The+Old+Demon+-+full+text

The Old Demon
** The Old Demon  ** Adapted from a story by Pearl S. Buck Old Mrs. Wang knew of course that there was a war. Everybody had known for a long time that there was a war going on and that Japanese were killing Chinese. To Mrs. Wang, however, the war was not real and no more than rumor since none of the Wangs had been killed. Old Mrs. Wang’s clan village, the Village of Three Mile Wangs, on the flat banks of the Yellow River, had never even seen a Japanese person. Only the war caused them to talk about the Japanese. It was an early summer evening. After her supper, Mrs. Wang had climbed the dike steps, as she did daily, to see how high the river had risen. She was more afraid of the river than of the Japanese. She knew what the river could do. One by one, the villagers had followed her up the dike. They stood staring down at the mischievous yellow water, which was curling along like a lot of snakes and biting at the high dike banks. “I never saw it as high as this so early,” Mrs. Wang said. She sat down on a bamboo stool that her grandson, Little Pig, had brought for her, and spat into the water. “It’s worse than the Japanese, this old devil of a river,” Little Pig said recklessly. “Fool!” said Mrs. Wang quickly. “The river god will hear you. Talk about something else.” So they had gone on talking about the Japanese. How, for instance, asked Wang, the baker, would they Japanese when they saw them? Mrs. Wang at this point said positively, “You’ll know them. I once saw a foreigner. He was taller than the roof of my house, and he had mud-colored hair and eyes the color of a fish’s eyes. Anyone who does not look like us—that is Japanese.” Everyone listened to her since she was the oldest woman in the village. Then Little Pig spoke up in his unsettling way, “You can’t see them, Grandmother: They hide up in the sky in airplanes.” Mrs. Wang did not answer immediately. Once, she would have said positively, “I shall not believe in an airplane until I see it.” But so many things had been true that she had not believed. So now, she merely stared quietly around the dike, where they all sat around her. The evening was very pleasant and cool, and she felt that nothing mattered so long as the river did not rise to flood. “I don’t believe in the Japanese,” she said flatly. They laughed at her a little, but no one spoke. Someone lit her pipe. It was Little Pig’s wife, who was her favorite. “Sing, Little Pig!” someone called. So Little Pig bean to sing an old song in a high, shaky voice, and Mrs. Wang listened and forgot the Japanese. The evening was beautiful. And the sky was so clear and still that the willows overhanging the dike were reflected even in the muddy water. Everything was at peace. The thirty-odd houses which made up the village were spread out along beneath the willow trees. Nothing could break this peace. After all, the Japanese were only human beings. “I doubt those airplanes,” she said mildly to Little Pig when he stopped singing. But without answering her, Little Pig went on to another song. Year in and year out she had spent the summer evenings like this on the dike—ever since she had been seventeen and a bride. Her husband had shouted to come out of the house and up to the dike. She had come, blushing and twisting her hands together to hide among the women, while the men roared at her and made jokes about her. All the same, they had liked her. “A pretty piece of meat in your bowl,” they had said to her husband. “Her feet are a trifle big,” he had answered, trying to make her seem less special. But she could see that he was pleased, and so, gradually, her shyness went away. He, poor man, had been drowned in a flood when he was still young. And it had taken her years to get him prayed out of Buddhist purgatory. Finally, she had grown tired of it, for she had the responsibilities of caring for a child and maintaining the land. So when the priest said persuasively, “Another ten pieces of silver and he’ll be out entirely,” she asked, “What does he have in there yet?” “Only his right hand,” the priest said, encouraging her. Well then, her patience broke. Ten dollars! It would feed them for the winter. Besides, she had had to hire labor for her share of repairing the dike so there would be no more floods. “If it’s only one hand, he can pull himself out,” she said firmly. She often wondered if he had, poor silly fellow. Like it or not, she often had thought gloomily in the night that he was still lying there, waiting for her to do something about it. That was the sort of man he was. Well, someday, perhaps, when Little Pig’s wife had had the first baby safely and she had a little extra money, she might go back to get him out of purgatory. There was no real