Charting the magic, realism and magical realism in Mo Yan’s writings

In the depths of a dreamy slumber where the distinctions between the real and the supernatural are so often blurred, Mo Yan 莫言 – the first Chinese national to be awarded a Nobel Prize for Literature – is summoned by his ‘great-great-great…grandfather’ to ride on horseback three hundred miles from his hometown and visit an old ancestral master sat beneath a willow tree in Zichuan. The wiry, grey-haired gentleman with a mole the size of a copper coin beneath his right breast is revealed to be Pu Songling 蒲松齡, the Qing-dynasty raconteur whose magnum opus lends this blog its title, and emerges from this hallucinatory episode as the author’s foremost artistic influence.

Such luminous depictions of supernatural encounters in the countryside of north-eastern China are typical of Mo Yan’s writing. In Red Sorghum 紅高粱家族 (1986), a story of three generations of one agrarian family’s experience of war and revolution from 1923 to 1976, red fields are endowed with a sense of untamed mysticism, their vitality, wildness and deep red colour mirroring the passion and bloodshed of the novel’s protagonists and the ghosts that inhabit them.

Mo Yan’s folksy sensibilities and use of countryside vernacular imbue his works with an impressive sense of verisimilitude. Vulgar, profane, sexually explicit and often repulsive, Mo Yan’s works do not shy away from visceral imagery to augment the realism and humanity of his narratives. But he does not employ crudeness for the sake of crudeness alone; more colourful depictions of human bodily functions often serve important allegorical purposes. Mo Yan describes ligation, abortion and the reproductive processes in gory depth in Frog 蛙 (2009), the story of an illicit abortionist, to illustrate the human suffering caused by China’s one-child policy.

Mo Yan’s penchant for juxtaposing the mystic against the banal have invited comparisons with Latin American magical realists. It has therefore largely been through the prism of Marquezian ‘magical realism’ that Western critics have made sense of Mo Yan’s inflection of rural banality with elements of magic. This is not entirely misleading; in his 2012 Nobel Lecture, Mo Yan cited Marquez’ and Borges’ ‘bold and unrestrained’ world-building as inspiration for the creation of his own mystical literary domain – a mysticised re-imagining of his hometown, Gaomi 高密.

Indeed, the zany style of Mo Yan’s earlier works was without doubt shaped by the eclectic, cosmopolitan intellectual milieu out of which they were born. As China emerged from the shadows of Cultural Revolution-era censorship in the early 1980s, a wave of Western texts in translation — including Alvin Toffler’s The Third Wave, Weber’s The Protestant Ethic, and, of course, Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude – cascaded through the country’s ‘intellectual youth’ 知青, a generation deprived of the opportunity to engage (licitly) with foreign literature. The Party’s tentative movement towards liberalisation ushered in a short-lived spurt of cultural rejuvenation, as artists consumed and produced foreign and foreign-inflected art with unprecedented interest. And it was amidst this atmosphere of curiosity and experimentation – a ‘high culture fever’, as Jing Wang termed it – that Mo Yan spent his formative artistic years.

Yet despite Mo Yan’s eagerness to inscribe his works into the global literary conversation, the decision to award him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2012 was met with vocal resistance from large sections of the international literary establishment. First and foremost, Mo Yan’s perceived obsequiousness towards the Party incited the ire of Western alarmists, breathing renewed life into wider debates surrounding the position of the artist in authoritarian societies. Citing Mo Yan’s refusal to sign a petition calling for the freedom of human rights activist Liu Xiaobo as evidence for his subservience to the Party, 2009 Nobel Laureate Herta Muller judged the Swedish Academy’s decision to reward the author to be tantamount to a ‘slap in the face for all those working for democracy and human rights’. Salman Rushdie, an author well au fait with provocative public pronouncements, labelled Mo Yan a ‘patsy’ to the regime in light of his decision to reproduce Mao’s incendiary “Yan’an Talks on Art and Literature” in calligraphy – an action which Mo Yan insistently defends as a mere favour to an artist friend.

Both authors’ remarks reveal either an ignorance or a profound lack of sympathy towards both the content of Mo Yan’s writings and the political conditions out of which they were born. Any artist as prolific as Mo Yan hoping to maintain his standing within stringent editorial constraints would inevitably feel pressure to exercise prudence in his public utterances – or at least cloak any criticism of the regime in allegory. And while the Party’s celebration of his Nobel Prize should suggest that Mo Yan by no means a dissident author, his works have successively been interpreted as tacit criticisms of the contemporary regime. More recently, Mo Yan has found himself the target of legal action for smearing the Party in his works amidst China’s increasingly febrile censorial climate.

By way of more substantive critiques, foreign critics have derided the ostensible artifice of Mo Yan’s work. In the view of Kenyon College’s Professor Anna Sun, no Chinese writers of Mo Yan’s generation possess the capacity for authentic literary expression; having come of age in a vacuum of literary influences – a time of ‘hunger for nourishment of the soul’, she puts it – due to censorial constraints of High Maoism, Chinese writers of Mo Yan’s vintage were invariably starved of reading material of any intrinsic worth growing up. Inevitably, Mo Yan’s prose is ‘diseased’ by the stringent literary norms of Mao-ti 毛體 – the formulaic style of trite, didactic works of socialist realism prescribed by Party. His engagement with the greats of Western literature is superficial and unfocused, and his veneer of cosmopolitanism, she goes on to argue, does little to conceal the vapidity and coarseness of his works.

Sun’s rather dim view of Mo Yan – and post-Mao Chinese literature more broadly – is, I’m afraid, deeply misguided. Her erroneous assumptions regarding Mo Yan’s lack of access to foreign literature growing up aside (the notion of the PRC’s fledgling years under Mao (1949-1976) as an insular ‘literary desert’ has been flatly debunked by Nicolai Volland’s research into Cultural Revolution-era underground literary movements), Sun greatly underestimates the extent of the author’s engagement with native literature. Although Mo Yan acknowledges the influence of Latin American magical realism on his work, he is quick to balance such admissions with expressions of his admiration for Chinese literary traditions. In his aforementioned Nobel Lecture, for example, he anchors his passion for storytelling in the soil of rural Shandong, recounting his enchantment by the local countryside as a dejected primary school drop-out: ‘I turned the animals loose on the riverbank to graze beneath a sky as blue as the ocean and grass-carpeted land as far as the eye could see…That part of the country is known for its tales of foxes in the form of beautiful young women, and I would fantasise a fox-turned-beautiful girl coming to tend animals with me’.

Indeed, Mo Yan was as much a champion of Chinese traditions of mystical storytelling as he was of magical realism. Running parallel to China’s ‘high culture fever’ in the 1980s was the birth of an alternative literary movement – ‘root-seeking literature’ 尋根文學 – which sought to revive Chinese literature’s connection to its cultural roots and re-centre narratives from the countryside, in part as a response to the influx of foreign notions of modernity. Mo Yan grew to identify with the root-seekers, particularly following the publication of his earliest works. Disillusioned by the lukewarm reception to his 1993 novel The Republic of Wine 酒國 and dwindling hopes for a democratic China post-Tiananmen, Mo Yan drew upon Chinese folk storytelling traditions with greater interest in the 1990s, the decade in which the short stories translated below were authored.

