The Young Horse Crossed the Marsh

by Mo Yan

"Why did they have to cross the marsh, and come over to this side? Is this side really better than the other? Don't sweet potatoes and cogongrass grow over there, too? Then, why did they have to cross the marsh? Couldn't they have taken an easier route around? Was it worth that much hardship and the deaths of so many people?"

The endless questions of the infamous young halfbreed with the webbed feet and hands annoyed him. He spit out a mouthful of saliva and rose from the grass, remembering to brush the bits of grass from his pants. He walked toward the herd of oxen grazing with lowered heads in the distance.

The web-footed young halfbreed gazed after the man in black until his black eyes began to smart. He watched as that man entered the dim graveyard. He ... Was he that young halfbreed? What was his name? Why was he sitting there? -- Let's call him "Little Halfbreed". As for his sitting there ... Let's just say he was sitting there watching the oxen and sheep -- The story-telling is always interrupted by the young fellow who has an all-consuming thirst for knowledge and impatient temperament. -- That's also one of the ways to pass on tradition from one generation to another.

It is getting dark. Instinctively, the oxen and sheep draw closer. The mournful blue eyes of the cows are filled with motherly concern. They arch their backs slightly. With their foreheads, the calves begin to butt at the udders of their mothers and suck noisily .

"My grandfather told me ... Grandfather died many years ago," I tell my runny- nosed grandson. "When I was your age, I came here with my grandfather to herd oxen and sheep. He told me a lot of things. The sun was whiter than it is now, but the marsh was almost the same. We tied strings of shiny, flame-red locusts to the stems of three-edged grass. Oil oozed out when we cooked the locusts over the fire."

My grandson pops a well-cooked locust into his mouth.

According to my grandfather, Little Halfbreed would nod his head vigorously, as if he were shaking off the last drops of urine. He sat on that spot every day at dawn. To the south was the marsh with reddish sludge; to the east was the grassland; to the west, grassland and cultivated fields; and to the north, a small village. On the grassland, there were three willow trees, their branches hanging dejectedly like the heads of three people at a funeral. Little Halfbreed sat there waiting for "him" -- a fellow slim as a black fish. Just as the sun was rising on the horizon, the thin fellow would appear from that graveyard overgrown with trees and bushes. He played with Little Halfbreed and told the story about crossing the marsh.

"Did they cook locusts, too?" my grandson asks me curiously, just as I once asked my grandfather and as my grandfather had once asked his grandfather. Before I reply, I break off a blade of grass and scrape the yellowish mucus which is about to drip into his mouth away from his nose. "Of course they did!"

I look into my grandson's black eyes as a feeling of sorrow and chill slowly comes over me. Although the grassland at dusk is still blazing hot, the breeze off the marsh is already cool. The smell of sludge penetrates into the very marrow of our bones. Seventy years have passed by in the twinkling of an eye. The times to dream about the dead have increased. I'm glad that the day of my own death isn't far off.

...In the beginning, Little Halfbreed sat there poking at an ant hill with a stem of grass. The thin man, skinny as a coil of black smoke, chuckled coldly behind him. Little Halfbreed wasn't scared; for the chuckling was familiar to him. The old folks of his clan all chuckled like that. Little Halfbreed coaxed a pink ant onto the stem of grass and let it creep along until it reached the end. The ant, as if at the edge of an abyss, scratched its head in hesitation. It was badly frightened. A black foot, like a monster with a life of its own, passed over Little Halfbreed's shoulder and set down before him. He could smell the foot. It had the faint odour of a wild chrysanthemum. The ant jumped to the protruding toes and quickly mounted, climbing over the instep and the ankle. Little Halfbreed looked up when he couldn't see the ant anymore. The dark, thin man was staring at him with eyes of sharply contrasting black and white. On his lips was a spectral smile. In his mouth were two rows of steely teeth...

My grandfather told me that Little Halfbreed examined the dark man for a while before all of a sudden asking, "Who are you?" The man in black replied, "I am myself." That was how they got acquainted. They didn't say anything to each other on the first day; nor did they on the second day. On the third day, when it was getting dark, the man in black said, "Tomorrow, I'll tell you something."

"Was it the story about how the young horse crossed over the marsh?" asks my grandson with curiosity. "Why did the young horse want to cross the marsh? Was it because there wasn't any tasty grass for it to eat south of the mash?..."

