Demon Box

Especially in Qufu was this burial sweet. Qufu was the birthplace of Confucius. For centuries the townspeople pointed with pride to inscriptions on family headstones that proved they were direct descendants of the famous philosopher. Then, in 1970 a regiment of Red Guards marched through the town to the ancient cemetery and toppled all those headstones. When they retreated from the cemetery they hung a huge red-and-white banner across the high stone entrance. The words on the banner left little doubt about the Chairman’s attitude toward the ancestors:

Waste No More Good Earth on the Useless Dead. Cremate!

Confucius himself was exiled to the purgatory of fallen stars, along with countless poets and essayists who had expounded on his work over the centuries. Teachers like Yang’s father who continued to mention the philosopher were stripped of their positions and their clothes and pilloried in town squares as “enemies of the collective consciousness.” Many were sentenced to correction farms and the cultivation of cabbages and leeks instead of young minds.

Confucius’s contemporary, Lao-tzu, was never officially excommunicated, oddly enough. Perhaps because his work is so scant and so obscure; perhaps because historians have never agreed on his identity, or if he was actually a living person at all. He may have been too much a myth to comfortably condemn.

The procession stopped on the slope outside the cemetery and gathered to admire the birds and speak with old acquaintances and colleagues. One of the professors pointed down the hill. A string of runners were angling off the highway onto the dirt road.

“It’s our young warriors!” he cried. “For Beijing. Those two. I have them in class. The two in front!”

He continued to shout and point, though it was obvious to all which pair of athletes he meant; their new uniforms shined like chips of clear blue sky against the dingy gray outfits of their teammates.

When the two front-runners passed the bottom of the hill the excited teacher yelled, “Chi oh, boys; chi oh!”–a slang expression the professor heard around school for “pour on the gas.”

Other men applauded and repeated the call, until the sudden display of local pride made the women hold their ears and the birds fly in panic against the bamboo bars of their cages.

He who is fearless in being bold will meet with his death;
He who is fearless in being timid will stay alive.
Of the two, one leads to good, the other to harm.
Heaven hates what it hates,
Who knows the reason why?

It would be Yang’s last workout. The trainer had advised him to keep his customary fervor in check. But as always, when he reached this feeble cotton field with its nine grassy pyramids, Yang veered off the packed ruts and went hurdling through the rows. He headed for the tallest of the mounds. He didn’t know the name for the huge escarpment, only that it was a feng, one of a multitude of false tombs built centuries ago by sly emperors hoping to thwart desecration by thieves.

He did not look behind him. He knew the rest of the team was far back, some probably still on the avenue, jogging in and out of the swaying buses and bicycles.

The only runner out ahead of him was his friend Zhoa Cheng-chun. Zhoa and Yang had pulled quickly away from the others passing the cemetery. But when he heard the cheering and saw the waving crowd up the hill, Yang had slackened his stride to allow Zhoa to run on ahead.

“Chi oh!” he had urged his friend, pretending to pant with exhaustion. “Pour on the gas.”

To have kept up would not have been respectful. Zhoa was nearly four years his senior and already a member of the academy. Zhoa was the hometown hero and the provincial marathon champion. His time of 2:19 was second only to the 2:13 of the Chinese record-holder, Xu Liang. Yang felt he could have matched Zhoa’s pace for many more kilometers, but he did not wish to show a discourtesy. He let him run on.

Besides, Yang liked to have this part of his workout to himself. As he left the road he could hear the people at the cemetery cheering for the rest of their school’s team, far behind.

His sprint took him past the field girls working to salvage some of the season’s rain-ravaged cotton, then along the dirt dike of the irrigation ditch. Without slowing he long-jumped across the shallow coffee-brown stream, his feet churning the air. His landing startled a small hare from the brush along the bank. Yang called after the zigzagging animal, “You too, long ears! Chi oh!” He heard the girls laugh behind him.