With respect to his injection of mysticism into banal depictions of rural China, the shadow Pu Songling’s legacy looms long over Mo Yan’s work. Like Pu, Mo Yan blurs the divide between humans and animals in Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out 生死疲勞 (2006), in which the narrative voice experiences the tumult of China’s twentieth century through successive incarnations as a cow, a donkey, a pig, a monkey and a dog. After the novel’s publication, Mo Yan recounts, ‘some said that I had learnt from Latin American magical realism’. A professor from his alma matter, Shandong University, however, put forward a more accurate assessment: ‘Mo Yan, you used this novel to pay tribute to Pu Songling’.

Mo Yan’s admiration for Pu is displayed in sharp relief in the stories translated below. From tales of a vengeful half-tailed wolf with superhuman powers of navigation, to a thinly-veiled allegory warning of the natural world’s supernatural ability to fight back in resistance against its destruction, to a dreamlike sequence in which the author outright confesses his own ancestral affinity to Pu’s writing, Mo Yan exhibits a profound fascination with the mystic Chinese countryside and the supernatural folk tales hidden therein.

Equally, Mo Yan’s copious use of gory visceral imagery to critique China’s social ills draws upon the realist literature of China’s New Culture Movement (1915-1921). Most conspicuously, the conceit of cannibalism his 1993 novel The Republic of Wine 酒國, in which corrupt officials in a remote area of rural China are suspected of rearing infants for the sole purpose of devouring their flesh, echoes the social realism of Lu Xun’s 魯迅 canonical The Diary of a Madman 狂人日記 (1918), in which the narrative voice spirals into schizophrenic paranoia amidst fears of his fellow villagers’ clandestine human-eating habits.

On balance, to view Mo Yan’s writings as a hodgepodge of disparate Western influences neglects to consider their affinity to native Chinese literary traditions. Read as straightforward ‘Chinese imitations’ of magical realism, Mo Yan’s works of course pale in comparison to those of Marquez or Borges. But situating them in appropriate Chinese contexts – as products of Pu Songling’s supernatural stories, early-twentieth-century social realism, the ‘roots-seeking’ movement, Maoist socialist realism and the ‘high culture fever’ of the 1980s in equal measure – illuminates their richness and originality.

The truth is that Mo Yan did not come of age in a cultural vacuum, nor is he a slavish toady of the CCP. His absurdist, supernatural tellings of rural banality owe as much of a debt of influence to Chinese traditions as they do to Latin American magical realists. And while his political commentary may not be as overt and as brazen as his detractors might hope, it is expressed both consciously and delicately.

The texts translated below illustrate Mo Yan’s characteristic surrealist, self-deprecating wit. And yes, while a humourless, sanctimonious reading of both stories might alienate the reader to the author’s sprawling narratives and increasingly absurd imagery, what would the fun in that be? Read Mo Yan’s short stories as Pu Songling would listen to the tales of parched-mouth passers-by beneath his willow tree in Zichuan: with the eagerness of an old man’s lucid, childlike eyes, with the generosity of a shared cup of tea or a puff of tobacco, and with the willingness to embrace every cock-and-bull story, every contorted rumour and every tale of oxen, demons, snakes and spirits.

Translated works: “Learning from Pu Songling” 學習蒲松齡 and “A Wolf Hung Upside-Down on the Apricot Tree” 一匹倒掛在杏樹上的狼 both from Mo Yan’s 莫言 The Beauty Riding a Donkey on Chang’an Avenue 長安大道上的騎驢美人 (2019)

_________________________________________________________________________

‘Learning from Pu Songling’ 學習蒲松齡

Three hundred miles to the west of my home is a place named Zichuan [‘River Zi’]. Three hundred years ago, beneath a willow tree in Pu Family Village by Zichuan sat an old man with a white beard. Before him was a small square table, and on that table were placed a teapot, teacups, a tobacco basket and a tobacco pipe bowl. If those passing by were thirsty or had grown tired from walking, they could sit by the square table to drink a cup of tea or smoke a pouch of tobacco. As they were smoking tobacco or drinking tea, the old man with a white beard would say, ‘Tell me a story, would you? Whatever story you like – fine by me. Stories about strange people, strange things, stories about oxen, demons, snakes and spirits, whatever story you like – fine by me. Come on, please!’ And although his hair was white and frayed and his face dotted with wrinkles, his eyes would shine lucid like those of a three-year-old child, such that no passer-by would feel able to reject his request. In any case, they would have had also drunk his tea and smoked his tobacco at this stage. Thereupon, every contorted rumour, every cock-and-bull story would one by one become material for The Studio of Leisure. Of course, this old man with a white beard could only be Pu Songling, a genius with a black mole the size of a copper coin just beneath his right breast.

My grandfather’s great-great-great-…grandfather sold horses for a living, and would several times each year rush herds of steeds past the willow tree in Pu family village. He would drink Pu Songling’s tea, smoke his tobacco, and naturally would also tell him stories. It was this ancestor of mine who provided Pu with material for the story of the mouse spirit A-xianfrom The Studio of Leisure. This was also the only one among the more than four hundred stories from The Studio of Leisure to take place in my hometown, Gaomi. In the writings of old Pu, A-xian was adorable. With delicate brows, elegant eyes and of gentle character, she was also adept at hoarding grain. During years of great famine when commoners had no food, she would dig up grain from a hole in the earth and sell it off at a high price. As such, the poor boy who married her also earned a great fortune, and took advantage of low prices during the years of famine to buy a large swathe of land, where they lived a wealthy life of lush furs and stout horses. Their only area of dissatisfaction was that A-xian liked to grind her teeth when she slept, yet this was a naturally occurring problem with no apparent remedy.

Upon learning that I wrote novels, this horse dealer ancestor of mine made an appearance in my dream and implored me to visit the old master. My ancestor riding a white steed and me a red one, we set forth westward faster than the electric train on Jiaoji railroad. Moments later, we had arrived at the willow tree in Pu family village, where the old master was sat dozing away. When we arrived, we startled him awake. My ancestor said, ‘quickly, kneel before him!’ I knelt down in a flurry and performed three kowtows. The old master took the measure of me with a penetrating gaze like an awl and asked in a muffled voice, ‘what one earth are you doing that for?!’ Beneath his watchful gaze, I couldn’t even muster up a murmur.

He said, ‘I’ve seen what you’ve written – it’s alright. But compared to me, you’re well off the mark!’

‘Brother Pu, I brought along this grey-haired grandson of mine to let you set him straight!’ my ancestor said, before giving me a kick on the arse and shouting out, ‘what are you doing not kowtowing to the old master?’ Thereupon, I performed three more kowtows.

The old master plucked a large brush from his bosom and threw it towards me. ‘Go home and do your worst!’ he said. I caught the hefty, yellow-haired brush and muttered in a restrained tone, ‘We use computers nowadays…’ My ancestor kicked me in the arse once more, scolding me, ‘vile spawn, how ungrateful you are!’ I performed three further kowtows for the old master.