"Don't interrupt!" I say to my grandson just as my grandfather had scolded me. "Don't interrupt!".

On the grass...locusts were hopping about. It was oddly painful when one hit my tender skin... A locust of shiny, fiery red perches on my withered, aged skin. It has a lustre to it, as if carved from jade, a real treasure. The spines on its legs are tickling me; so I raise my hand and brush it off.

"Grandpa, the locust is hurting me," my grandson says tearfully.

"Let's go under the three willows. The grass isn't so dense, and there're fewer locusts."

I was drawn in by the story about the dark man told by my grandfather. I could almost see the dark man's face and his dishevelled hair. He bore a perfect resemblance to black smoke...My grandfather killed a locust on his arm and then led me to the three willows.

...On the morning of the third day, Little Halfbreed came to this spot. He released two oxen and twelve sheep to graze on the grass and then sat under a tree waiting for the black man. The sheep snorted loudly because their muzzles were irritated by beads of dew on the grass. When the sun was just about to come up, the man in black appeared before Little Halfbreed. Little Halfbreed asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

The man in black answered, "I've drunk a hive full of honey."

"How much is a hive of honey?"

"How should I know! Only the devil knows how much a hive of honey is. -- Let me tell you the story about how the young horse crossed over the marsh. A long, long time ago, a group of people drove a mare up from the south. After they entered the marsh, the mare gave birth to a red foal. Soon after, the mare died, leaving behind the foal all by itself. A number of people also died, until there was only one child left, a boy. The boy and the foal embraced each other and began to cry. They cried and cried until tears wouldn't come any more...

Little Halfbreed, who hadn't slept well the night before, began to yawn.

The dark man said, "Listen closely, my child!"

Little Halfbreed complained, "This story is no good at all! You tricked me into coming here early in the morning before I had breakfast. You should give me some honey to eat."

The black man plucked a flower from the soil and broke off two grass stems. He crushed them in his palms before blowing them into the air. Bees danced in the breeze. In order to brew honey for Little Halfbreed, they made a nest in the grass and then gathered pollen, sea water, and dung -- the sweetest things should be made out of the most foul ingredients. After eating the honey, Little Halfbreed wasn't hungry or tired any longer. He listened while the black man continued his story.

...The foal licked the little boy's face and said, "Don't cry, little brother." The foal was a female who had two big, bright blue eyes with double-folded eyelids and long eyelashes. Its lips were as tender and red as rose petals. The boy stroked its face and said to it, 'Little sister, I'll listen to you and stop crying. Why should I cry when I'm older than you?' The boy and the foal found some solid ground and began to eat, the foal munching grass and the boy eating the seeds of the grass. When they were full, they set out together on their journey through the marshland...

Just at that moment, the man in black and Little Halfbreed heard a strange sound in the marsh, much like the roar of a tiger. They were both startled, or rather, they were struck dumb. They turned their heads and stared at the bushes with their mouths wide open.

I remember that, when my grandfather reached this point of the story, I would involuntarily turn my head in fear to look at the clumps of red shrubbery stretching endlessly into the recesses of the marsh. It was dusk then, too. The sun was cool and dense clouds of mist rose from the marsh. There was a sound of branches moving in the bushes, and then all became still. The oxen and sheep, with fear and nervousness in their eyes, had drawn closer .

"What bird made that sound?" Little Halfbreed asked the thin black man.

As if posing, the thin, dark chap was staring at the marsh, now motionless as a picture, and at the cotton-like mist. His keen eyes, sunk under the protruding ridge of his forehead, were fixed like those of a falcon which had just detected a hare.

Little Halfbreed repeated the question, poking the calf of the black man's leg with his finger. People of later generations all say that the legs of the black man were as hard as rock and as cold as ice.

"It was the Grey Wolf," he answered, or more accurately, he said to himself. The strange noise came again from among the bushes. Even though it sounded like the barking of a dog or the howling of a wolf, it wasn't exactly the same. To the attentive listener, it was more like a dog's bark than a wolf's howl. The bushes shook, and then became still. The strange noise echoed through the silent marsh.

I trembled with fear back then, but I am used to the story now. My grandson's little hands clutch at my skin like claws.

