Chinese Literature

and the Kuomintang township boss hitting him with the butt of his pistol, in fact he thought she was the worse of the two.

“Still wet behind the ears!” Telling about it at the Bigot’s fortunetelling stand, he nearly wept.

One of the men said it was only three weeks to the Ching Ming Festival, why not wait until then to call the big meeting?

“By that time, you won’t dare to show your face anywhere!” shouted Yang the Elder. ‘We'll all be disgraced!”

Before dusk, notices in big letters were posted at both the entrance and exit of the market-place:

The Yang Family Clan Will Convene a Meeting of the Entire Clan in the Ancestral Temple on the First Day of the Second Lunar Month. Old and Young, Men and Women, Are All Required to Attend.

It was late at night, but Chun-mei’s mother had not gone to bed. The widow was waiting for her daughter’s return. She rose from her seat beside the stove, walked to the door and opened it. Outside, it was pitch dark, the earth and sky blurred into one. The whole village had been fast asleep for some time. This was one of her many trips to the door that night. Against her face drove a cold gust of wind bearing with it an icy drizzle. She worried about her daughter being caught in the rain on the road.

Chun-mei had gone with Wang Kai and her Aunt Li to the district government. She said they definitely would be coming back the same night. They had to come back right away, for the day after tomorrow was the first day of the second lunar month. Fire was already beginning to singe the eyebrows—the danger was close at hand.

The wind was strong, but the rain hadn’t started in earnest yet. Chun-mei’s mother returned to her place beside the stove. The flames had died down. Through the open stove door, the wood embers cast a red circular glow that pushed and pulsed against the surrounding oppressive cold and darkness. Strange. After coming back to the room, she found the night and its chilliness unbearable. She thrust in an armful of dry leaves and twigs and poked up the dying logs. A shower of sparks flew. Tongues of flame again danced and twisted, lighting the room. She felt much better then. But her daughter still hadn’t come home, and her heart remained hanging in a torment of suspense.

“T hope everything went all right on her trip and that we'll be able to get through this devil’s pass...’ prayed the widow. She threw some more twigs into the fire.

Her daughter had told her they had a twofold plan. On the one hand, they would try to rouse the people of the village against any big meeting of the clan. At the same time they would appeal to the higher government authorities for an order prohibiting the meeting. If that