Soul Mountain (36 page)

In those days when he carried out ancestral sacrifices, he had twenty-four people at his disposal – two trainee masters, two supervisors, two men to handle the props, two overseers of the ritual, two persons in charge of the swords, two persons to pour the libation, two persons to make the food offerings, two dragon girls, two messengers, and several people to make pressed rice cakes. What a splendid event it was! Three oxen were slaughtered and at times even up to nine.

Just to show his appreciation, the head of the family making the sacrifice had to present him with glutinous rice seven times – the first time, seven pots for going into the mountains to chop trees for the drums; the second time, eight pots for carrying the drums into the cave; the third time, nine pots for inviting the drums into the stockade; the fourth time, ten pots for tying the drums; the fifth time, eleven pots for slaughtering the ox for the drums; the sixth time, twelve pots for dancing to the drums; the seventh time, thirteen pots for escorting the drums. From the time of the ancestors these were the rules.

The last time he performed an ancestral sacrifice, the head of the family sent twenty-five people to carry the rice, liquor, and food. What a magnificent time that was! The good days are over now. He recalls those times. Before the ox was slaughtered, just to smooth out the hair whorls on its hide, a decorated pillar had first to be erected on the grounds. All members of the family changed into new clothing and there was a fanfare of pipes and the beating of gongs and drums. He wore a long purple robe and a red felt hat and the head feathers of the great roc stood up from his collar. He waved a bronze bell in his right hand and held an arrowhead fan of plantain leaves in his left hand, ahh–

Ox oh ox,

Born in still waters,

Growing up on sandy banks,

You cross rivers with your mother,

You climb mountains with your father,

Fight the locusts for the sacrificial drum,

Fight the praying mantis for the sacrificial pipes,

Go to battle at Three Slopes,

Charge to attack at Seven Flats Bay,

Defeat the locusts,

Slay the praying mantis,

Snatch the long pipe,

Steal the big drum,

The long pipe is a sacrifice to your mother,

The big drum is a sacrifice to your father,

Ox oh ox,

Bearing on your back four platters of silver,

Bearing on your back four platters of gold,

You follow your mother,

You follow your father,

To enter the black cave,

To tread the drum door,

You guard mountain passes with your mother,

You guard village gates with your father,

To stop fierce demons harming people,

To stop evil spirits entering ancestral tombs,

So your mother will have peace for a thousand years,

So your father will have warmth for a hundred generations.

People tied a rope to the ox’s nose, wrapped its horns in bamboo wreaths and brought it out. Members of the family, all in new clothes, performed the three bows and nine prostrations to the ox. As he loudly sang this eulogy the male head of the family took up a spear and stabbed the ox. Thereafter, all the able-bodied male relatives, midst the pounding of the drum, in turn took up the spear and stabbed the ox. Spurting blood, the beast wildly charged in circles around the decorated pillar until it collapsed and died. They then cut off its head and divided up the meat: as Master of Sacrifice the chest was his. The good days are over!

Now his teeth have fallen out and he can only eat a little thin gruel. He has indeed gone through good days but no-one comes to attend to him anymore. The young people all have money. They’ve learnt to smoke filter-tip cigarettes, carry a screaming electric box and also to wear those evil black glasses. How can they still think about their ancestors? The more he sings the more wretched he feels.

He remembers he has forgotten to set up the incense burner, but to get it from the hall would mean going up and down the stone steps. Instead, he lights the incense sticks on the fire and places them in the ground in front of the table. In the past he would spread out a six-foot length of black cloth and cover it with glutinous rice stalks.

Treading on the glutinous rice stalks, he closes his eyes and sees in front of him the pair of sixteen-year-old dragon girls. They are the prettiest girls in the stockade, their bright intelligent eyes are clear like the river waters but of course not the river in flood. Nowadays the river is very dirty when it rains, and within ten
li
on both sides of the river it’s impossible to find big trees suitable for the sacrifices. For these one needs the timber of twelve pairs of different trees, all of the same height and girth. The white wood must be white spruce and the red wood must be maple. When chopped, the wood of the white spruce is silver and the wood of the maple is gold.

Go! Maple drum father,

Go! White spruce drum mother,

Along with the maple,

Along with the white spruce,

To the place awaiting kings,

To the place of the ancestors,

When the drums have been escorted, the pledge is fulfilled,

Ho! the Master of Sacrifice unsheathes his sword,

Raises his sword to chop the wood,

He has pledged to escort the drums,

Dong-ka-dong-dong-dong-weng,

Dong-ka-ka-dong-weng,

Ka-dong-ka-weng-weng,

Weng-ka-dong-dong-ka,

Many knives and axes chop continuously through the night. After a fixed number of blows, the two dragon girls with their exquisite features and beautiful figures appear.

Wives need husbands,

Men need women,

Go into houses to give birth,

Quietly create people,

Don’t let roots snap,

Don’t let seeds be wiped out,

Bear seven lively, beautiful girls,

Bear nine spirited, handsome boys.