‘A Wolf Hung Upside-Down on the Apricot Tree’ 一匹倒掛在杏樹上的狼

During the Yuan dynasty, that land of ours lay unperturbed by the breath of human life. Forests grew lush and untamed, and wild animals—from wolves, to leopards, to lynxes—flourished. It was even said that a family of tigers made their home there. When the Ming dynasty ascended to power, Zhu Yuanzhang ordered settlers to migrate here, exiling those who had transgressed to this remote place. As the smoke of hearths and homes spread to every corner of our land, the forests were stripped bare, the land tilled, and the land where wild animals once roamed began to shrink. By the dawn of the Qing dynasty, that place of ours had become a town of life and prosperity. The forests continued to dwindle, and with them, the wild creatures faded. When the Qing ceded rulership to the Republican government, the Germans build a railroad here, clearing all the remaining trees. The wild animals lost all their hiding places, and were left with no option but to leave town teary-eyed and migrate to the vast forestland of north-east China. In more recent times, the state has neglected to control the population, leading to troubling levels of overcrowding. One by one, villages hurriedly sprouted from the earth like poisonous mushrooms after rainfall, such that our ten-thousand mile expanse of land succumbed entirely to human domination. All wild animals had fled without a trace, no more murmurs of tigers, it even became rare to come across rabbits. And although grown-ups still tried to frighten their children with cries of ‘the wolf is coming’, the children were no longer afraid. ‘What? What’s a wolf?’ The older children may have seen wolves in picture books, but the younger children were left confused. And it was against this backdrop that a wolf appeared in the depths of the night and snuck into our village.

When we saw it, the wolf was already tied by its hind leg, hanging upside down from the branches of an apricot tree. The tree grew in the yard of our classmate Xu Bao’s house. Its crown was vast, its trunk gnarled and knotted — a decidedly old tree. The wolf hung from the very branch we had sat on eating apritcots. This year’s apricot blossoms had already fallen, and between the goosey golden leaves, tiny fuzzy apricots grew in clusters.

I was on my way to school when I caught wind of the wolf. My classmate Su Weiai came running toward me from the direction of the school. I stopped him and asked, ‘Su Weiai, why are you running? Did your mother die?’

‘You’re the one whose mother’s died!’ Su Weiai panted. ‘You idiot, why are you still going to school?’

‘Err… to study?! Why the hell would we not be going to school today?!’

‘To study?!’ he said. ‘Everyone’s gathered at Xu Bao’s house to see the wolf. Everyone’s there.’

Su Weiai saved his breath and ran off in the direction of Xu Bao’s house. Su Weiai, a profoundly dishonest young man, had once told us, ‘Hurry, hurry, let’s go over to the calving barn! That Mongolian cow has given birth to a monster with two tails and five legs!’ We had all bolted off to the stable, only to find his promise to be empty. We were late for class thanks to him, and the teacher admonished us. When we repeated Su Weiai’s lie to our teacher, he dragged Su Weiai out by the ear and made him stand in the cold as punishment. While we listened to the teacher’s insipid arithmetic lesson inside the classroom, Su Weiai made silly faces at us through the window. I shouted after him, ‘Su Weiai, you’re full of nonsense again!’

‘Believe it or not!’ he shouted back without turning around, still darting towards Xu Bao’s house.

I was stood still in two minds when I saw a massive crowd emerge from the direction of our school, a motley crew of teachers, students and village elders.

‘What are you all at?’ I asked.

Wang Jinmei, member of our class’s sports committee, pushed me and said, ‘Come on then, let’s get a look at the wolf!’

She had long legs like a crane’s, and was an adept high-jumper and long-jumper – even the most athletic boys were no match for her. I followed her as she ran, yet her strides were so long that I had to take two steps for every one of hers. She kindly extended her arm to pull me along, and I clung to her tight, flailing behind her like a hapless donkey trailing a galloping stallion.

Wang Jinmei, Xu Bao, and I were good friends, our bond rooted in our shared love for reading picture books. I had a complete set of Romance of the Three Kingdoms comics, and Wang Jinmei had a full set of Railway Guerrillas comics. And while Xu Bao owned no books whatsoever, he could carve seals and tell ghost stories that would send icy coursing through into his audiences. Xu Bao was mature beyond his years, with a wrinkled brow and a raspy cough that gave him the air of an old man. After having read Romance of the Three Kingdoms countless times, the wrinkles on his brow had deepened, and had grown to speak with a thoughtful, calculating tenor. We did not like this, and would often scold him, ‘Xubao! Stop pretending to be Zhuge Liang, dammit’. Wang Jingmei and I would call him ‘Old Xu’ – a moniker he appeared to enjoy. Every Sunday, we would sit on the branches of the apricot tree in his yard, either reading the two sets of picture books we had gone through hundreds of times over and over again or listening to him tell ghost stories. Xu Bao’s father had passed and he lived with his mother. We knew Xu Bao’s mother fairly well and she knew us, too. Hell, we even knew the two swallows that nested under the eaves of Xu Bao’s house, and they’d often appear to recognise us, too. When we would lose ourselves in our books perched atop the apricot tree, the swallows would nestle on the washing line and watch us reading. We also knew Zhang Qiu, the tinsmith who visited Xu Bao’s house now and again. Zhang Qiu had a darker complexion, which earned him the nickname ‘Zhang Cuban’ or simply ‘the Cuban’. Zhang was a man of rich life experience, and had ventured as far as Guandong. He was also deft at repairing pots and pans; some said that he could even saw out a light bulb from its inside. And as we would sit on the apricot tree, we would often see him speaking with Xu Bao’s mother by their brick furnace.

By the time we reached the earthen wall outside Xu Bao’s house, the yard was already rammed with spectators. Latecomers were still trying to force their way in, causing the rickety gate to let out groans. Even the small gatehouse was swaying. A cacophony of voices filled the yard, making it impossible to discern what anyone was saying. The only clear voice was Xu Bao’s, shouting, ‘Bugger off, all of you! What’s there to see? Honestly. If you want to see something, go home and wait—maybe the wolf will come to your house tonight!’

Hearing our old friend’s voice, we hurriedly called out, ‘old Xu!’

But this yielded no response. Instead, we heard him yelling at the masses that had gathered in his yard: ‘bugger off, the lot of you! You’re going to ruin my bloody gate!’

Wang Jinmei, making use of her athletic talents, grabbed at the top of the earthen wall and hoisted herself up in one shift motion. I tried in vain to follow suit. ‘Old Wang’, I pleaded, ‘lend me a hand, would you?’ ‘Urgh you cretin. And you call yourself a man?!’ She reached out a hand to me and hoisted me up with her. Soon, others had taken our lead and had started to climb the wall too. Xu Bao, bamboo broom in hand, darted to the foot of the wall and started poking and cursing at those who had mounted it.

‘Bastards! Get down! Get down, would you?!’

Eventually, everyone besides us had been forced off the wall by Xu Bao’s broom.

‘Old Xu?!’.

‘Old Xu?!’.

‘Who are you calling Old Xu?’, he said, pulling us down off the wall, ‘you two brought the wronguns my way and ruined the grass on our wall!’

‘I’m sorry, Old Xu’.

‘I’m sorry, Old Xu’.

‘Enough with the courtesies. Follow me’.

We followed Old Xu, pushing our way through to the apricot tree.

‘Out of our way, move aside!’ Xu Bao led the way, brusquely poking at people’s wastes and behinds with the handle of broom. ‘Coming through, come on, move aside!’

When we finally reached the apricot tree, our eyes sparkled at the sight of the mysterious wolf.

The wolf was already tied by one hind leg and hung upside down from a branch of the apricot tree. Its head was level with my face, and as the crowd behind us pushed forward, my nose nearly brushed against the wolf’s brow. From its head, I caught a whiff of a smoky char. Its body was about a metre long, enveloped in dull grey fur. The leg that was tied bore the weight of its entire body, making it appear peculiarly scant. Its tail and the other hind leg hung down together, the base of the tail covering its rear, making it hard to discern its sex. Bizarrely, its tail was only half there, the stump neatly cut and covered with a tuft of long hair, as if it had been mutilated with a shovel or a cleaver. This was a scrawny wolf, its ribs protruding on either side of its sunken belly, clearly emaciated. Of course, by the time it was tied to the tree, it was already dead—otherwise, I wouldn’t have dared to face up to it.

