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Who would have thought this matter would become so irksome? Without warning, a sleeping lion enters our stagnant-water lives, and suddenly towering waves crash upon us, and we are surrounded by whirlpools. The world is fraught with peril.
Yellow Hair has no plan of his own, but he is quick to agree with other ideas. "Don't scratch your ears and rub your temples like an old pedant," he says. "Do you think we have to stuff it back into the coffin and bury it for it to be at rest? Aren't you afraid of the stench? Any way you spread it, that precious relic can't leave this precious place; that would have disastrous consequences for the local geomancy."
We are agreed in principle but continue to debate until I have a brilliant idea. Aren't we about to put up the roof truss? We can add a few extra diagonal stays between the roof beam and the purlins, making an attic the size of a chicken coop that no one will ever notice, allowing the lion to continue its peaceful slumber.
Shouts of approval on all sides. Master Yellow Hair says he'll take care of the details. To think of the violent criticism and revolutionary struggles that will take place in the meeting hall while the brass lion, the emblem of royalty and imperial power, sits solemnly overhead, reigning over all-an interesting picture, indeed.
What lies in store now for the sleeping lion, already steeped in the vicissitudes of history? Will our own fate be linked to it? Maybe the sleeping lion will be our charm in days to come, and we'll be famous throughout the nation on account of this great achievement.
After a moment's reflection, I say, "That would be wonderful, of course, but in keeping the relic for individual fame and fortune, let's not forget what is ethically proper. For educated youths like us, the nation and the people come first; so as soon as an opportunity arises, we should turn the piece over to a museum." Old Wu quickly adds that when he visits his family next, he will make inquiries in the provincial capital.
The blood courses even more passionately through our veins. Although confined to a wasteland, we have not forgotten our duty to the motherland, and this, the thought of our spiritual loyalty, moves us greatly.
Who would have guessed that before long, our dream would be shattered? When we go out to work that afternoon, there is no sight of the outside laborers, and when we poke around in the chamber we find not only that the brass lion has not been returned but that many of the broken vessels have been carted away as well. What a band of wily foxes! We run straightaway to their lair, only to find that the place is deserted.
We stomp our feet, fuming, unable to contain our venom. Yellow Hair, especially, having never had a chance to see for himself if the object is brass or iron, is so angry that his yellow hairs are all standing on end. He vows to bring the stonecutters back, even if we have to traverse the four corners of the earth. Then it occurs to me: this place ca
More shouts of approval. It is resolved that we will skip half a day's work and cut over to the highway to thumb a ride. The trucks that pass are mostly from the farm. Some stop, some don't. We press our way along the dusty road to the county bus station, which we carefully comb three times, then wait in ambush until the last bus finally prepares to leave, and we have nothing to show for our efforts.
Disconsolate, we make the rounds of the town. Anger fills every pore in our bodies, but we still need to eat, which in turn necessitates that several bottles of whiskey be opened. These we drink in silence. Soon, though, we begin to curse the band of thieves and then one another, for not having acted more decisively in the first place and for expecting the roving bunch of dirty thieves to have a change of conscience. The liquor and food are gone, and I hide a couple of plates to keep the tab down. Yellow Hair reaches under the table to snatch a machete from the seat of an intoxicated Li aborigine. A gentleman, Old Wu takes only half the toothpicks in the jar. We derive little pleasure from these pranks, however, for our setback has been too great.
On the road home, there are no trucks traveling in our direction, so before the evening sun drops below the horizon, we negotiate the mountain paths back to the work brigade in abject misery. The path is narrow and the grass tall; with our heavy hearts, we are more than a little weary. But then we think of that gang of stonecutters laden down with heavy equipment and precious cargo that may not be jostled or bumped-now won't they be huffing and puffing at a snail's pace? Apart from the highway, the only road that goes to the county seat is this steep trail.
Upon hearing this, Yellow Hair slaps his head and shouts, "You little thieves, when the road narrows, enemies shall meet!"
Old Wu ponders for a moment. "Not necessarily," he says but offers no explanation.
No matter, we become very cautious. The sound of chattering insects and birds fills the air, and the layered mountain peaks are already begi
I break out in a sweat. In the lead, Old Wu disappears into a clump of tall grass, perhaps to relieve himself, and then all of a sudden he is following us.
Dark evening mist is now everywhere. In my uneasiness, I reflect upon the fact that having fled in panic, the gang of outside laborers does not have one pe
And while it is true that bloodshed increases the value of antiques, it is better when it does not flow. Big, strong Old Wu remains at the end of our little squad. I have dedicated myself to the service of my country but ca
But who's going to chop whom? The more Yellow Hair shouts the more nervous I become. What has been the loud voice of righteousness now sounds a little feeble.
Yellow Hair also seems to have seen through all of this and makes a few snide remarks to Old Wu, saying that we are only risking our own lives but that if they die, they will leave entire families without providers. This inspires us to action.
Brass lion!
People want to be buried in martyrdom in behalf of an object that was once buried alive for thousands of years. That moment has arrived! Yellow Hair fixes his eye on something, crouches like a cat, screams wildly, then leaps forward. My body is ice-cold, but since I am one who values friendship over life itself, who joins his fellow soldiers as they advance or retreat, I rush over as well. The dim light of evening reflects strange rock formations and several battered straw hats. Atop the rocks, we spot a few lumps of wet tobacco pulp.
Relentlessly, Yellow Hair searches the site, whereupon he discovers that this gang of wily men has not traveled over primitive bridges and steep trails but has blazed a path across the open grassland.