The man in black patted Little Halfbreed on his square head before abruptly lifting his own head and, with the veins standing out on his neck, uttering an eerie cry. The imitation was so accurate that the Grey Wolf in the marsh joined in: Aa--woo; Aa--woo; Aa--woo. "It's called Grey Wolf; it's actually a kind of bird," he stated ambiguously. And then, in a high- pitched tone, he sang out:

"The Grey Wolf lays its eggs everywhere.
It sounds like a dog and moves like lightening.
It's not an ordinary bird. It is divine.
With a panacea herb in its beak,
It builds its nest on the tree of fragrant musk.
If you can catch sight of it,
You will be free from disaster and misfortune.
If you can catch sight of it,
You will live for ten thousand years!"

He sang the song over and over again until the sun went down and both the sky and the earth were surrounded in a purple haze. Starlight twinkled through the purple like fireflies. That night, Little Halfbreed saw the Grey Wolf flying low, leaving behind traces of moonlight which illuminated the branches of the bushes so brightly that they looked like wires of gold.

...With great difficulty, the young horse and the boy made their way through the marsh. Rotten, acidic gas made their eyes water. Air bubbles rose to the surface of the mire and popped with a spluttering sound. Fragments of withered yellow grass floated all around. They dodged about, hopping with a care, searching for tussocks of grass to stand on. They couldn't afford to slow their pace; for, if they hesitated in the slightest, they would sink into the sludge. The muck was dark red in colour, sticky as paint and had the stink of rotting fish. The marshland seemed endless. One day the boy made a false step and began to sink. The more he struggled, the deeper he went, quickly sinking to his chest. His head began to swell; his nose began to bleed; and his eyeballs began to bulge. He started to cry. The foal tried to pull him out with her hooves, but failed. She began to cry too. The boy called out, "Little Horse, don't worry about me. You go on by yourself." "No," the little horse answered. "if we die, we'll die together." The boy shook his head with all his strength. By this time, it was completely dark. Hordes of fireflies danced, and a cool breeze blew over the marsh. Suddenly, they heard the faint barking of a dog in the distance. They looked up, and, in the direction of the barking, they saw traces of dim light. The young horse shouted with excitement, "Little Brother, look. There are other people ahead! We are almost out of the marsh!" The boy felt a rush of renewed energy, and, out of desperation, an idea came to him. The young horse turned her rump around and raised her tail so that the boy could grab it. She placed her four hooves on tussocks of grass and arched her back. With her muzzle almost buried in the mud, she pulled and pulled until at last she pulled the boy out. The red foal was exhausted. She discovered a patch of solid ground and lay down, gasping for breath. It was a long time before the boy let go of her tail.

A wave of warmth rippled through the boy's veins as he watched the light flickering intermittently in the distance and listened to the dreamlike barking of the dogs. He felt that only weeping heavily could release the emotion in his heart, and so he began to sob loudly. The young horse narrowed her eyes in satisfaction. The boy was seized with an impulse to stroke her cool skin, brush her mane, and nestle his face against the bridge of her long, beautiful nose. The firm eyelashes of the young horse rubbed against his cheeks as he pressed his lips against her eyes. The young horse's body became red-hot after a time. She clutched the boy with her four legs, drawing him tight against her belly. Her mouth, steamy with the odour of fresh grass, nearly pierced the boy's scalp. Later, as they walked toward the light, they still cuddled against each other. They hadn't dared to move an inch during the previous nights for fear of sinking into the mud in the dark. But on that night they ignored the danger. The light and the barking of the dogs -- signs of human life -- endowed them with mystical power. They felt that their bodies were light as swallows. Even the foul bog seemed to emit the fragrance of orchids. Finally they found the spot from whence the light emanated. "There was a golden tree -- With wood of fragrant musk -- On the treetop was a large nest -- In the nest were two square eggs -- A huge golden bird started and flew away -- In a fiery glow -- Calling out like the dog barking"...

Little Halfbreed asked the man in black, "Have you ever seen the Grey Woff?"

The man in black heaved a long sigh. Little Halfbreed heard the oxen and the sheep chewing grass in the darkness and saw the gleam in the eyes of the man in black. He looked more haggard at night. Dogs howled madly in the village, and a woman called out in a long hoarse voice.

The dark man gathered a pile of dry twigs and rotten leaves and began to strike a rock against an iron sickle. A spark fell on the dry leaves. He pursed his lips and blew. A thread of green fire, writhing like a snake, began to slowly emit warmth and light. A large meteorite fell from the sky, leaving a bright trail of light across the heavens. He dug two cassavas from the ground near the fire and, without peeling them, placed them directly in the flames. The fire dimmed momentarily and then flared up again.