hurry, though. “Grandmother, you must go in, “Little Pig’s wife’s soft voice said. “There is a mist rising from the river, now that the sun is gone.” “Yes, I suppose I must,” old Mrs. Wang agreed. She gazed at the river a moment. That river—it was full of good and evil together. It would water the fields when it was restrained and checked. But if an inch were allowed it, it crashed through the dike like a roaring dragon. That was how her husband had been swept away. Careless, he was, about his bit of the dike. He was always going to mend it, always going to pile more earth on top of it, and then, one night, the river rose and broke through. He had run out of the house. She had climbed on the roof with her child and had saved the two of them while her husband drowned. Well, they had pushed the river back again behind its dikes, and it had stayed there this time. Every day, she herself walked up and down the length of the dike for which the village was responsible and examined it. The men laughed and said, “If anything is wrong with the dike, Granny will tell us.” It had never occurred to any of them to move the village away from the river. The Wangs had lived there for generations. Some had always escaped the floods and had fought the river more fiercely than ever afterward. Little Pig suddenly stopped singing. “The moon is coming up!” he cried. “That’s not good. Airplanes come out on moonlit nights.” “Where did you learn all this about airplanes?” old Mrs. Wang asked. “It is tiresome to me,” she added, so severely that no one spoke. In this silence, leaning upon the arm of Little Pig’s wife, she slowly descended the earthen steps that led down into the village. She held the long pipe in her other hand as a walking stick. Behind her, the villagers came down, one by one, to bed. No one moved before she did, but none stayed long after her. In her own bed at last, behind the blue cotton mosquito curtains that Little Pig’s wife fastened securely, she soon fell peacefully asleep. But first, she lay awake a little while, thinking about the Japanese and wondering why they wanted to fight. Only very crude people wanted wars. In her mind, she saw large crude people. If they came, one must influence them, she thought. One must invite them to drink tea, and explain things to them reasonably. Only why would they come to a peaceful farming village? So, she was not in the least prepared for Little Pig’s wife screaming at that the Japanese had come. She sat up in bed muttering, “The tea bowls—the tea—“ “Grandmother, there’s no time!” Little Pig’s wife screamed. “They’re here—they’re here!” “Where?” old Mrs. Wang cried, now awake. “In the sky!” Little Pig’s wife wailed. They had all run out, into the clear early dawn, and gazed up. There, like wild geese flying in the autumn, were great birdlike shapes. “But what are they?” old Mrs. Wang cried. And then, like a silver egg dropping, something drifted straight down and fell at the far end of the village in a field. A fountain of earth flew up, and they all ran to see it. There was a hole thirty feet across, as big as a pond. They were so surprised that they could not speak. And then, before anybody could say anything, another egg and another began to fall. Everybody began running. Everybody, that is, but Mrs. Wang. When Little Pig’s wife seized her hand to drag her along, old Mrs. Wang pulled away and sat down against the bank of the dike. “I can’t run,” she remarked. “I haven’t run in seventy years, since before my feet were bound. You go on Where’s Little Pig?” She looked around. Little Pig was already gone. “Like his grandfather,” she remarked, “always the first to run.” But Little Pig’s wife would not leave Mrs. Wang—not, that is, until the old woman reminded her that it was her duty. “If Little Pig is dead,” she said, “then it is necessary that his son be born alive.” And when the girl still hesitated, she struck at her gently with her pipe. “Go on—go on!” she exclaimed. So unwillingly, because now they could scarcely hear each other speak above the roar of the dipping planes, Little Pig’s wife went on with the others. By now, although only a few minutes had passed, the village was in ruins; the straw roofs and wooden beams were blazing. Everybody was gone. As the villagers passed, they shrieked at old Mrs. Wang to come on, and she had called back pleasantly, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” But she did not go. She sat quite alone, watching what was an extraordinary spectacle. For, soon, other planes came, from where she did not know, but they attacked the first ones. The sun came up over the fields of ripening wheat. And in the clear summery air, the planes wheeled and darted and spat at each other. “I’d like to see one of them up close,” she said