The crowd behind us cascaded forward like a tidal wave. At first, my head first knocked against the wolf’s head, then both our heads were pressed firmly against the old trunk of the apricot tree. The wolf’s head was hard as steel. Wang Jinmei’s face was pressed against the wolf’s belly, leaving her mouth full of wolf fur. The fur was loose and came off in clumps with a gentle tug. Wang Jinmei spat out the fur and shouted:

‘What’s the rush? What’s the rush?’

Xu Bao pushed me and said, ‘Come on mate, let’s climb the tree!’

The three of us, this routine etched into our muscle memory, climbed up the apricot tree and settled into our usual spots, letting out a breath of relief. From our high vantage point, we looked down at the hanging wolf and the crowd below. Naturally, some people looked up at us with envy. Su Weiai, standing on tiptoe in the crowd, shouted, ‘Old Xu, let me climb up too!’

‘Want to climb the tree, eh?’ Xu Bao said derisively. ‘We’ll have to tie one of your legs and hang you up!’

The crowd burst into laughter. Those who couldn’t see the wolf craned their necks to look at us. Some even leaned against Xu Bao’s windowsill, peering into the house as if searching for some secret. In the crowd, I suddenly spotted our form tutor, Chen Zengshou. He was a lanky man, with a long neck and a triangular face dotted in pimples. Seeing him made my heart skip a beat. His strictness had become a thing of legend at our school. No matter how unruly a student was, they would become obedient once they entered his class. He was like a tamer, with a set of methods for subduing wild students. Privately, we had nicknamed him ‘the Wolf.’

‘Drat’, I murmured to Xu Bao, ‘the Wolf has arrived’.

‘I’ve dealt with wolves before, and I am no longer afraid,’ Xu Bao announced brazenly, as if deliberately attempting to provoke the Wold.’

‘Xu Bao, tell everyone what really happened’, the Wolf said, raising a hand to greet us three in the tree.

The crowds below struggled to crane their necks around, looking first at Chen Zengshou, then at us and chattering, ‘Why yes, Xu Bao, tell us!’

Xu Bao, as if not already high enough, stood up, gripping firmly onto a branch and shaking the entire tree. A dozen or so smaller, paler apricots fell like raindrops onto the ground. I noticed Xu Bao’s legs trembling with fear. The spectators below blurted out, ‘Sit down! Sit down! We can see you’, so he sat back down.

He cleared his throat and dove in.

‘Last night, I was in the east room carving a seal for Wang Jinmei when a gust of wind blew through the window and put out the flame of the oil lamp. I struck a match to relight it, before my mother called from the west room, ‘Bao, why are you still burning oil so late at night?’

‘I’m carving a seal for a classmate.’

‘Oil costs fifty-three kuai a pound. Go back to bed!’

My father died in my infancy, leaving my mother to raise me alone. I didn’t dare upset her, so I blew out the lamp and climbed into bed. Just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard a scream from my mother’s room. I didn’t even have time to put on clothes before rushing to her. ‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ ‘Bao, Bao, light the lamp!’ I struck a match and lit the lamp. My mother was sitting on the clay furnace, wrapped in a blanket, her face yellow as an apricot.

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’

My mother leaned her head against the wall and said, ‘Oh my, I was so scared…’

‘What happened, Mum?’

‘Quick, take the lamp and check around the clay furnace and the stove. See if there’s anything there.’ I took the lamp and checked around the clay furnace and the stove, but there was nothing.

‘I checked. There’s nothing.’

My mother was insistent, ‘There must be something. A big, furry thing was on top of me, licking my face with its big tongue!’

I took the lamp and checked every corner of the room, but there was nothing. ‘You must have had a nightmare.’

‘I hadn’t even fallen asleep at that point. How could I have a nightmare?’ My mother touched her face. ‘Feel it. My face is still sticky!’

‘That must be your own drool.’

‘Nonsense! Since when do I drool like that?’’

I went back to the east room. The moonlight streamed in through the window, and I thought about the big, furry thing that had licked my mother’s face. I fell into a daze and was about to sleep when my mother screamed again, this time even louder than before. I jumped out of bed without putting on clothes and bolted over to the west room. Mother, teary eyed, blubbered out, ‘Bao, Bao, light the lamp…’ I hurriedly lit the lamp and saw my mother clutching the back of her head, saying, ‘It hurts so much… it hurts so much…’ I pulled her hand away and brought the lamp closer to her head. What I saw shocked me. There were four holes on the back of her head, each the size of a pea, two on top and two below. Black blood oozed from the holes, which looked deep. My mother shrank into the corner of the earthen furnace, trembling with fear. She said, ‘Bao, there was a big thing, a big furry thing… I told you there was something, but you said there wasn’t…’ My mother was terrified, as was I. But I’m a man, I thought. If I’m scared, who will protect my mother?

‘Fear not, mum. I’ll avenge you!’ I took the door bolt from the door and gripped it tightly in my right hand. With the lamp in my left hand and the bolt in my right, I searched every corner of the house. I checked every nook and cranny, even poking the bolt into mouse holes, but there was nothing. The front door was bolted, so even if there was a big furry thing, it could only be inside the house. But there was nothing. ‘Mum, there’s nothing.’

‘There is! A big thing, furry, with a wet, stinking mouth…’ I was puzzled. It seemed certain that there was a big furry thing in the house, given the four holes on my mother’s head. But where could it be hiding? Fear raced through my heart. It didn’t matter how big the beast was: if I could’ve seen it, I wouldn’t have be as scared. What struck fear into me the most was that I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. ‘You dog-like beast!’ I shouted. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’ll dig three feet into the ground if I have to, but I’ll find you, you dog-like beast!’

My mother huddled in the corner of the furnace, muttering, ‘It’s not a dog, it’s not a dog!’ I held up the lamp, pacing back and forth, shouting curses into the air. I must have looked wild and reckless, but in reality, I was just putting on an act to steel my own nerves. I had heard Cuban Uncle Zhang say before that no matter how ferocious a beast is, in the end, it will always fears humans. If you cower first, it will pounce and devour you. But if you stand firm and walk straight toward it, it will slink away with its tail between its legs.

I exchanged a glance with Wang Jinmei. Yes, Uncle Zhang had definitely said that, and not just in passing—he had told us directly, with all three of us listening. It was last year when the apricots were ripe and golden. We were perched on the branches stuffing our faces with fruit, while Uncle Zhang sat below, puffing on his pipe. Nearby, Xu Bao’s mother was crouched by a stone, pounding a piece of white cloth with a deep purple mallet.

From the distance came the incessant calls of the cuckoo — cuckoo, cuckoo— while closer by, the steady rhythm of cloth being beaten against the stone echoed — thud, thud thud. The air was rich with the fragrance of wheat blossoms, interspersed with the syrupy sweetness of apricots and the sharp bite of tobacco smoke.

Uncle Zhang looked up at us and smiled. ‘You three kids, you have real loyalty,’ he said. Xu Bao’s mother, without pausing her work, replied, ‘My Bao is an orphan. How could he get by without friends? No matter how poor I am, not a single apricot from this tree will be sold—they’re for the children to eat and grow strong. And when these two grow up, they’ll be my Bao’s right and left arms.’