"Should I go home now?" Little Halfbreed asked.

"You mean you have a home to go back to?" The man in black replied sarcastically.

Little Halfbreed fell silent and dejectedly poked the burning twigs with a short wooden stick. Beyond the circle of light, sheep snorted in high pitched tones, like those uttered by women. An ox occasionally thrust its head into the illuminated area. Its erect horns and piercing eyes were rather frightening.

The cassavas gave out a very nice smell. Little Halfbreed again asked, "Have you really seen the Grey Wolf?"

With a cruel and contemptuous expression on his face, the dark man fixed his eyes on Little Halfbreed. His chin was ashen and pointed, as sharp as an iron axe.

I asked my grandfather if he had ever seen the Grey Wolf. The bonfire cast a golden glow on his face. In the distance, both to the south and the north, columns of flame reached to the sky. Even from where we were, we could smell molten steel.

"Let's make a fire, too!" I tell my grandson. His parents were blown away by a twister more than a month ago and no one knows where they might have landed. But I believe that they will come back. The blind fortune-teller, Wang, also says that they will come back. My grandson asks me with a pitiful voice, "Is there really such a thing as the Grey Wolf, Grandpa?"

...Because they had frightened the Grey Wolf, it flew away, brushing the tips of the bushes with its long tails like a comet. The tree gave off an intoxicating scent which the young horse detected. She remarked fatuously, "Little Brother, how sweet the fragrance is." The boy was also overcome by the scent. He hugged the neck of the red horse. In a way, it was hugging his own mother; yet in another sense it wasn't. During those days, the young horse gradually came to know the meanings of love--At the very moment when she had lowered her tail for the boy to clutch, timid love had swelled in her like a mushroom. She said," Elder brother, when we reach the other side, let's be husband and wife." The boy kissed her ears, eyes and heavy mane. Sweet saliva dripped from his mouth. Her eyes filling with tears, the young horse whispered, "Elder brother, I have been waiting for you a long time. I have one request. That is, never use the word 'ma (horse)" after we become husband and wife." The boy quickly consented. The young horse continued, "Elder brother, please close your eyes!" The boy closed his eyes and heard a loud, clear neigh from the horse. When he opened his eyes, he found standing before him a sweet, charming maiden. She had long, reddish-gold hair, heavy as a horse's mane, blue eyes as limpid as a precious stone in the water, and tender lips tempting whoever set eyes on them to kiss them. The boy almost asked if she was the horse, but remembered his promise just in time. "Elder brother, my name is Grass Fragrance," said the maiden. That night the boy and Grass Fragrance became husband and wife under the tree of fragrant musk. We need not tell what else happened that night. The next day, the husband and the wife continued on their journey through the marsh, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. After many difficulties and hardships, they at last arrived at this place...

The man in black pointed in the general direction of the village and spoke no further. The flames crackled, and the delicious fragrance of cassavas became stronger. From time to time, the head of a sheep or a calf appeared in the circle of light. Little Halfbreed stared at the flames in total absorption, thinking still about the red horse which, upon neighing, had transformed into a beautiful maiden.

"How do you know that he was thinking about the red horse?" my grandson asks.

At the time, I had the same question. My grandfather replied, "How could he help thinking about it?" I ask my grandson, "Aren't you thinking about the red horse? Tell me the truth, grandson. I'm asking you seriously: what are you thinking about right now?" My grandson stares trancelike into the flames. "You are thinking about the red horse, aren't you? You can't fool me. I've had the same experience."

No wonder! No wonder, I think to myself, such a beautiful red horse. What liquid eyes and flower-like hooves! What petal-shaped lips! Our herbivorous clan has been living and multiplying on this meagre piece of land for years and years, one generation after another. Who hasn't heard about the story of the red horse? Who hasn't had daydreams about it? How, with a neigh, it changed into a beautiful, fascinating maiden? Neither mountain nor oceans can prevent people from longing for such an enchantress. When emotion is at its peak, neither you, me, my grandfather, my grandfather's grandfather, nor men of any generation can help but call out: Ma! Ma! Ma! These words have become a great secret code.

