Ancient Chinese Stories:

The Return of Xiao Bong

            by Avi Samelson

 

In the year 1040 AD, 50 miles outside of Xi’an in China, was a little village named Lu Po.  Lu Po was a sunny, cheery village.  It contained a central square with a market, and most people’s houses had roads leading down from them to the center of the town.  It was surrounded by jungle, and people had to clear it to build house and farm rice.  It was home to a few people, and Xiao Bong was one of them.

            As the sun rose, Xiao Bong got out of bed.  He put on his modest clothing and went out to get water for that morning.  Xiao Bong was unnaturally tall for his village in southern China, but just as skinny as everyone else.  He was thorough with his jet black hair, the darkest hair in the village, and rumor has it that he spent all of his spare time shaping, molding and combing it.    As he walked along the path that was cut in between the trees of the jungle on the boundary of his property, he noticed that the monkeys had finally stopped chattering.  He hated the monkeys.  The monkeys always would start shouting –and not stop- until the moment he went to sleep.  He once asked his friend about it, who responded, “There are monkeys in this jungle?” Xiao just scowled and proceeded to ask his friend why the nails in his fence were different lengths from the post.  It seemed that Xiao Bong attracted every monkey in the jungle to the small wood fence that bordered his humble property.  As he approached the well, he saw Shung Lu, one of his closest friends.

“Ahoy there!” shouted Shung Lu cheerfully to his friend.

            “What’s wrong with your bucket?” Xiao said, devoid of all emotions except disgust at the slight scratch on Shung Lu’s bucket.  Shung Lu had been through this before.  It was nothing new to anyone in the village to be asked about the slightest imperfection by Xiao Bong.

            “Oh, that.  I don’t really care, what do I use this bucket for anyhow, decoration?” Shung Lu said, still as jovial as he had been before Xiao Bong had spoken. 

Xiao Bong just grunted with displeasure and proceeded to fill up his bucket with water, splashing some water on his face.  He proceeded to wash his face in the well.

            “What are you doing?  I keep telling you not to wash your face in the well, you must know that it lowers the water quality.” Shung Lu said, exasperated at Xiao’s obvious hypocrisy.  Xiao Bong was always complaining about the government not doing enough to improve the water quality and yet he was the only one in the village who still washed his face in the well. “Look…” Shung Lu trailed off.  He did not want to get into an argument with Xiao Bong, he did not have the energy.

            “See you later.”  Xiao finished washing and walked off back toward his rice field.  Xiao Bong walked through the monkey infested jungle wondering why he could not hear the monkeys chattering when he was with Shung Lu. He took the bucket back to his house.  He put his bucket on the floor, next to his meticulous rows of bowls and chopsticks.  He went out of his house and surveyed his rice fields.  He looked upon the unplowed land, it was almost the rainy season and if he wanted to eat for the next year, he would have to plant soon.  As he surveyed his small plot, he made up his mind to start plowing that day. 

            “Hullo there!” Fu Hao called out to Xiao. 

            “What?”

            “Gonna start planting soon? We all know you’re the slowest planter.”

            “That’s why I always have the highest rice yields each year”

            “I hope hail destroys your fields and you grow five arms.”

Fu Hao walked away having uttered the worst insult in all Han China.  Xiao Bong walked slowly into his house.  He passed through the cloth that was over his door and went through his house to the “backyard”.  It wasn’t really a backyard, just a part of the jungle that he had cleared.  He had built a small shed and put his tools in it.  Xiao walked in and reached for his plow.  Only it wasn’t there.  It had disappeared.  He retraced his steps thoroughly, back through the house, down into the rice fields, he always did the same routine every year when putting away his plow.  He was sweating.  He ran frantically around his small plot of land, partly on the brink of tears, partly angry as a dragon that has been awakened.  Some rich ancestor of his had finally been able to afford a plow, and had bought one.  His family had never had to depend on anyone since.  Xiao Bong plowed his fields for fifteen years, and now, on his sixteenth he had lost his plow, the plow.  Xiao was shaking as he ran around his small plot of land looking for it.  He went in and out of the jungle, took out everything from his shed, but still it was not there.  He paused a moment, cautiously patting down his now sweaty black hair.  His hands were moist, and his face was the color of the hot peppers he put in his soup– bright red.  He was shaking.  Thoughts began to formulate in his head. Could someone have taken my plow? Maybe Shung Lu took it as a joke.  He ran to Shung Lu’s house.

