The Garlic Ballads

Unable to utter a sound, tortured by memory, Gao Yang gnawed frantically on the bark, which rubbed his lips raw until the tree was spotted with his blood. But he didn’t notice the pain. He swallowed the bitter mixture of saliva and bark juice, which brought a remarkable coolness to his throat — his vocal cords loosened, the knots unraveled. Carefully, oh so carefully, fearful that his powers of speech might leave him again: “Xinghua, Daddy’s over here …” he managed to say before his face was streaked with tears.

“Now what?” the stammering policeman asked his partner.

“Go back and get a Wanted poster issued,” Drumhead said. “He wont get away!”

“What about the village boss?”

“Slinked off long ago, like a common lout.”

“Daddy — I cant find my way out! Come get me out of here — hurry …”

Xinghua was lost in the maze of trees, and the sight of that tiny spot of red nearly broke Gao Yang’s heart. It seemed like only yesterday that he had kicked that little red behind of hers for no good reason, sending her sprawling in the middle of the yard, one hand spread out like a claw that clutched at a dark pile of chicken droppings. She had picked herself up and cowered against the wall, her lips trembling as she fought back sobs and tears welling up in her coal-black eyes. Overcome with remorse, he banged his head against the tree. “Let me go!” he screamed. “Let me go—”

Drumhead clasped him in a headlock to keep him from hurting himself while his partner walked around to unlock the manacles. “G-Gao Yang,” the stammerer said, “don’t try anything funny.”

But as soon as his hands were free, he started to fight — clawing, kicking, and biting — which left three bloody scratches on the stammerer’s face. As he wrenched free of the headlock and turned to run toward the tiny spot of red, a light flashed before his eyes, then a shower of green sparks — he dimly noticed something in the policeman’s hand giving off eerie green sparks when it touched his chest. Pins pierced his body; he screamed, twitching in agony, then slumped to the ground.

The first thing he noticed upon regaining consciousness was the pair of shiny handcuffs clamped around his wrists and digging deeply into the flesh, nearly cutting to the bone. He was too groggy to recall where he was. The stammering policeman waved the terrifying object in front of him.

“Start walking,” he said soberly. “And no fooling around!”

2.

Meekly he followed Drumhead up the sandy embankment toward the willow grove. There they turned and trudged across the dry riverbed, where fine sand stung his injured ankle and burned the soles of his feet. He limped along, the stammerer right behind him. Xinghuas wails from the acacia grove were like a magnet that drew his head back to her. The stammerer nudged him with that awful thing, sending chills up his spine. He tucked his neck down between his shoulders; covered with goose bumps, he steeled himself for the rolling thunder of pain he knew was coming. But instead there was only a command: “Keep walking.”

As he walked, the image of the thing in the policeman’s hand took his mind off his daughter’s wails. He realized what it was: one of those electric prods he’d heard whispers about. The chills running up his spine penetrated the marrow of his bones.

After threading their way through another grove of trees, they crossed a second embankment and emerged onto an open field about fifty yards in length, which in turn led to a paved road. The policemen escorted Gao Yang into the township government compound, where Whiskers Zhu, a member of the police substation, rushed out to compliment Drumhead and his stammering partner on their good work.

Hope welled up in Gao Yang’s heart at the sight of a familiar face. Old Zhu,” he said, “where are they taking me?”

“Someplace where you wont need ration coupons for food.”

“Please tell them to let me go. My wife just had a baby.”

“So what? Everyone’s treated the same under the law.”

Gao Yang hung his head in dejection.

“Are Guo and Zheng back yet?” Drumhead asked.

“Guo’s here, but Zheng isn’t back yet,” Zhu replied.

“Wehere shall we put the prisoner?” Drumhead asked.

“Lock him up in the office.” Zhu turned to lead the way, followed by Gao Yang and his police escort.

The first thing he saw as they shoved him into the station house was a horse-faced young man in manacles curled up on the floor against the wall. He had obviously gotten quite a working-over, for his left eye was black and blue and nearly swollen shut; an icy glare emerged through the slit, while the uninjured right eye was filled with a look of pathetic desperation. Two handsome young policemen were sitting on a slat bench smoking cigarettes.

They pushed Gao Yang down against the wall, next to the horse-faced young man, and as the two of them took each other’s measure, the other man curled his lip and nodded meaningfully. Gao Yang was sure he knew the fellow from somewhere, but couldn’t remember where. Damn! he lamented. That thing must have fried my brain!