My grandfather told me that the man in black removed a roasted cassava from the fire and wrapped both its ends in dry grass. With a snap, he broke it in halves. The rosy flesh was steaming. He handed half the cassava to Little Halfbreed and took the other half for himself. In a blink of an eye, it was in his stomach, but Little Halfbreed still blew on his half, afraid that it would burn his lips.

The fire slowly died down until there were only glowing embers left. The contours of the surroundings became gradually visible. The shadows of oxen and sheep trembled, and whistling bugs sang shrilly and unexpectedly, startling the listeners. Noise from the marsh seemed to come from a far-away place. Little Halfbreed heard the breathing of the young horse. Her smooth, silky skin was so close it was as if he could reach out and touch it.

"Then what?" Little Halfbreed asked.

"You still want to know what happened later?" The man in black asked with a grin. Little Halfbreed felt that there was something sinister behind that grin.

"Of course I do." The grandson says. "Grandpa's stories always have beginnings and endings."

"This place was deserted when they first came here. Everywhere, there were weeds taller than people, concealing wolves, snakes, tigers and leopards. They built a thatched hut, cleared some ground to farm, hunted and fished, raised chickens and dogs. A year later, Grass Fragrance gave birth to a set of twins, boys. And after another year, she had another pair of twins, two girls."

...Grass Fragrance lost the ability to have babies after she ate the eggs of colour-ball fish by mistake. She worked hard day and night, spinning yarn, soaking flax, and growing vegetables. She gradually became wan and sallow. Her eyes lost their clarity. The boy grew into a strong man who devoted himself entirely to working the land, and he neglected his wife and children. In the blink of an eye, more than ten years went by. The two pairs of twins grew up. They actually made love to each other in secret, giggling all the while. When the father discovered what the twins had done, he took the hunting rifle and shot one girl and one boy dead on the spot. The other boy and the other girl who survived hid themselves behind their mother. Grass Fragrance, while weeping, tried to speak up for the children ... But he swore, "I'll kill you two, dirty swine raised by a horse!" As soon as he finished speaking, he heard a great noise, as though the earth were heaving. Rolling, red smoke rose from the ground and bore away that horse as red as fire ... "Ma! Ma!" The boy and the girl held each other and cried out. The man immediately regretted what he had said. As the red horse was borne up in the smoke, its teary eyes were filled with hatred that pierced his heart like an arrow. That very day, he turned from a sturdy man into a dark, bony living corpse. He wandered from place to place, singing the song about the Grey Wolf.

"The Grey Wolf lays square eggs,
It barks like a dog and flies in a cloud of flame.
It carries the panacea herb in its beak,
And makes its nest in the tree of fragrant musk.
It is not just a bird; it is divine.
If you catch sight of it, you shall live forever."

My grandfather told me that the man in black stood up and, without saying "goodbye" to Little Halfbreed, walked toward the graveyard singing a song he had improvised. "What did he sing?" I asked. "He sang the following song," my grandfather replied.

People lack prosperity because of
     incest between the brother and the sister,
Hands and feet became webbed because
     a human and a mare had made love.
Prosperity follows disaster, and
     good fortune brings decay,
Prosperity or decay depends upon...

My grandfather poked the embers and became silent.

"Did Little Halfbreed still squat there eating the cassava?" My grandson asks me. "Little Halfbreed didn't eat the cassava," my grandfather told me. "He felt the web between his fingers, stood up and walked to the unlighted village." "Then what?" My grandfather was tired and fell asleep on the grass. That is how the story of the young horse crossing marsh is passed down.

The story ends like this: The female ancestor of the herbivorous clan of Dongbei Township, Gaomi County was a red horse. The horse has thus become our totem, our ideal, and our symbol of love.

Ma!
Ma! Ma!
Ma! Ma! Ma!

* Mo Yan was born in 1956 in rural Shandong, northeastern China. At the age of 20, he joined the People's Liberation Army. He began writing in 1981 and entered the literature Department of the PLA Art Academy in 1984. His published works include over forty short stories and three novels, quite a number of which have been translated into English as well as other foreign languages. The film version of the novel, Red Sorghum, won first prize in the Golden Bear awards at the Berlin Film Festival in 1988.

Mo Yan 's writing has gained him a considerable audience -- not only in China, but overseas, where he is considered one of the most talented and interesting Chinese writers. In the year 2000, he visited Toronto to read at the Harbourfront Reading Series.