpounder had broken the imperial law he should not, they felt, have adopted that lordly air, smoking that long pipe of his, when he told them the news from town. So the thought that he had broken the law gave them a certain pleasure. They would have liked to air their views, but did not know what to say. Buzzing mosquitoes, brushing past their bare arms, zoomed back to swarm beneath the tallow trees; and the villagers too slowly scattered to their homes, shut their doors and went to bed. Grumbling to herself, Mrs. Sevenpounder also cleared away the dishes and took in the table and stools, then closed the door and went to bed.

  Sevenpounder took the broken bowl inside, then sat on the doorstep smoking. He was so worried, however, that he forgot to inhale, and the light in the pewter bowl of his six-foot speckled bamboo pipe with the ivory mouthpiece gradually turned black. It struck him that matters had reached a most dangerous pass, and he tried to think of a way out, some plan of action. But his thoughts were in too much of a whirl for him to straighten them out. “Queues, eh, queues? An eighteen foot lance. Each generation is worse than the last! An emperor is on the Dragon Throne. The broken bowl will have to be taken to town to be riveted. Who's a match for him? It's written in a book. Mother's!...”

  Early the next day, as usual, Sevenpounder went with the boat to town, coming back to Luzhen towards evening with his six-foot speckled bamboo pipe and the rice bowl. At supper he told Old Mrs. Ninepounder that he had had the bowl riveted in town. Because it was such a large break, sixteen copper clamps had been needed, e
ach costing three cash, making the total cost forty-eight cash.

  “Each generation is worse than the last,” said Old Mrs. Ninepounder crossly. “I've lived long enough. Three cash for a clamp. Clamps didn't cost so much in the old day. The clamps we had.... Seventy-nine years I've lived....”

  After this, though Sevenpounder continued making his daily trip to town, his house seemed to be under a cloud. Most of the villagers kept out of his way, no longer coming to ask him the news from town. Mrs. Sevenpounder was in a bad temper too, constantly addressing him as “Jailbird.”

  A fortnight or so later, on his return from town Sevenpounder found his wife in a rare good humour. “Heard anything in town?” She asked him.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Is there an emperor on the Dragon Throne?”

  “They didn't say.”

  “Did no one in Prosperity Tavern say anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “I don't believe there's an emperor again. I passed Seventh Master Zhao's wineshop today and he was sitting there reading, with his queue coiled on top of his head again. He wasn't wearing his long gown either.”

  “....”

  “Do you think there's no emperor after all?”

  “I think probably not.”

  Today Sevenpounder is once more respected and well treated by his wife and the villagers. In the summer his family still have their meals on the mud flat outside their door, and everyone greets them with smiles. Old Mrs. Ninepounder celebrated her eightieth birthday some time ago and is as full of complaints, as hale and hearty as ever. Sixpounder's twin tufts of hair have changed into a thick braid. Although recently they started binding her feet, she can still help Mrs. Sevenpounder with odd jobs. She hobbles to and fro on the mud flat carrying the rice bowl with sixteen copper rivets.

  October 1920

  ■ My Old Home

  Braving the bitter cold, I travelled more than two thousand li back to the old home I had left over twenty years ago.

  It was late winter. As we drew near my former home the day became overcast and a cold wind blew into the cabin of our boat, while all one could see through the chinks in our bamboo awning were a few desolate villages, void of any sign of life, scattered far and near under the sombre yellow sky. I could not help feeling depressed.

  Ah! Surely this was not the old home I had been remembering for the past twenty years?

  The old home I remembered was not in the least like this. My old home was much better. But if you asked me to recall its peculiar charm or describe its beauties, I had no clear impression, no words to describe it. And now it seemed this was all there was to it. Then I rationalized the matter to myself, saying: Home was always like this, and although it had not improved, still it is not so depressing as I imagine; it is only my mood that has changed, because I am coming back to the country this time with no illusions.

  This time I had come with the sole object of saying goodbye. The old house our clan had lived in for so many years had already been sold to another family, and was to change hands before the end of the year. I had to hurry there before New Year's Day to say goodbye for ever to the familiar old house, and to move my family to another place where I was working, far from my old home town.

  At dawn on the second day I reached the gateway of my home. Broken stems of withered grass on the roof, trembling in the wind, made very clear the reason why this old house could not avoid changing hands. Several branches of our clan had probably already moved away, so it was unusually quiet. By the time I reached the house my mother was already at the door to welcome me, and my eight-year-old nephew, Hong'er rushed out after her.

  Though Mother was delighted, she was also trying to hide a certain feeling of sadness. She told me to sit down and rest and have some tea, letting the removal wait for the time being. Hong'er, who had never seen me before, stood watching me at a distance.

  But finally we had to talk about the removal. I said that rooms had already been rented elsewhere, and I had bought a little furniture; in addition it would be necessary to sell all the furniture in the house in order to buy more things. Mother agreed, saying that the luggage was nearly all packed, and about half the furniture that could not be easily moved had already been sold. Only it was difficult to get people to pay up.