Uncle Zhang gave us a firm nod. ‘I can believe that,’ he said. That was the day he told us so many stories—tales of the great forests in the northeast, of men and wild beasts, and of wolves and their ways. Old Uncle Cuban said that although wolves were wild beast, every inch of their body was treasure. Even in the north-east, anyone who managed to catch a wolf could hope to earn a sizeable fortune.

Xu Bao asked, ‘What about here? What would happen if someone here caught a wolf?’

Uncle Zhang looked up at Xu Bao in the apricot tree and said, ‘Kid, around here, catching a wolf would make you rich and famous!’

Xu Bao exclaimed, ‘Heavens, then let me catch a wolf!’

Uncle Zhang replied, ‘If a wolf really came, you’d probably piss your pants! Wolves are the mountain god’s guard dogs—they’re no laughing matter.’

Xu Bao’s mother scolded him, ‘Bao, don’t talk such nonsense from now on!’

Uncle Zhang chuckled, ‘It’s fine, it’s fine. Truth is, if a wolf came to the plains, it’d just turn into a dog. But still, a wolf isn’t a dog. Dogs are nothing special, but every part of a wolf is treasure—even its dung. In ancient times, wolf dung was used to light signal fires on watchtowers. When burned, the smoke rose straight as a pine tree, unshaken even by a hefty gust of wind. The old saying ‘wolf smoke rises on all sides’ refers to the smoke from burning wolf dung…’

‘I was exhausted by then, so I hung the lamp on the doorframe and sat down on the threshold. As I glanced sideways, my eyes caught something—two glowing green eyes staring back at me from the dark depths of the stove. I couldn’t help but scream, ‘Mum, I see it!’ I grabbed the door bolt and waved it around the stove opening, shouting wildly.

My mother jumped down from the furnace and asked, ‘Where? Where?’

‘In the stove!’ My mother grabbed a wooden board and blocked the stove opening, pressing her body against it to keep the thing from escaping.

‘What do we do, Bao?’ I remembered Romance of the Three Kingdoms, where Zhuge Liang often used fire attacks—light a fire, create smoke, and either burn the enemy to death or suffocate them.

‘Fire attack, fire attack!’ I lit a bundle of straw and let it burn fiercely. Then I told my mother to pull the board away suddenly, and I thrust the burning straw into the stove.

‘I grabbed the big wooden stick my mother used for pounding clothes and waited by the stove opening. If that thing dared to come out, I’d clobber its head in. My mother, despite the pain in her head, kept feeding straw into the stove to keep the fire burning. I remembered Uncle Zhang saying that all wild animals – be it a wolf or a tiger – fear fire. When we ran out of straw in the house, my mother ran to the yard to fetch more. As we burned and burned, the lid on the pot suddenly started smoking. When we lifted it, we found the pot had turned red. We’d been so focused on the fire that we forgot to add water to the pot. I scooped a ladle of water from the jar and poured it into the pot. There was a loud hissing sound, and a cloud of steam shot up to the ceiling, knocking down a gecko, which fell into the pot and boiled to death. Then there was a loud bang—our iron pot had exploded.

My mother cried, ‘Bao, the pot’s ruined. How will we cook now?’ I was filled with rage at the thing, though I still didn’t know it was a wolf.

I said, ‘Mum, we’ve got nothing to lose now. The pot’s already ruined. We can’t let this beast get away—if we can’t burn it, we’ll smoke it to death.’ My mother agreed. We burned all the cotton stalks we had, filling the stove with ashes. We even burned half a year’s worth of firewood and crushed the charred lid into the stove. Our pot melted, and the house filled with smoke, making it hard to breathe. I said, ‘Mum, that should be enough.’ My mother picked up a broken fan and fanned the stove vigorously. The unburned straw caught fire, and I knew from Uncle Zhang that this blue-white flame was especially hot. When the straw finally burned out, I grabbed a shovel and thrust it into the stove. The blade hit the bottom, and a cloud of hot ash flew out. The thing was no longer in the stove. I said, ‘Mum, it’s crawled into the furnace tunnel, and it’s definitely dead from the smoke.’

My mother asked, ‘How do you know it’s dead? What if it’s not?’

I said, ‘I’m sure it’s dead. I’ve studied Romance of the Three Kingdoms—I know how powerful fire attacks are.’

‘I blocked the stove opening with the board and propped a pounding stone against it. The wind blowing into our yard felt unusually cool. Our house was like a brick kiln that had just stopped firing—the main room was hot, and the west room was even hotter. My mother’s kang was like a heated blanket, hot enough to cook pancakes on. The reed mat on the furnace had turned yellow, and the straw underneath was scorched. I said, ‘Mum, feel how hot the furnace is. Even if that thing had a copper head and iron legs, it couldn’t have survived.’ I told my mother to go outside and cool off while I opened the furnace tunnel to see what the thing was. My mother was still worried. She held a kitchen knife by the stove, ready to strike if the thing, like Sun Wukong, had some way to avoid the smoke and fire and came rushing out. I moved my mother’s bedding, lifted the furnace mat, and removed the straw underneath. The straw crumbled into powder at the slightest touch. I found a two-pronged hook and scraped away the mud on the furnace surface, then lifted the bricks. A wave of choking smoke rushed up to the roof. My mother, clutching the kitchen knife, was trembling. I lifted one brick—nothing. I lifted another—still nothing. My heart pounded. Had the thing turned into smoke and flown out the chimney? I lifted a third brick and saw its tail. I raised the hook, ready to strike if it moved. But it didn’t budge. Even when I poked it with the hook, it stayed still. I knew it was dead.

I said, ‘Mum, it’s dead.’

My mother, still holding the knife, wobbled in and asked, ‘Where? Where?’  I grabbed its tail and pulled it out a bit. When my mother saw it, she screamed, her legs buckled, and she sat down on the floor by the furnace. After a moment, she asked, ‘Bao, what is this thing?’ I thought for a moment and said, ‘Mum, I think it’s a wolf…’’

After Xu Bao finished telling his story, there was silence. Everyone’s eyes shifted between the apricot tree and the wolf hanging from it. Xu Bao was truly remarkable—he had outsmarted and outmanoeuvred a vicious wolf and emerged the victor. I felt like he had matured overnight, leaving the rest of us behind.

‘Xu Bao, you’re a brave young man. I’ll report your heroic deeds to the authorities. Be prepared for some recognition,’ said our form tutor, Chen Zengshou. ‘Xu Bao can stay home and rest. The rest of you, go back to class.’

Chen Zengshou began pushing his way out, followed by some of the more obedient students. I looked at Wang Jinmei and saw her staring at Xu Bao. I stared at him too.

Xu Bao said, ‘Don’t go. Didn’t we agree long ago? ‘If we can’t be born on the same day, let us die on the same day’?’

‘We’re not leaving, Old Xu,’ Wang Jinmei said. ‘We’ll stay by your side.’

Someone beneath the apricot tree then asked, ‘Xu Bao, we’ve only heard your side of the story. Where’s your mother?’

‘My mother went to Uncle Zhang’s house to treat her wounds.’

‘Sure,’ the person said, ‘your mother’s injuries— I suppose only Uncle Zhang can heal those…’

‘My mother’s here!’ Xu Bao exclaimed. ‘My mother and Uncle Zhang are coming!’