aloud. And at that moment, as though in answer, one of them pointed suddenly downward. Wheeling and twisting as though it were wounded, it fell head down in a field which Little Pig had ploughed only yesterday for soybeans. And in an instant, the sky was empty again, and there was only this wounded thing on the ground and herself. She hoisted herself up carefully from the earth. At her age she need be afraid of nothing. She had lived a good, long life. She could, she decided, go and see what it was. So, leaning on her bamboo pipe, she mad her way slowly across the fields. Behind her in the sudden stillness, two or three village dogs appeared and followed, creeping close to her in their terror. When they drew near to the fallen plane, they barked furiously. Then she hit them with her pipe. “Be quiet!” she scolded, “there’s already been noise enough to split my ears!” She tapped the airplane. “Metal,” she told the dogs. “Silver, doubtless,” she added. Melted down, it would make them all rich. She walked around, examining it closely. What made it fly? It seemed dead. Nothing moved or made a sound within it. Then, coming to the side to which it was tipped, she saw a young man in it. He was in a heap in a little seat. The dogs growled, but she struck at them again, and they fell back. “Are you dead?” she inquired politely. The young man moved a little at her voice but did not speak. She drew nearer and peered into the hole in which he sat. His side was bleeding. “Wounded!” she exclaimed. She took his wrist. It was warm, but still. When she let it go, it dropped against her side of the hole. She stared at him. He had black hair and dark skin like a Chinese person, and still he did not look like a Chinese. “He must be a Southerner,” she thought. Well, the chief thing was that he was alive. “You had better come out,” she remarked. “I’ll put some herb plaster on your side.” The young man muttered something slowly. “What did you say?” she asked the man. But he did not say it again. “I am still quite strong,” she decided for a moment. So she reached in and seized him around the waist and pulled him out slowly, panting a good deal. Fortunately, he was a rather little fellow and very light. When she had him on the ground, he seemed to find his feet. He stood shakily and clung to her, and she held him up. “Now, if you can walk to my house,” she said, “I’ll see if it is still there.” Then he said something, quite clearly. She listened and could not understand a word of it. She pulled away from him and stared. “What’s that?” she asked. He pointed at the dogs. They stood growling, the hair on their necks standing up. Then he spoke again, and as he spoke he crumpled to the ground. The dogs fell on him, so that she had to beat them off with her hands. “Get away!” she shouted at the dogs. “Who told you to kill him?” And then, when they had moved back quietly, she heaved him somehow onto her back. Trembling, half carrying, half pulling him, she dragged him to the ruined village and laid him in the street while she went to find her house, taking the dogs with her. Her house was quite gone. She found the place easily enough. This was where it should be, opposite the water gate into the dike. She had always watched that gate herself. Miraculously, it was not damaged now, nor was the dike broken. It would be easy enough to rebuild the house. It was gone only for the present. So she went back to the young man. He was lying as she had left him, propped against the dike, panting and very pale. He had opened his coat and had a little bag, from which he was taking out strips of cloth and a bottle of something. And again he spoke, and again she understood nothing. Then he made signs, and she saw it was water that he wanted, so she picked up one of many broken pots that had been blown around the street. Then, going up the dike, she filled it with water and brought it down again and washed his wound. She tore off the strips that he had made from the rolls of bandaging. He knew how to put the cloth over the gaping wound. He made signs to her, and she followed these signs. All the time he was trying to tell her something, but she could understand nothing. “You must be from the South, sir,” she said. It was easy to see that he had no education. He looked very clever. “I have heard that your language is different from ours.” She laughed a little to put him at ease, but he only stared at her darkly and gloomily. So she said brightly, “Now if I could find something for us to eat, it would be nice.” He did not answer. Indeed, he lay back, panting still more heavily, and stared into space as though she had not spoken. “You would feel better with food,” she went on. “And so would I,” she added. She was beginning to feel unbearably hungry. It