            “Shung Lu!”  He banged on the door.

            “Shung Lu!” He banged harder.  “Shung Lu! I hope a locust swarm eats him up!  Where is he!”

Where is my plow? He passed Fu Hao again.  Weird, I’ve seen him twice today, we usually avoid each other, I’ve never even been inside his house.  Could he have taken my plow?  The age old feuds between the Bongs and the Haos had lasted through three losses of the Mandate of Heaven and countless levee breaks.

            Xiao Bong began to sweat.  His face and hands turned red, and his arms started shaking.  He could feel a burning sensation around his neck.  His legs started giving way.

            Then, he became more resolved than ever.  I must find my plow, my family heirloom.  He recalled the bright red handles and silvery metal that he pushed into the ground each new rice-planting season.  He remembered the metal surface of the plow that he polished everyday.  He reminisced about the smell of torn up dirt and sweat on his body from a hard day of pushing the plow through the dry, cracked dirt that had still not been washed with rain.

            Then the thought of Fu Hao came to his mind.  It filled his senses like the rain that was soon to flood his field.  A rage like thunder boomed across his mind.  A flame lit within him.

            Suddenly, Xiao realized that he was now very calm.  The sweat on his hands and brow had dried up.  He pictured his plow in Fu Hao’s house, in his massive dining room, which he paid for with rice stolen from Xiao Bong’s parents.  I must get my plow back, reveal him, he will be seen in truth, and be exposed.  My actions will lead to all sorts of misfortune brought upon Fu Hao, one day he steals my plow, the next day his lover is struck by lightning, the next day his servant quarters catch on fire, the next day he is poisoned by his dinner.  And with that, he hatched a plan.  He resolved to watch Fu Hao each day and each night.  He would memorize Fu Hao’s routines as a scholar knew his characters, from how much green onion he put into his soup in the morning to how many cups of tea he had at dinner.  He got into his finest shirt and slipped the machete he used to keep his rice field clear into the back of his pants.  He calmly walked down the long dirt road to his village, scrupulously treading in the places he had tread for the first twenty-nine years of his life; where the ground was the flattest and least rocky.  He reached the village and was overcome by the noise and smell of chickens, cows and pigs – some already butchered and some ready to take home for butchering.  Xiao noticed that the monkeys had not chattered on his whole trip down to the village.  If Fu Hao had his plow, things might be going in a good direction for Xiao Bong; He would be able to plant, and Fu Hao, along with the rest of the Hao clan, would be shamed.  Xiao walked through the village, thinking that he was lucky it was market day, for no one would notice him walking up the road to Fu Hao’s grand estate.  When he reached the outskirts of the village, he climbed into the surrounding jungle and followed the road up to Fu Hao’s house.  When he reached Fu Hao’s rice patty, he sat down and began to watch.  Xiao Bong walked around the house, and saw Fu Hao sipping a glass of tea, looking very pleased with himself.  He told his servant to bring him another bowl of rice.   

            Xiao Bong watched for days.  He learned everything about Fu Hao, from the way he dressed to the moles on his arm.  He learned everything -except where his plow was.  During the night Xiao Bong snuck into Fu Hao’s house, and slept in one of his guest rooms, always making sure to eat some of Fu Hao’s rice and whatever was left of the dish that Fu Hao had for dinner that night.  Sometimes when Fu Hao left for the market, which he did everyday at the same time, Xiao Bong would climb through the window and eat some breakfast.