We looked over the earthen wall and saw Xu Bao’s mother and Uncle Zhang walking out of the winding alley.

Xu Bao’s mother was a tall, pallid woman with a crimson mark between her eyebrows from years of pressing her temples to remedy her headaches. She spoke with softness and was treated us with compassion. We called her Auntie Xu.

Uncle Zhang’s teeth weren’t particularly white, but against his dark, bluish complexion, they appeared to glisten.

Side by side, Uncle Zhang and Auntie Xu stood in sharp contrast to one and other—her fairness accentuated by his darkness.

The crowd parted to let them through, and they made their way to the apricot tree without difficulty.

‘Mum.’

‘Auntie Xu.’

‘Auntie Xu.’

‘You kids, why are you up in the tree again?’ Auntie Xu looked up at us and said softly.

The purplish mark between her eyebrows looked like a grape skin, and her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d been drinking.

A woman asked, ‘Auntie Xu, were you badly bitten?’

She let out a sigh, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Even wolves bully us widows and orphans…’

‘Auntie Xu, let us see your wounds.’

‘Mum, show them. They think I’m lying.’

‘Is this something to be proud of?’ Auntie Xu looked up at us in the tree, then turned to the crowd in the yard. ‘If it weren’t for Bao’s bravery, I would’ve been done for by that beast…’

She lifted the bun at the back of her head, revealing the wounds. There were four deep bite marks, now dripping with a black, tarry substance.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘It hurt like hell. I’m ashamed to admit that I cried out loud, sweating so much that my clothes were soaked through… But thanks to Uncle Zhang’s medicine, as soon as it was applied, I felt a cooling sensation. It still hurts, but it’s much better than before…’

‘Uncle Zhang, what kind of miracle medicine is this?’

‘If I told you, I’d be out of a job!’ Uncle Zhang said with a laugh. ‘This is a family secret. If you want to know, kneel and bow to me as your master!’

Uncle Zhang pulled out a pair of scissors and a small cloth bag. He carefully cut clumps of fur from the wolf and placed them in the bag.

‘Old Zhang, why are you cutting the wolf’s fur?’

‘I should know better than to tell you, you nosy bunch, but I can’t keep it from my fellow villagers,’ Uncle Zhang said, glancing around. ‘Folks, when Bao’s mother came to me, she was crying in pain like a child. I applied the medicine, and the results speak for themselves. This medicine—I made it when I was in the northeast. For over a decade, people from a dozen villages around here have come to me for it after being bitten by dogs or scratched by cats. It stops the pain instantly. I only had a little left, thinking I’d never be able to help anyone again. But heaven sent us this opportunity—the source of the medicine is here! What’s the source?’ He held up a clump of wolf fur. ‘The source is this wolf fur! Folks, we’re all neighbours, so today I’ll share this secret with you all!’ He cut another clump of fur and handed it to Auntie Xu. ‘In this plain, even in the northeast forests, wolves are hard to come by. I’ll take this bag of fur as payment. The rest, you can sell to a hospital—it might bring you some money.’

‘Those who sell medicine don’t amass virtue; and those who amass virtue don’t sell medicine,’ Auntie Xu said. ‘Folks, if anyone wants to make the medicine, come and cut off some wolf fur.’

‘Auntie Xu,’ Uncle Zhang said, ‘your generosity is unparalleled! Folks, who wants some wolf fur? I’m here to serve you today!’

‘I’ll take some!’

‘Cut some for me!’

‘Me too!’

…

Snip, snip, snip…

Clump, clump, clump…

The wolf’s fur was hacked away at haphazardly, making it look even scrawnier. From above, if you didn’t know it was a wolf, you might mistake it for a hapless, meagre dog.

A young woman holding a child pushed to the front and asked for a clump of fur. The child in her arms, with two streaks of yellow snot running down his face, pointed at the wolf hanging from the tree and babbled out, ‘Dog… dog…’

Uncle Zhang stopped cutting and stared at the child. The mother, embarrassed, smacked the child’s arse and said, ‘Silly boy, that’s not a dog—it’s a wolf!’

The child took his finger out of his mouth, drooling, and pointed again. ‘Dog… dog…’

The mother blushed and looked at Uncle Zhang, then at Auntie Xu.

Uncle Zhang sighed and handed the woman a clump of fur. ‘It’s not just the child. In this whole yard, aside from me, who here has ever seen a wolf?’

‘Uncle Zhang, tell us the difference between a wolf and a dog. After what the child said, even I’m starting to think it looks like a dog,’ said Old Man Zhao, his white beard trembling as he leaned on his cane.

‘It’s understandable for a child to mistake a wolf for a dog, but for someone as experienced as you, Old Zhao, to make that mistake—that’s a real embarassment!’ Uncle Zhang said, fixing his gaze on the old man. ‘It’s not that wolves don’t look like dogs—after all, dogs descended from wolves. But there are clear differences. Anyone with a bit of knowledge can tell them apart.’ He tapped the wolf’s skull with the scissors, producing a hollow thud. ‘Hear that? Like a little drum. Go tap a dog’s skull and see if it sounds the same. Why? A wolf has a copper head and a hemp-stalk waist!’ He tucked the scissors into his belt and lifted the wolf’s head, turning its face toward the crowd. ‘Take a good look. A dog’s face is like this, but a wolf’s face is like that!’ He pried open the wolf’s mouth, revealing two rows of sharpened, pearly teeth. ‘See? Wolf teeth are like this, but dog teeth are like that!’ He tugged on one of the wolf’s ears. ‘A dog’s ears droop, but a wolf’s ears stand up!’ He pulled open one of the wolf’s eyes. ‘A wolf’s eyes are green. What colour are a dog’s eyes? Can anyone tell me?’ He looked up at us and asked, ‘You three scholars, can you tell me the colour of a dog’s eyes?’

Wang Jinmei and I looked at Xu Bao, who whispered, ‘Yellow.’ So we answered in unison, like students responding to a teacher: ‘Yellow!’

‘Exactly! A dog’s eyes are yellow!’ Uncle Zhang said triumphantly. ‘Now, I believe everyone can tell the difference between a wolf and a dog.’ He abruptly let go of the wolf’s head, giving it a push so that it swung back and forth under the apricot tree.

‘Uncle Zhang,’ a young man with a freckled face pushed forward and pointed at the wolf’s tail. ‘I’m a bit confused. You say it’s a wolf, and I can see it’s a wolf, but what’s with its half-tail?’

‘Ah, good question,’ Uncle Zhang said, flicking the wolf’s stubby tail. ‘But if you understand the function of a wolf’s tail, this question becomes irrelevant.’ He looked around, savouring the crowd’s eager expressions, and said, ‘The most valuable years of my life were the ten I spent in the northeast. The rest were just wasted time. In the northeast, wolves aren’t called wolves. Do you know what they’re called?’

We shouted from the tree, ‘Zhang San!’

