Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh

Iron Child

DURING THE GREAT LEAP FORWARD SMELTING CAMPAIGN, THE government mobilized 200,000 laborers to build a twelve-mile rail line; it was completed in two and a half months. The upper terminus linked with the Jiaoji trunk line at Gaomi Station; the lower terminus was located amid dozens of acres of Northeast Gaomi Township bushland.

Only four or five years old at the time, we were housed in a nursery school thrown up beside the public canteen. Consisting of a row of five rammed-earth buildings with thatched roofs, it was surrounded by saplings some six to seven feet tall, all strung together by heavy wire. Powerful dogs couldn't have bounded over it, let alone children like us. Our fathers, mothers, and older siblings — in fact, anyone who could handle a hoe or a shovel — were conscripted into the labor brigades. They ate and slept at the construction site, so we hadn't seen any of them for a very long time. Three skeletal old women were in charge of our “nursery school” confinement. Since all three had hawklike noses and sunken eyes, to us they looked like clones. Each day they prepared three cauldrons of porridge with wild greens: one in the morning, another at noon, and a third in the evening. We wolfed it down until our bellies were tight as little drums. Then after the meal, we went up to the fence to gaze at the scenery outside. New branches of willow and poplar sprang from the fence. Those with no green leaves were already rotting away; if they weren't removed, they sprouted yellow wood-ear fungi or little white mushrooms.

Feasting on the little mushrooms, we watched out-of-town laborers walk up and down the nearby road. They were grubby and listless, their hair a mess. As we searched for relatives among these laborers, tears in our eyes, we asked:

“Good uncle, have you seen my daddy?”

“Good uncle, have you seen my mommy?”

“Have you seen my brother?”

“Have you seen my sister?”

Some of them ignored us, as if they were deaf. Others cocked their heads and cast a fleeting glance, then shook their heads. But some ripped into us savagely:

“Come here, you little bastards!”

The three old women just sat in the doorways and paid no attention to us. The six-foot-high fence was too tall for us to climb over, and the spaces between the saplings were too narrow for us to wriggle through.

From our vantage point behind the fence we saw an earthen dragon rise up out of the distant field and watched hordes of people scramble busily up and down the earthen dragon, like ants swarming over a hill. The laborers who passed in front of our fence said that it was the roadbed for the rail line. Our kinfolk were a part of that human ant colony. From time to time people would suddenly stick thousands of red flags into the dragon; at other times they would suddenly insert thousands of white flags. But most of the time there were no flags. Some time later, a great many shiny objects appeared on top of the dragon. The passing laborers told us those were the steel rails.

One day, a sandy-haired young man came walking down the road. He was so tall we felt he could touch our fence by simply stretching out one of his long arms. When we asked about our relatives, he surprised us by walking up to the fence, squatting down, and cheerfully rubbing our noses, poking our bellies, and pinching our little peckers. He was the first person who had answered our calls. With a big smile he asked:

“What's your daddy's name?”

“Wang Fugui.”

“Ah, Wang Fugui,” he replied, rubbing his chin. “I know Wang Fugui.”

“Do you know when he'll come get me?”

“He won't be coming. The other day, he was crushed while carrying steel rails.”

“Waah …” One of the kids began to bawl.

“Have you seen my mommy?”

“What's your mommy's name?”

“Wan Xiuling.”

“Ah, Wan Xiuling,” he replied, rubbing his chin. “I know Wan Xiuling.”

“Do you know when she'll come get me?”

“She won't be coming. The other day, she was crushed while carrying railroad ties.”

“Waah …” Another of the kids began to bawl.

Before long, we were all bawling. The sandy-haired young man stood up and walked off whistling.

We cried from noon until sunset. We were still crying when the old women called us to dinner. “What are you crying about?” they snarled. “If you don't stop, we'll throw you into Dead Man's Pit.”

We had no idea where Dead Man's Pit was, but we knew it had to be a horrible place. We stopped crying.

The next day, we were back at the fence gazing at the scenery on the other side. At midmorning, several laborers rushed up to us carrying a door on which a bloody person was laid out. We couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but we could see and hear the blood dripping off the edge of the door and splattering on the ground.

One of the kids started crying, and in no time we were all crying, as if the person lying on the door were our relative.

After finishing our noon porridge, we went back to the fence, where we spotted the sandy-haired young man walking toward us in the custody of two swarthy, husky men armed with rifles. His hands were tied behind his back; his nose and eyes were bruised and swollen; his lips were bleeding. As he passed in front of us, he turned and gave us a wink, as if he couldn't have been happier.

We called out to him as one, but one of the guards jabbed him in the ribs with his rifle and shouted: “Get moving!”