occurred to her that there might be some bread in the baker’s shop. Even if it were dusty from fallen cannon shells, it would still be bread. She would go and see. But before she went, she moved the soldier a little so that he lay in the edge of a willow tree’s shadow. Then she went to the baker’s shop. The dogs were gone. The baker’s shop was, like everything else, in ruins. No one was there. At first, she saw nothing but the mass of crumpled earthen walls. But then she remembered that the oven was just inside the door. The door frame still stood erect, supporting one end of the roof. She stood in this frame, and, running her hand in underneath the fallen roof, she felt the wooden cover of the iron kettle. Under this, there might be steamed bread. She worked her arm in delicately and carefully. It took quite a long time, and clouds of lime and dust almost choked her. Nevertheless, she was right. She squeezed her hand in under the cover and felt the firm, smooth skin of the big steamed rolls. She drew out four; one by one. “It’s hard to kill an old thing like me,” she remarked cheerfully to no one. She began to eat one of the rolls as she walked back. If she only had a bit of garlic and a bowl of tea—but one couldn’t have everything in these times. It was at this moment that she heard voices. When she came in sight of the soldier, she saw surrounding him a crowd of other soldiers, who had apparently come from nowhere. They were staring down at the wounded soldier, whose eyes were now closed. “Where did you get this Japanese, Old Mother?” they shouted at her. “What Japanese?” she said, coming to them. “This one!” they shouted. “Is he a Japanese?” she said, coming to them. “This one!” they shouted. “Is he a Japanese?” she cried in the greatest astonishment. “But he looks like us. His eyes are black, his skin—“ “Japanese!” one of them shouted at her. “Well,” she said quietly, “he dropped out of the sky.” “Give me that bread!” another shouted. “Take it,” she said, “all except this one for him.” “A Japanese pilot eat good bread?” the soldier shouted at her. “I suppose he is hungry also,” old Mrs. Wang replied. She began to dislike these men. But then, she had always disliked soldiers. “I wish you would go away,” she said. “What are you doing here? Our village has always been peaceful.” “It certainly looks very peaceful now,” one of the men said, grinning, “as peaceful as a grave. Do you know who did that, Old Mother? The Japanese!” “I suppose so,” she agreed. Then she asked, “Why? That’s what I don’t understand.” “Why? Because they want our land, that’s why!” “Our land!” she repeated. “Why, they can’t have our land!” “Never!” they shouted. But all this time, while they were talking and chewing the bread that they had divided among themselves, they were watching the eastern horizon. “Why do you keep looking east?” old Mrs. Wang now asked. “The Japanese are coming from there,” the man who had taken the bread replied. “Are you running away from them?” she asked, surprised. “There are only a handful of us,” he said apologetically. “We were left to guard a village—Pao An—in the country of—“ “I know that village,” old Mrs. Wang interrupted. “You needn’t tell me. I was a girl there. How is the old Pao who keeps the tea shop in the main street? He’s my brother.” “Everybody is dead there,” the old man replied. “The Japanese have taken it. A great army of men came with their foreign guns and tanks. What could we do?” “Of course, only run,” she agreed. Nevertheless she felt dazed and sick. So, he was dead, her one remaining brother. She was now the last of her father’s family. The soldiers were scattering, again leaving her alone. “They’ll be coming, those Japanese soldiers,” they were saying, “We’d best go on.” Nevertheless, the one who had taken the bread lingered a moment to stare down at the wounded man, who lay with his eyes shut, not having moved at all. “Is he dead?” he inquired. Then, before Mrs. Wang could answer, he pulled a short knife out of his belt. “Dead or not, I’ll give him a punch or two with this!” But old Mrs. Wang pushed his arm away. “No, you won’t!” she said with authority. “If he is dead, then there is no use sending him to purgatory all in pieces. I am a good Buddhist myself.” The man laughed. “Oh, well, he is dead,” he answered. Then, seeing his comrades already at a distance, he ran after them. A Japanese, was he? Old Mrs. Wang, left alone with the wounded man, looked at him tentatively. He was very young, she could see, no that his eyes were closed. His hand, limp in his state of unawareness, looked like a boy’s hand, unformed and still growing. She felt his wrist but could discern no pulse. She leaned over him and held to his lips the half of her roll which she had not eaten. “Eat!” she