‘That’s right! In the north-east, wolves are called Zhang San. Why, you ask? Well, that’s a complicated question. I asked many old men with white beards why wolves were called Zhang San, and they said it’s simply what their ancestors called them—they didn’t know why. In my first year in the northeast, I worked as a stable hand at the Sun family’s estate. One night, deep into the night, I heard the pigs in the pen squealing strangely. The old stable master I shared a room with jumped up and said, ‘Little Zhang, get up! Zhang San is here to steal pigs!’ I threw on my cotton-padded jacket, grabbed a shovel, and followed the old master to the pigpen. He carried his red-tasseled spear, and I followed with my shovel. That night, the fifteenth or perhaps sixteenth of the month, the moon hung in the sky like a bright silver plate, glaring light onto the snow-covered ground like a mirror. Even the footprints of mice were clearly visible. From a distance, we saw a Zhang San biting the ear of the Sun family’s big white pig, using its broom-like tail to whack the pig’s rump. The pig squealed as it ran through the birch forest, following the wolf. It was a sight to behold—the bright moon shining on the snow, the wolf’s tail whacking the pig, kicking up clouds of snow… It was so pretty, truly bloody beautiful… As I stared blankly into the scenery utterly dumbstruck, Old Uncle Ma cracked his whip, but instead of hitting Zhang San, it struck the pig’s hind legs, which in fact ended up helping Zhang San.

‘Little Zhang’, Uncle Ma shouted, ‘what are you standing around for?! Go on, have him!’ I grabbed my iron shovel and charged ahead, levelling a sturdy blow at Zhang San’s tail.’

The crowd let out a collective breath of air, as though they too had witnessed Cuban Zhang hacking at the wolf’s tail and saving the fat pig. ‘Now do you understand why it only has half a tail?’, he said to the freckle-faced young man.

The young man coyly nodded in agreement, his face flushed with excitement resembling a red, spotted egg.

‘But,’ he murmured shyly, ‘our place is thousands of miles from Changbai Mountain. Why would it come all the way here? And how did it even get here?’

Everyone chimed in, echoing the young man’s question, their eyes fixed on Zhang Guba, full of anticipation.

‘Well, this question…’ he drawled, at first showing corner at this inquiry, but then raising his voice with renewed vigour. ‘This question seems like a big deal, but in truth, it’s not really a problem at all. Let me tell you the truth—this wolf came here to seek revenge on me.’

He tossed his words out into the crows like a pinch of salt into a pan of sizzling oil, causing a burst of chatter and exclamations from the crowd. He raised a hand, like a seasoned orator, and silenced the clamour.

‘You should be able to tell,’ he said, rapping the wolf’s head with the knuckles of his bent middle and index fingers, ‘that this is an old wolf. Its eyes are dimmed, and the fur on its tail has turned white. It’s at least thirty years old. For a wolf, thirty years is like eighty for a human. This is a male wolf, a thirty-year-old male wolf, that is, equivalent to an eighty-year-old man. Zhang San, old friend, I thought I had escaped you by returning to my hometown, but I never expected that after more than a decade, you’d come all this way to find me.’

‘Old Zhang, are you saying this wolf is the same one whose tail you cut off all those years ago?’

‘Though I don’t want to admit it, I must. If I don’t, I’d be doing this wolf a disservice. I’d be burying its glory…’ His face was filled with agitation, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘I’ll be honest, I recognised it the moment I entered the yard. This devil is truly terrifying, yet truly admirable. For over a decade, you’ve haunted my nightmares, but from now on, I can finally sleep in peace…’

After that, Cuban Uncle Zhang recounted the story of this tailless wolf in graphic detail, captivating all our attention.

He said that ever since he cut off the wolf’s tail, bad luck had followed him like a shadow. First, his deerskin boots were gnawed to smithereens, then the leather ropes on his carriage were all bitten through, and finally, the prized black horse that Old Sun treasured had its throat gorged out in broad daylight. His boss was incandescent and had fired him on the spot. ‘I carried my bedding on my back and walked out into the woods’, he said, breathing heavily. ‘Zhang San, you damn mongrel! If you’ve got the guts, come out! Let’s settle this once and for all, man to wolf! A man who schemes in the dark is no good man, and a wolf that sneaks around is no good wolf either! The forest was eerily silent, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves.

I knew Zhang San was hiding somewhere in the woods. It had heard every word I said and understood it all, but it didn’t show itself. I trudged forward with my bedding on my back. I couldn’t stay here anymore; I had to go somewhere else to find work. The boss was somewhat decent—he gave me thirty dollars, which was half a year’s wages. He could’ve given me nothing, considering I’d ruined his prized black horse.

I walked along the forest path toward the Three Forks Lumber Camp. I’d heard they were hiring lumberjacks. Back then, I didn’t have the skills of a tinsmith, so I had to rely on my brute strength to make a living. As I walked, I felt uneasy, as if there were footsteps behind me. But every time I turned around, there was nothing. Suddenly, I heard a rustling in the woods, and it scared me half to death. When I looked closer, it was just a flock of pheasants fighting. I wiped the cold sweat from my brow and kept walking.

The birds in the forest chirped peacefully, and gradually, my nerves began to settle. When I reached a mountain spring, I felt thirsty and was about to stop for a drink. But then, just a dozen steps ahead, I saw the tailless wolf crouched there, its eyes fixated on me with a callous smirk. I backed away until I reached a large pine tree, dropped my bedding, and scrambled up the tree. The tailless wolf lunged forward, leapt up towards me, and almost took a bite from my calf.

By the time the wolf charged at me again, I had already climbed to a place where it couldn’t reach me. I scrambled up the tree, higher and higher, until I reached the very top. Fearing the fall below, I untied my belt and used it to secure myself to a sturdy branch. I clung tightly to the trunk, the mountain wind howling through the forest, making the pine trees sway like a ship on rough seas. I looked down at the wolf below, and it stared up at me, its eyes sparkling in the dim light. Time seemed to stretch endlessly. My stomach growled, and my vision blurred. If I hadn’t tied myself to the tree, I would have fallen and been devoured by the wolf. The wolf, growing impatient, began to urinate on my bedding. I knew it was trying to provoke me, to lure me down for a fight, but I wasn’t falling for its tricks. Even if it defecated on my belongings, I wouldn’t come down. But how long could I last? A day, maybe two, or even three or four, but by the fifth or sixth day, starvation would surely kill me. I’d heard that wolves could go without food for half a month. If this stalemate continued, I’d still end up in its jaws.

As dusk fell, the wolf left, but I didn’t dare climb down. I scanned the area and spotted two glowing green eyes in the bushes. If I had recklessly descended, I would have walked right into its trap. The sun set, and the moon rose, casting eerie shadows throughout the forest. It felt as though countless eyes were watching me from the darkness. I couldn’t risk going down now. Even if the tailless wolf didn’t get me, some other beast of Mount Changbai would. The forest was home to more than just one tailless wolf.

The wind died down, and the treetops grew still. Moonlight bathed the leaves in a silvery glow. An owl hooted in the shadows, and a wave of sorrow washed over me. Tears streamed down my face. I knew the tailless wolf wouldn’t let me go easily. Resolved, I thought, even if I die up here and turn into a corpse, I won’t let you eat me. With that, I tightened the belt around me, securing myself even more firmly to the tree.

The moon rose higher, shrinking in size but growing brighter. Then, I saw a strange, elongated creature racing toward me from the distance. As it drew closer, I realised it was the tailless wolf carrying something that looked three parts dog and seven parts sheep. When they reached the base of the tree, the creature slid off the wolf’s back and sat on its hind legs, raising its short forelegs like a kangaroo. My heart sank. I knew the wolf had brought its strategist, the xu. The xu was the wolf’s advisor, with forelegs too short for mobility, so it usually stayed in the den, fed by the wolves. But in critical situations, the wolves would carry it to the scene.