On yet another morning, while we were leaning against the fence, we saw that the distant railway bed was suddenly alive with red flags, and we heard the clang of gongs and the beating of drums. All those people were shouting joyously for some reason. At lunchtime the old women gave each of us an egg and said: “Children, the rail line has been completed. The first train is due today. That means your daddies and mommies will be coming to get you. We've carried out our responsibility to look after you. These eggs are in celebration of the completion of the railway.”

We were ecstatic. Our kinfolk weren't dead, after all. The sandy-haired young man had lied to us. No wonder they'd trussed him up and dragged him away.

Eggs were such a rare treat that the old women had to show us how to peel them first. Clumsily we peeled away the shells, only to find feathery little chicks inside. They chirped when we bit into them, and they bled. When we stopped eating, the old women took switches to us and demanded that we keep eating. We did.

When we were sprawled against the fence the next day, we saw even more red flags on the rail line. Later that afternoon, people on both sides of the tracks began to whoop and holler, as a giant object with thick smoke belching out of its head appeared. It was long and black and very big; it howled as it approached from the southwest. It was faster than a horse. It was the fastest thing we'd ever seen. We felt the earth move under our feet, and we were scared. Then we saw several women dressed all in white appear out of nowhere, clapping loudly and announcing:

“The train's coming! The train's here!”

The rumbling train headed off to the northeast, and we watched it until its tail end had disappeared from view.

After the train passed through, as promised, adults began showing up to pick up their children. Mutt was taken away, and so were Lamb, Pillar, and Beans, until I was the only one left.

The three old women led me out beyond the fence and said: “Go home!”

I'd long forgotten where I lived, and tearfully begged one of the old women to take me home. But she shoved me to one side, turned, and ran back indoors, closing the gate behind her. Then she secured it with a big, shiny brass lock. I stood outside the fence crying, screaming, and begging, but they ignored me. Through a crack in the fence, I watched the three identical old women set up a little pot in the yard, light some kindling under it, and pour in some light-green oil. As the kindling crackled and flames licked upward, the oil began to foam. When the foam dissipated, white smoke rose from the edges of the pot. The old women cracked some eggs open and flipped the feathery little chicks into the pot with makeshift chopsticks. They sizzled and rolled around in the hot oil, releasing the fragrance of cooked meat. The old women then picked the cooked chicks out of the oil, blew on them a time or two, and tossed them into their mouths. Their cheeks puffed out — first one side, then the other — and their lips smacked noisily. Tears flowed from their eyes, which were shut the whole time. They wouldn't open the gate, no matter how I cried or screamed. Soon my tears dried up and my voice failed me. I noticed a puddle of muddy water at the foot of an oily black tree. I went over to quench my thirst. But just as I was about to drink, I spotted a yellow toad beside the puddle. I also spotted a black snake with white dots running on its back. The toad and snake were locked in a fight. I was scared, but I was also very thirsty. So, holding my fear in check, I knelt down and scooped some water up with my hands. It dripped through my fingers. The snake had the toad's leg in its mouth, and a white liquid was oozing from the toad's head. The water was brackish, and slightly nauseating. I stood up, but didn't know where to go. I needed to cry, and so I did. But no tears came.

I saw trees, water, yellow toads, black snakes, fighting, fear, thirst, kneeling, cupping water, rank water, nausea, I cried, no tears…. Hey, what are you crying for, is your daddy dead? Is your mommy dead? Is everyone in your family dead? I turned my head. I saw the kid who asked me the questions. I saw that he was my height. I saw that he wasn't wearing any clothes. I saw that his skin was rusty. It seemed to me that he was an iron child. I saw that his eyes were black. And I saw that he was a boy, just like me.

He said, What are you crying for, Woody? I said, I'm not made of wood. He said, I'm going to call you Woody anyhow. He said, Woody come play with me over there on the railroad. He said there were lots of good things over there to look at, to eat, and to play with.

I told him a snake was about to swallow a toad. He said, Let it, don't bother it, snakes can suck out a kid's marrow.

He led me off in the direction of the railroad. It seemed so close, but we couldn't reach it. We walked and walked, looked and looked, but the railroad was as far away as ever, as if all the time we were walking, it was too. It took some doing, but we finally made it. By then my feet were killing me. I asked him his name. He said, My name is whatever you want it to be. I said, You look like a piece of rusty iron. He said, If you say I'm iron, then that's what I am. I said, Iron Child. He grunted a reply and laughed. I followed Iron Child up onto the railroad tracks. The roadbed was very steep. I saw that the rails were like two long serpents that had crawled from what must have been somewhere very far away. I imagined that if I stepped on one of them, it would start to wriggle, and that it would wrap its headless wooden tail around my legs. I stepped on one cautiously. The iron was cold, but it didn't wriggle and it didn't swish its tail.

I saw that the sun was about to set behind the mountain. It was very big and very red. A flock of white birds landed next to some water. I heard an eerie screech. Iron Child said that a train was coming. I saw that the iron wheels were red, and that iron arms were turning them. It felt to me as if the air rushing beneath the wheels could suck a person in. Iron Child waved to the train, as if it were his friend.