The pair of dragon girls, two pairs of unmoving eyes, bright black eyes. He sees right into his own heart, lust resurfacing, generating energy. His singing resounds to Heaven: roosters crow, the God of Thunder in Heaven sends down lightning, and crazed demons and monsters wildly dance on the drum skins, leaping like scattered beans. Ahh, high silver headdress, heavy silver earrings, hot steam rising from bronze cauldrons on charcoals. Hands scrubbed, faces washed, hearts full of joy. God in Heaven is happy and lets down the Heavenly Ladder. Father and mother descend, sound the drums and granaries open, spilling forth so much good grain that nine vats and nine urns cannot contain it all. The kitchen stoves burn with hot charcoal and the family is wealthy and noble. As soon as the spirits of the mother’s ancestors descend, everything swells up – nine wooden buckets of steaming hot dazzling white rice, and everyone gathers around to make rice balls. Start the drums, start the drums, the drum owner goes first, the men follow after, follow close one behind the other. Then the drum master comes last.

Go bathe in the waters of wealth and nobility!

Go drench in the liquids of great riches!

Waters of wealth and nobility give birth to children,

Flower-drenching rains give birth to sons,

Sons and grandsons like palm shoots,

Progeny like fish fry,

All come to the drum owner’s family,

Drink nine piculs of watery liquor,

Take rice as offerings,

Take liquor for libations,

Invite the gods of heaven to come and receive it,

Invite the demons of earth to come and eat it,

The drum owner swings his axe,

The ancestors unsheathe their swords,

To surpass their older ancestors,

In thinking of the mother who bore them,

Come chisel a pair of pipes,

Come make a pair of drums . . . 

He exhausts himself loudly singing the eulogy and his old voice, like a broken bamboo pipe, sobs in the wind. His throat is parched and he drinks another mouthful of watery liquor, knowing that this is the last time. His spirit seeps out of his body as his singing disperses in the air.

How would anyone hear him on that dark desolate river-bank? Luckily when an old woman opens the door to throw out some dirty water, she seems to hear someone sobbing and sees the campfire on the bank. She thinks it must be Han Chinese who have come to poach fish: the Han Chinese are everywhere nowadays if there is money to be made. She shuts the door but then thinks, on the night before the New Year the Han celebrate just like the Miao unless they are destitute. Perhaps it is a wandering beggar. So she fills a bowl with leftovers from the New Year meal to take to the person. It isn’t until she gets to the campfire that she recognizes the old Master of Sacrifice at the square table. She stops there stupefied.

When her husband sees the door wide open with the cold wind coming in, he gets up to close the door but remembers that his wife said she was taking a bowl of food to a beggar. She hadn’t returned so he goes out to look for her. When he gets to the campfire he too is stupefied. Afterwards the daughters and then the sons all come out, but none of them know what to do. A youth who had a couple of years schooling at the village primary school goes up and urges him, “It’s a cold night. An old man like you must be careful not to catch a chill. We’ll help you inside the house.”

The old man’s nose is running but he is oblivious to it and, eyes shut, he goes on chanting and singing, his rasping voice trembling in his throat, muffled and indistinct.

Afterwards, the doors of one house after the other open. Old women, old men, as well as young people and children all come and gradually the whole stockade is assembled on the river-bank. Some think to go home for some glutinous rice balls, some bring a duck, some bring bowls of watery liquor and leftover bowls of beef, someone even brought a portion of a pig’s head, and all of these are put before him.

“To forget one’s ancestors is a crime . . .” the old man mumbles.

A young boat girl is so overcome that she runs home and brings back in her arms a blended wool blanket from her trousseau. She puts it over the old man’s shoulders, wipes his nose with a floral handkerchief, and says, “Old uncle, come back into the house!”

The young people all say, “What a sad old man!”

Mother of the maple tree, father of the white spruce, forgetting one’s ancestors will bring retribution! The old man’s voice rolls about in his throat as tears and mucous stream down his face.

“Old uncle, come quickly, don’t say anything more.”

“Come quickly back inside the house.”

The young people went up to help him.

“I want to die right here . . .” The old man exerts himself and finally manages to shout out like a spoilt child.

An old woman says, “Let him sing, he won’t get through the spring.”

This copy of
Drum Sacrifice Songs
I am holding in my hands was written down and transcribed into Chinese by a Miao acquaintance. My writing this story is to thank him.

It is a fine day with not a trace of cloud in the sky and the vault of heaven is amazingly remote and clear. Beneath the sky is a solitary stockade with layers of pylon houses built on the edge of a precipitous cliff. In the distance it looks quite beautiful, like a hornet’s nest hanging on a rock wall. The dream is like this. You are at the bottom of the cliff, walking one way and the other, but can’t find the road up. You can see yourself getting closer and then suddenly you are moving further away. After going in circles for quite some time you finally give up and just let your legs carry you along the mountain road. When it disappears behind the cliff, you can’t help feeling disappointed. You have no idea where the mountain road beneath your feet leads but in any case you don’t actually have a destination.

You walk straight ahead and the road goes around in circles. Actually, there has never been a definite goal in your life. All your goals keep changing as time passes and as locations change, and in the end the goals no longer exist. When you think about it, life in fact doesn’t have what may be called ultimate goals. It’s just like this hornet’s nest. It’s a pity to abandon it, yet if one tries to remove it one will encounter a stinging attack. Best to leave it just hanging there so that it can be admired. At this point in your thinking, your feet become lighter, it is fine wherever your feet take you, as long as there are sights to see.