The xu looked up at me, its face pale as dough under the moonlight, its eyes glowing green like ghostly will-o’-the-wisps in a graveyard. What happened next was something no one in the world had ever witnessed, and I was the unfortunate—or perhaps fortunate—one to see it. After a moment, the xu touched noses with the tailless wolf, as if exchanging ideas. Then, it buried its nose in the ground and let out a low, mournful sound, like a child blowing a trumpet. The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried far, reaching wolves within a hundred-mile radius. According to wolf law, whenever the xu called, no matter how busy they were, all wolves had to gather.

In what felt like the time it takes to smoke a pipe, over thirty wolves had assembled beneath the pine tree. Each newcomer approached the xu, touching noses with it like a student paying respects to a teacher. Once the formalities were over, the pack began circling the tree, howling up at me. Their cries were sharp and piercing, making the moonlight itself seem to tremble. Thank goodness I had tied myself to the tree, or I would have surely fallen into their jaws. When their intimidation tactics failed, the xu devised a new plan: the wolves would take turns gnawing at the tree in groups of five. The sound of their teeth chomping into the wood echoed through the night, and the treetop shook with each bite.

I prayed toward my hometown: ‘Mother, I only wanted to make some money in the Northeast and return to take care of you. I never thought I’d end up being eaten by wolves here.’ The wolves grew more frenzied, their teeth glinting in the moonlight. Despair washed over me. No matter how thick the tree, it couldn’t withstand the relentless gnawing of thirty wolves, especially with the xu directing them. It seemed better to end the torment and let them devour me. Just as I was about to untie myself and jump, a deafening roar erupted from deep within the forest, shaking the ground. A fierce wind swept through the trees, rustling the dry leaves. The wolves stopped gnawing and turned to the xu, which hopped onto the tailless wolf’s back with a screech. The wolf bolted, and the pack followed, disappearing into the night.

Another gust of wind swept through, scattering leaves along the path. Then, I saw a massive golden tiger emerge, its paws larger than horse hooves, padding slowly toward the tree. ‘Dear mother,’ I whispered, thinking, ‘The wolves are gone, but now a tiger is here. There’s no way out of this alive.’

The man pulled out a tobacco pouch and rolling paper, leisurely rolling a cigarette. He lit it and took a few puffs.

‘What happened next?’ someone asked.

‘What happened next?’ he echoed.

‘The tiger crouched beneath the tree, looked at me for a moment, then turned and padded away, its massive paws thudding against the ground.’

We all let out a long sigh of relief.

‘At dawn, a group of ginseng diggers found me and helped me down from the tree. My legs were bent like hoops, and my fingers were curled like chicken claws. I didn’t waste a single day. I bought a train ticket and left. As the train pulled away, I saw that thing chasing after it.’ He stared at the wolf hanging from the apricot tree, moved. ‘Thirteen years later, you’ve crossed mountains and rivers to find me here…’

‘How did the wolf know you were here?’ a freckled youth asked.

‘Damn you, Little Jin, always asking questions!’ He pretended to be angry but wasn’t. Lowering his voice, he said mysteriously, ‘Let me tell you, a dog’s nose can smell from five hundred miles away, but a wolf’s nose can reach a thousand. Thankfully, we’re more than a thousand miles from Mount Changbai. If we were any closer, I wouldn’t be alive today!’

‘But why didn’t it go to your house for revenge? Why did it come to Auntie Xu’s house to bite people?’

‘Well…’ He coughed. ‘I often sit on Auntie Xu’s kang to smoke, so my scent is there. Besides, the wolf is old now. Its nose isn’t as sharp, and its mind is dull, like an eighty-year-old man. Its senses aren’t what they used to be…’

Auntie Xu’s face flushed red, as if painted with rouge.

‘Auntie Xu, it’s my fault. I brought this trouble upon you,’ he said. ‘You were bitten, lost a bundle of firewood, ruined a pot, and even had to dismantle your kang…’

‘Don’t say that. It was just our fate.’

‘You and Bao’er, a widow and an orphan, life is hard enough. I can’t let you suffer for nothing.’ He patted the wolf’s head. ‘Folks, every part of a wolf is valuable. Its pelt can ward off the dampest conditions. Sleeping on a wolf pelt, even in the mud, won’t give you rheumatism. Wolf oil is a miracle cure for burns. Wolf gall cures red, inflamed eyes, just as good as bear gall. Wolf heart treats heart disease. Wolf lungs heal all kinds of internal injuries. Wolf liver cures hepatitis. Wolf kidneys treat back pain. Wolf stomach, stuffed with millet and red dates, stewed in a clay pot, can regenerate a new stomach, even if yours is completely ruined. This new stomach could digest iron nails! Wolf intestines, made into sausages, are a delicacy and cure hernias. Wolf large intestine, stir-fried with leeks, cleanses the organs. Cement factory workers who eat it produce stool that hardens like stone in the wind, unbreakable even with a hammer. Dried wolf anus, ground into powder and taken with warm yellow wine, cures haemorrhoids, internal or external, with no chance of recurrence. Wolf bladder, stewed with lotus seeds, cures even the most stubborn bedwetting. Wolf eyes treat glaucoma. Wolf tongue cures children’s mouth sores and stuttering. Wolf brain is the most precious of all—don’t sell it for gold. Keep it for Bao’er. Wolf meat is a powerful tonic. Old folks from the north-east say, ‘an ounce of wolf meat is worth an ounce of ginseng.’ Wolf penis treats men’s ailments. Wolf bones cure rheumatoid arthritis, not as good as tiger bones but better than leopard bones. Even the undigested faeces in its intestines can cure dysentery. Folks, are you buying? If not, I’ll take it to the county and sell it there.’

The crowd hesitated, unsure.

‘Old Zhang, don’t sell it!’ Auntie Xu said. ‘Just prepare it and share it with everyone. We’re lucky to be alive after being bitten. How can we think of making money from this?’

‘Nonsense. Your family suffered greatly. You deserve some compensation. Besides, such treasures are hard to come by.’

‘Forget it,’ Auntie Xu said.

‘No, we can’t forget it,’ he insisted. ‘This trouble started because of me, so I’ll handle it. Let’s take it to the county and sell it for a good price, so you and Bao’er can live comfortably for a while.’

‘If it’s such a treasure, let’s keep it in the family,’ Auntie Xu said, her face red. ‘Share it with the villagers. Those who are sick can be cured, and those who are healthy can strengthen their bodies. Consider it a way for me and Bao’er to accumulate some good karma.’

‘Auntie,’ Old Zhao said, ‘agreeing to sell it to the villagers is already an act of virtue. Zhang Qiu, save the wolf pelt for me. I’ll give you five yuan. It’s not much, but at my age, you’ll have to make do.’

‘You’re making me blush,’ Auntie Xu said. ‘Uncle Zhao, the pelt is yours. I won’t take your money.’

‘That won’t do,’ Old Zhao said. ‘You were bitten!’

‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ Cuban Zhang said. ‘Don’t refuse the money entirely. If you do, Uncle Zhao won’t take the pelt. Three yuan—I’ll take the liberty of deciding for you.’

At that moment, a swarm of flies buzzed around the wolf.

The crowd urged Cuban Zhang, ‘Hurry up, Cuba! Don’t let the flies lay eggs and ruin the treasure!’

‘Keep the treasure in the family,’ Cuban Zhang said, staring intently at Auntie Xu. ‘You’ve got a wise head on your shoulders, despite what they say about women.’

Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, Cuban Zhang pulled out a sharp knife from his belt, bent over, and began skinning the wolf.