Hunger began to gnaw at me that night. Iron Child picked up a rusty iron bar and told me to eat it. I said I'm a human, how can I eat iron? Iron Child asked why a human can't eat iron. I'm a human and I can eat it. Just watch if you don't believe me. I watched as he put the iron bar up to his mouth and — chomp chomp — began to eat. Apparently, the iron bar was crisp and crunchy, and, by the looks of it, very tasty. I began to drool. I asked him where he'd learned to eat iron, and he said, Since when do you have to learn how to eat iron? I said I couldn't do it. And he asked me why not. Try it if you don't believe me. He held out the uneaten half of the steel bar and said, Try it. I said I was afraid I'd break my teeth. He said, Why? He said, There's nothing harder than people's teeth, and if you try it, you'll see what I mean. I took the iron bar hesitantly, put it up to my mouth, and licked it to see how it tasted. It was salty, sour, and rank, sort of like preserved fish. Take a bite, he said. I tried biting off a chunk and, to my surprise, succeeded with hardly any effort. As I began to chew, the flavor filled my mouth, tasting better and better until, before I knew it, I had greedily finished off the whole thing. Well? I wasn't lying, was I? No, you weren't, I said. You're a good kid, teaching me how to eat iron like that. I won't need to drink broth with greens anymore. He said, Anybody can eat iron, but people don't know that. I said, If they did, they wouldn't have to plant crops anymore, would they? He said, Do you think smelting iron is easier than planting crops? In fact, it's harder. Be sure you don't tell people how delicious iron is, because if they find out, they'll all start eating it, and there won't be any left for you and me. How come you let me in on this secret? I asked him. He said, I wanted to find a friend, since eating iron alone is no fun.

I followed him along the rails heading northeast. Now that I knew how to eat iron, I was no longer afraid of the rails. I muttered to myself, Iron rails, iron rails, don't get cocky, because if you do, I'll eat you up. Now that I'd finished off half an iron bar, I was no longer hungry, and my legs felt strong. Iron Child and I each walked down one of the rails. We walked so fast that in no time we reached a spot where the sky had turned red. Seven or eight huge ovens were spewing flames into the air, and I could smell the fresh, tantalizing aroma of iron. He said, 'Up ahead there is where they smelt iron and steel. Who knows, maybe that's where your daddy and mommy are.' I said, 'I don't care if they're there or not.'

We walked and walked until the railway came to an abrupt end. We were surrounded by head-high weeds that were home to heaps of rusty scrap iron and steel. Several crushed trains lay on their sides in the weeds, their scrap iron and steel cargo spilled on the ground beside them. Walking on a bit farther, we ran across crowds of people squatting down and eating amid the iron and steel. Flames from the smelting ovens turned their faces bright red. It was mealtime. What were they eating? Meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes with eggs. The food must have been delicious, the way their cheeks were all puffed out, as if they had the mumps. But to me the stench of those meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs was worse than dog shit, and it made me so sick to my stomach I had to run downwind to avoid it. Just then a man and a woman in the crowd stood up and shouted:

“Gousheng!”

They scared me at first. But then I recognized them as my daddy and mommy. They came stumbling toward me, and it suddenly dawned on me what horrifying people they were, at least as horrifying as the three old women at the “nursery school.” I could smell the stench on their bodies, worse than dog shit. So when they reached out to grab me, I turned and ran away They lit out after me. I didn't dare turn my head to look back, but I could feel their fingers each time they touched my scalp. And that's when I heard my good friend, Iron Child, yell at me from somewhere in front:

“Woody, Woody, head for the scrap iron heap!”

I watched as his dark red body flashed for an instant in the scrap iron heap, and then vanished from sight. I ran into the heap, stepping on woks, hoes, plows, rifles, cannons, and other things as I climbed to the top. Iron Child waved to me from inside a drainpipe. With a quick hunch of my shoulders, I scrambled inside. It was black as night, and I was surrounded by the fragrance of rust. I couldn't see a thing, but I felt an icy hand grab hold of my hand, and I knew it was Iron Child. He whispered:

“Don't be afraid. Follow me. They can't see us in here.”

So I crawled along behind him. I had no idea where the pipe, with all its twists and turns, led to, so I kept crawling until I saw a light up ahead. I followed Iron Child out of the pipe and onto the treads of an abandoned tank; from there we crawled up to the turret. White five-pointed stars had been painted on the turret, from which the rusted, pitted barrel of a cannon protruded, pointing up at an angle. Iron Child said he wanted to crawl into the turret, but the hatch was rusted shut. Iron Child said:

“Let's bite off the screws.”