            On the ninth day, Xiao Bong decided to sneak into Fu Hao’s house and search the it for his plow.  He caught sight of Fu Hao’s plow, which had been taking a closer and closer resemblance to Xiao Bong’s.  On the first night, the servant had added a shiny new coat of paint to the plow’s handle bars.  The next day, the servant added another crossbar in between the handles, making two, just like Xiao Bong’s.  It kept going on like that, until Xiao Bong, dirty and disheveled from sitting in the dirt for ten days, thought that his plow was actually sitting there, in Fu Hao’s workshop.  It looked exactly the same to Xiao Bong’s bloodshot, baggy eyes, except for one thing –the name plate.  Between the handle bars on Xiao Bong’s plow there had been an inscription, with the names of each member of the Bong family that had lived, worked and died with the plow.

Then one night, Xiao Bong was ready.  It was the tenth day of his expedition and he felt that the time was right to begin inquiring about his plow.  He had not spoken to anyone for the past ten days, and when he confronted Fu Hao he almost lost his words.

“Hav-… Have you seen my plow?”

“Can’t find it, can you?  Hmmmm?”

“No, I cannot.”

 “I haven’t seen your plow, in fact, mine is missing as well.” Fu Hao chuckled.

Xiao Bong turned his back and walked back down the path.  It makes sense that Fu Hao would lie to me like that, he would want to skew all the facts concerning his rice plowing –especially to a member of the Bong family.  Once he turned a bend he took six more paces and climbed back into the thick jungle.  He knew that it was time for him to get his plow back.  He would deal with Fu Hao that night.  I finally get to confront all that ails me and all that has ailed my family for generations.  The government will change the water quality, I will always have everything in order, I will not need to take so long to plow each year.  I will not be shunned by most people in the village.  Shung Lu will no longer try to argue with me.  I will become the most respected, clean, organized farmer in the village.

As the night awakened, Xiao Bong still could not hear the monkeys in the jungle.  The moon shone bright as ever, but the jungle blocked the light from entering most of Fu Hao’s great mansion.  In his ten days watching, Xiao Bong had learned that the easiest way to get into Fu Hao’s room was to go in the back door of the house and walk up the stairs silently.  While Fu Hao was gone each day, Xiao Bong would climb up and down the stairs, testing each plank to see where it made noise.  He meticulously found a way to step up the stairs making absolutely no sound at all.

Fu Hao shut off his light.  His servant went out of the house and into the small house that Fu Hao had had built for him and went to bed.  Xiao Bong immediately sprang into action.  His normally dark skin was already black with the dust that had become encrusted in his hair and skin, so much so that even his fingernails blended into the night.  Xiao Bong crept along the jungle, a path that he had taken every day and night for the last ten days, making sure there were no animals sleeping each time.  He leapt down from the small dirt cliff that jutted out onto the road that circled in back of Fu Hao’s house.  He slowly tiptoed up to the door.  He opened it slowly and quietly and quickly scampered up the stairs to Fu Hao’s bedroom.  

Tonight is my night of reckoning, when my problems will be solved.  Finally, everything will be in its correct spot, and neatly organized and clean.  Full of dirt, his hair in shambles, like his abandoned house and small plot of land, Xiao Bong opened the massive red and gold door to Fu Hao’s room. 

He saw the rising and falling of Fu Hao’s chest under the blanket.  Xiao Bong crept up right next to Fu Hao and lay down beside him in his bed.  The room was bare, save a mirror on the wall and the bed, with white sheets and a blue blanket.  It was almost pitch dark, except for the moon shining through the red curtains. Xiao Bong whispered in Fu Hao’s ear:

“Where is my plow?”

Fu Hao awoke with a start and started to let out a yelp, but Xiao Bong violently clasped a hand over his mouth.  Xiao Bong reached behind his back and quickly pulled out his machete.  He held it right over Fu Hao’s throat and withdrew his hand from over Fu Hao’s mouth.  Fu Hao began to yell, and Xiao Bong pushed the machete further onto Fu Hao’s neck.  Fu Hao made no other move.

“Where.  Is my plow?” asked Xiao Bong, gasping for air.  His hair, usually so neat was all ruffled, his usually bright skin tone was dark and gloomy.  His lips were cracked and scabbed, from drinking too little water.  He was skinnier, and the veins on his neck bulged out.  His face was sweaty, and his white shirt had turned almost black.