said very loudly and distinctly. “Bread!” But there was no answer. Evidently he was dead. He must have died while she had been getting the bread out of the oven. There was nothing to do but to finish the bread herself. When that was done, she wondered if she should follow after Little Pig and his wife and all the villagers. The sun was mounting and it was growing hot. If she were going to follow them, she had better go now. But first, she would climb the dike and see what the direction was. They had gone straight west, and as far as the eye could see westward was a great plain. So she climbed the dike slowly, getting very hot. There was a slight breeze on top of the dike, and it felt good. She was shocked to see the river very near the top of the dike. Why, it had risen in the last hour! “You old demon!” she said severely. Let the river god hear if if he liked. He was evil, that he was, to threaten a flood when there had been all this other trouble. Just as she was about to climb down, she saw something on the eastern horizon. It looked at first like an immense cloud of dust. But, as she stared at it, it very quickly became a lot of black dots and shining spots. Then she saw what it was. It was a lot of men—an army! Instantly, she knew what army. “That’s the Japanese!” she thought. Yes, above them were the buzzing silver planes. They circled about, seeming to search for someone. “I don’t know who you’re looking for,” she muttered, “unless it’s me and Little Pig and his wife. We’re the only ones left. You’ve already killed my brother Pao.” She had almost forgotten that Pao was dead. Now she remembered it acutely. He had such a nice shop—always clean, and the tea good and the best meat dumplings to be had and the price always the same. Pao was a good man. Besides, what about his wife and his seven children? Doubtless, they had all been killed, too. Now, these Japanese were looking for her. It occurred to her that she could easily be seen on the dike. So she clambered hastily down. It was when she was about halfway down that she thought of the water gate. This old river—it had been a curse to them since time began. Why should it not make up a little now for all the wickedness that it had done? It was plotting wickedness again, trying to steal over its banks. Well, why not? For a moment, she could not decide. It was a pity, of course, that the young dead Japanese would be swept away by the flood. He was a nice-looking boy, and she had saved him from being stabbed. It was not quite the same as saving his life, of course, but it was still a little the same. If he had been alive, he would have been saved. She went over to him and tugged at him until he lay near the top of the bank. Then she came down again. She knew perfectly well how to open the water gate. Any child knew how to open the sluice for crops. But she also knew how to swing open the whole gate. The question was, could she open it quickly enough to get out of the way? “I’m only one old woman,” she muttered. She hesitated a second more. It would be a pity not to see what sort of a baby that Little Pig’s wife would have, but one could not see everything. She had seen a great deal in this life. There was an end to what one could see. She glanced again to the east. There were the Japanese, coming across the plain. They were a long clear line of black, dotted with thousands of glittering points. If she opened this gate, the rushing water would roar toward them, rushing into the plains, rolling into a wide lake, maybe drowning them. Certainly, they could not keep on marching nearer and nearer to her and to Little Pig and his wife as they waited for her. Well, Little Pig and his wife—they would wonder about her—but they would never dream of this. It would make a good story. She would have enjoyed telling it. She turned resolutely to the gate. Some people fight with airplanes and with guns, but you could fight with a river, too, if it were a wicked one like this one. She wrenched out a huge wooden pin. It was slippery with silvery green moss. The trickle of water burst into a strong jet. When she wrenched one more pin, the rest would give way. She began pulling at it and felt it slip a little from its hole. “I might be able to get myself out of purgatory with this,” she thought, “and maybe they’ll let me have that old mine of mine, too. What’s a hand of his compared to all this? Then we’ll—“ The pin slipped away, and the gate burst flat against her and knocked her breath away. She had only time to gasp to the river: “Come on, you old demon!” Then she felt it seize her and lift her up to the sky. It was beneath her and around her. It rolled her joyfully here and there. Then, holding her close and embracing her, it went rushing against the enemy.