Still on our hands and knees, we circled the hatch, biting off all the rusty screws, quickly chewing them up, until we'd broken through. We tossed the hatch away. The turret was made of soft metal, sort of like overripe peaches. Once we were inside, we settled into the soft, spongy iron seats. Iron Child showed me a tiny opening, through which I could see my parents. They were crawling over a distant heap of scrap iron, tossing objects around and making loud clanging noises that blended with their tearful shouts:

“Gousheng, Gousheng, my son, come out, come out and have some meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs…”

They looked like strangers to me, and when I heard them trying to tempt me with meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs, I sneered contemptuously.

Finally they gave up looking for me and headed back.

After crawling out of the turret, we straddled the barrel of the cannon, a great vantage point to watch the flames leaping out of ovens, some near and some far, and all the people scurrying around them. Picking up iron woks, with a One — Two — Three, they tossed them into the air and then watched as they broke apart when they hit the ground. They then smashed them to pieces with sledgehammers. The sweet aroma of burned iron filings drifted over to us; my stomach started to rumble. Apparently sensing what was on my mind, Iron Child said:

“Come on, Woody, let's get one of those woks. Iron woks are delicious.”

We sneaked into the glow, where we selected a great big wok, picked it up, and ran off with it, so shocking the men who saw us that they dropped their hammers. Some of them even took off running.

“Iron demons!” they shouted as they ran. “The iron demons have come!”

By that time we'd made it to the top of a heap of scrap iron and had begun breaking the wok into edible pieces. It was much tastier than the iron bar.

As we were feasting on our iron wok, we saw a man with a gimpy leg and a holstered revolver on his hip limp over and smack the men who were shouting “iron demons.”

“Bastards,” he cursed them. “Your damned rumors are creating a disturbance! A fox can turn into a demon, and so can a tree. But whoever heard of iron turning into demons?”

The men replied as if with one voice:

“We're not lying, Political Instructor. We were smashing some iron woks when a pair of iron kids, covered with rust, came rushing out of the shadows, snatched one of the woks, and ran off with it. They simply vanished.”

“Where did they run off to?” the gimpy man asked.

“The scrap iron heap,” the men answered.

“You fucking rumor-mongers!” the gimpy man said. “How could there be kids in this desolate spot?”

“That's why we were scared.”

The gimpy man drew his pistol and fired three shots into the scrap iron heap — clang clang clang. Golden sparks flew from the scrap iron.

Iron Child said:

“Woody, let's take his gun away from him and eat it, what do you say?”

I said:

“What if we can't get it away from him?” Iron Child said:

“Wait here. I'll go get it.”

Iron Child climbed lightly down off the scrap heap and crawled on his belly through the weeds. The people out in the light couldn't see him, but I could. When I saw him crawl up behind the gimpy man, I picked up a piece of iron plate and banged it against the wok.

“Hear that?” the men shouted. “The iron demons are over there!”

Just as the gimpy man raised his pistol to fire, Iron Child jumped up and snatched it out of his hand.

The men shouted:

“An iron demon!”

The gimpy man fell down on his backside.

“Help!” he screamed. “Catch that spy—”

Pistol in hand, Iron Child crawled up next to me.

“Well?” he said.

I told him how great he was, which made him very happy. He bit off the barrel and handed it to me.

“Eat,” he said.

I took a bite. It tasted like gunpowder. I spit it out and complained:

“It tastes terrible. It's no good.”

He bit off a chunk above the handle to taste it.

“You're right,” he said, “it's no good. I'm going to toss it back to him.”

He flung the pistol down at the feet of the gimpy man.

I flung the partially eaten barrel at the same spot.

The gimpy man picked up the two pieces of his pistol, gaped at them, and started to howl. He tossed the things away and hobbled off as fast he could go. From where we sat on the scrap heap we laughed our heads off over the funny way he ran.

Late that night a narrow beam of light pierced the darkness off to the southwest, accompanied by a loud chugging noise. Another train was coming.

We watched as it steamed up to the end of the tracks, where it plowed into another train already there. The cars of the train accordioned into one another, noisily dumping the iron they were hauling to the side of the tracks.

There would be no more trains after that. I asked if there were any parts of the train that were tasty. He said the wheels were the best. So we started eating one of them, but stopped when we were halfway through it.

We also went down to the smelting ovens to find some newly smelted iron, but none of it tasted as good as the rusty iron we were used to.

We slept on the scrap iron heap during the day, then made life difficult for the smelters at night, sending them scurrying off in fear.

One night, we went out to frighten the men who were smashing woks. Spotting a rusty red wok in the flames of one of the ovens, we ran over. But we no sooner got our hands on it than we heard a loud whoosh as a rope net dropped over us.

We attacked the net with our teeth, but no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't bite through the rope.

“We caught them,” they cried out ecstatically, “we caught them!”

Soon afterward, they scraped our rusty bodies with sandpaper. It hurt, it hurt like hell!