  “You can rest for a day or two, and call on our relatives, and then we can go,” said Mother.

  “Yes.”

  “Then there is Runtu. Each time he comes here he always asks after you, and wants very much to see you again. I told him the probable date of your return home, and he may be coming any time.”

  At this point a strange picture suddenly flashed into my mind: a golden moon suspended in a deep blue sky and beneath it the seashore, planted as far as the eye could see with jadegreen watermelons, while in their midst a boy of eleven or twelve, wearing a silver necklet and grasping a steel pitchfork in his hand, was thrusting with all his might at a zha which dodged the blow and escaped through his legs.

  This boy was Runtu. When I first met him he was little more than ten—that was thirty years ago, and at that time my father was still alive and the family well off, so I was really a spoilt child. That year it was our family's turn to take charge of a big ancestral sacrifice, which came round only once in thirty years, and hence was an important one. In the first month the ancestral images were presented and offerings made, and since the sacrificial vessels were very fine and there was such a crowd of worshippers, it was necessary to guard against theft. Our family had only one part-time servant. (In our district we divide servants into three classes: those who work all the year for one family are called full-timers; those who are hired by the day are called dailies; and those who farm their own land and only work for one family at New Year, during festivals or when rents are being collected are called part-timers.) And since there was so much to be done, he told my father that he would send for his son Runtu to look after the sacrificial vessels.

  When my father gave his consent I was overjoyed, because I had long since heard of Runtu and knew that he was about my own age, born in the intercalary month, and when his horoscope was told it was found that of the five elements that of earth was lacking, so his father called him Runtu (Intercalary Earth). He could set traps and catch small birds.

  I looked forward every day to New Year, for New Year would bring Runtu. At last the end of the year came, and one day Mother told me that Runtu had come, and I flew to see him. He was standing in the kitchen. He had a round, crimson face and wore a small felt cap on his head and a gleaming silver necklet on his neck, showing that his father doted on him and, fearing he might die, had made a pledge with the gods and Buddhas, using the necklet as a talisman. He was very shy, and I was the only person he was not afraid of. When there was no one else there, he would talk with me, so in a few hours we were fast friends.

  I don't know what we talked of then, but I remember that Runtu was in high spirits, saying that since he had come to town he had seen many new things.

  The next day I wanted him to catch birds.

  “Can't be done,” he said. “It's only possible after a heavy snowfall. On our sands, after it snows, I sweep clear a patch of ground, prop up a big threshing basket with a short stick, and scatter husks of grain beneath; then when I see the birds coming to eat, from a distance I give a tug to the string tied to the stick, and the birds are caught in the basket. There are all kinds: wild pheasants, woodcocks, woodpigeons, bluebacks....”

  Accordingly I looked forward very eagerly to snow.

  “Just now it is too cold,” said Runtu another time, “but you must come to our place in summer. In the daytime we will go to the seashore to look for shells, there are green ones and red ones, besides ‘scare-devil’ shells and ‘Buddha's hands.’ In the evening when Dad and I go to see to the watermelons, you shall come too.”

  “Is it to look out for thieves?”

  “No. If passers-by are thirsty and pick a watermelon, folk down our way don't cons
ider it as stealing. What we have to look out for are stoat, hedgehogs and zha. When you hear a crunching sound under the moonlight, made by the zha when it bites the melons, then you take your pitchfork and creep stealthily over....”

  I had no idea then what this thing called zha was—and I am not much clearer now, for that matter—but somehow I felt it was something like a small dog, and very fierce.

  “Don't they bite people?”

  “You have a pitchfork. You go across, and when you see it you strike. It's a very cunning creature and will rush towards you and get away between you legs. Its fur is as slippery as oil....”

  I had never known that all these strange things existed: at the seashore were shells all the colours of the rainbow; watermelons had such a dangerous history, yet all I had known of them before was that they were sold in the greengrocer's.

  “On our shore, when the tide comes in, there are lots of jumping fish, each with two legs like a frog....”

  Runtu's mind was a treasure-house of such strange lore, all of it outside the ken of my former friends. They were ignorant of all these things and, while Runtu lived by the sea, they like me could see only the four corners of the sky above the high courtyard wall.

  Unfortunately, a month after New Year Runtu had to go home. I burst into tears and he took refuge in the kitchen, crying and refusing to come out, until finally he was carried off by his father. Later he sent me by his father a packet of shells and a few very beautiful feathers, and I sent him presents once or twice, but we never saw each other again.

  Now that my mother mentioned him, this childhood memory sprang into life like a flash of lightning, and I seemed to see my beautiful old home. So I answered:

  “Fine! And he—how is he?”

  “He?... He's not at all well off either,” said Mother. And then, looking out of the door: “Here come those people again. They say they want to buy our furniture; but actually they just want to see what they can pick up. I must go and watch them.”