“Who are you?” Fu Hao asked, whimpering.  He could not recognize this strange man before him.  He looked vaguely like Xiao Bong, but he knew that Xiao Bong would never leave one strand of hair out of place, or even think of wearing a dirty shirt.

“How many people’s plows have you stolen, then?” Xiao Bong pushed the machete down harder on Fu Hao’s throat.

“None!” Fu Hao whimpered again.  Xiao Bong slapped him across the face.

“Keep quiet!  I am Xiao Bong, your father’s and your father’s father’s enemy.”  He pushed the machete down harder, a drop of blood formed over Fu Hao’s Adam’s apple. “Now, where is my plow”

“I haven’t got it.” The drop of blood rolled down the side of Fu Hao’s neck, staining the sheets.

“Are you sure.”  asked Xiao Bong, not really even questioning Fu Hao anymore, for he already knew that Fu Hao must have his plow. 

Like lightning, he sliced off the tip of Fu Hao’s nose, and quickly pressed the machete against his neck once again.  A rush of silent ecstasy coursed through Xiao Bong’s blood, not at all visible except for the crazed smile that ran across his face.  This is the final day of my torture.  And Fu Hao will see no end to it.

“Would you like to die, or tell me where my plow is?”

“You mad man!  Look at yourself!  Your superfluous perfectionism has held you so disconnected from…”

Xiao Bong ran his machete over Fu Hao’s small mustache, sending dark red blood dripping down Fu Hao’s mouth. 

“You are not in a position to tell me that I am disconnected from anything, be it my land, or the rest of China!”

Fu Hao did not even try to speak.  His arm shot out from under the covers and grabbed Xiao Bong’s arm.  He simultaneously moved his neck sideways but Xiao Bong’s machete was pressed down hard enough that a stripe of blood appeared on Fu Hao’s neck.  Just an instant later, Xiao Bong whipped around and sliced off Fu Hao’s hand.  Blood shot from the wound and spilled over the blue blanket, turning it dark brown. 

Xiao Bong could take it no longer.  He plunged the machete into Fu Hao’s chest and wrenched it sideways, sending blood all over the bed and dripping onto the floor.  Fu Hao heaved one last sigh.

Xiao Bong gazed at his conquest and admired it for sometime.  His usually clean hands were soaked in blood.  He did not mind.  He ran his fingers through his hair, mixing his foul hair with Fu Hao’s fresh blood.  He took Fu Hao’s brush and slowly combed his muddy, bloody hair. 

“Perfect.”  Xiao Bong said, looking into the mirror at his appearance. 

            His shirt, which was usually blindingly white, was now filthy with blood, dirt and animal feces. He put his machete back in between his twine belt and his pants.  There was a small stream of blood running down his right pant-leg.  He went downstairs to the kitchen, hitting many of the noisy boards.  He found some oil, logs and matches, and set a small fire on the kitchen floor.  He carried three logs and the rest of the oil and matches up stairs to Fu Hao’s bedroom.  He lit a small fire there too.  Then he ran.

            Xiao Bong darted out of the house, crossed the small dirt road and went into the jungle.  He scurried in the direction of his house.  He almost stumbled over what looked like the charred body of Fu Hao’s servant.  He glanced at it again, it was just a small rock.  He kept running, dirt and dried blood running off his body with his sweat.  His shirt was wet.  As he approached the next marker he had put in the jungle, showing him the way to his house, he saw footprints.  Who walked here?  Why had they walked here? Are they after me? He took a double-take.  The “footprint” was just fallen fruit.  He kept running.  Sweat carried the dirt and blood from his hair down his face and neck.  He ran faster.  He came to the last marker and took a left, just as he had mapped out five days before.  Suddenly, he came to a space devoid of trees, but full of sleeping monkeys.  He screamed.  The monkeys started chattering.  They saw him, and the monkey who seemed like the chief got up and scampered into the jungle.  Xiao Bong stared, mystified at this gathering of monkeys.  After a short time, the chief and two other monkeys came back out of the jungle and into the clearing, pushing Xiao Bong’s plow.