Dawn had barely broken.
A stranger stumbled into the mouth of the village.
His clothes clung to his body.
Mud caked his knees.
His trouser leg was torn open.
Strips of cloth fluttered in the wind.
He caught hold of the old locust tree and gasped for breath.
A villager drawing water stopped the windlass.
The bucket rested on the lip of the well.
"Something's happened. A cow's dead up on the plateau slope. Its throat was punched clean through."
The villagers glanced at one another.
No one panicked.
An old man lifted his bucket off the rope.
"Lead the way."
Zhao Dehou took some men up to the slope.
The wild grass hung with dew.
A white sheen lay over everything.
It crunched underfoot.
The mad cow lay on its side.
Its four legs stuck out stiff.
Its belly was swollen tight.
The hole in its neck was the size of a child's head.
It ran straight through, from the windpipe out the back of the neck.
The wound was clean.
The flesh curled inward at the edges.
There were no tooth marks.
No claw marks.
The grass around the carcass showed no sign of biting or struggle.
The stranger crouched beside it.
His fingers trembled.
"This wasn't a tiger or a leopard. It looks like something hard went through it in one thrust."
Zhao Dehou studied the wound.
He measured it with his fingers.
Two fists across.
Driven from above, straight down through.
The force was clean and decisive.
He stood.
He looked all around.
The slope lay empty.
This was the mad cow that had been hurting people everywhere.
Several villages had gathered their young men and still hadn't caught it. They had only lost a few hunting dogs, and a few strapping young men had been gored.
Wind stirred the wild grass. Shasha, shasha.
Lin Gensheng's father came leaning on his staff.
He bent over and looked for a while.
He straightened.
"It's the Divine Ram."
His voice was steady.
Everyone there heard it.
No one answered.
On the way back to the village the stranger kept asking.
"What Divine Ram?"
The old men told him as they walked.
Leaning on their staffs.
Swaying with each step.
"Not since the Boxer days has it shown itself this plainly."
They told the stranger how Qingshi Plateau began.
They told the legend of the blue stone at the head of the canal.
How the ancient blue stone had turned into a strange beast.
Its whole body snow-white.
Its four hooves black as ink.
A great spiral horn on its head.
With that hard horn it had slain the savage, violent wild oxen,
and protected the first settlers so they could make their homes.
It was the embodiment of the village's sense of righteousness, of the spine of the individual.
"When the Divine Ram appears, great upheaval is coming. The world is about to change."
The old men went on to tell the rules of the Divine Ram's rounds.
Only those who hold justice in their hearts, climbing to the top of the watchtower, can see it patrolling the plateau slope.
The selfish and narrow-minded go their whole lives without a glimpse.
When upheaval comes to the world, the Divine Ram takes form and comes out.
When the winds and rains are kind, it hides away in the deep mountains and great valleys.
Someone pointed to the high ground of the slope.
"It patrols the slope by night. Those with justice in their hearts can see it from up high."
The stranger half believed them.
He looked back toward the slope.
Empty.
The wild grass swayed in the wind.
Zhao Dehou walked at the front.
He did not look back.
He had the mad cow hauled back to the village.
A few young men bound its legs with hemp rope.
Ran a carrying pole through.
Hoisted it to their shoulders.
Four men carried it.
Every few steps they switched shoulders.
The head hung upside down.
The tongue lolled.
They skinned it and cut out the meat.
The hide was hung to dry on the old locust tree.
The dark brown fur swayed in the wind.
The beef was cut into pieces.
Zhao Dehou stood at the door of the ancestral hall.
He divided it by head count.
"One share to every household."
He also had the young men take the best cuts to the crossroads.
At the crossroads there were people pushing carts.
Carrying shoulder poles.
Travelers with bundles on their backs, hurrying on their way.
The young men squatted at the roadside.
Holding the meat in their hands.
"Beef from Qingshi Plateau. Take it home and share in the good luck."
Some took it.
Cupped their hands in thanks.
"Thank you, brother."
That night.
Every person in the village, lying on the kang, heard the sound beneath the ground.
Fine and fragmentary.
Dense and tightly packed.
Like countless small hooves running deep in the earth.
Running from the east end of the village to the west.
Then from the west back to the east.
Hoofbeats layered upon hoofbeats.
Layer upon layer.
Unbroken, unending.
The sound was alive.
Patrolling beneath the Qingshi Plateau.
Treading every corner of it.
Someone sat up on the kang.
Listened a while in the dark.
Then lay back down.
Felt no strangeness.
No one went outside.
No one lit a lamp.
The sound went on for half an hour.
Slowly it weakened.
From dense and packed to scattered and sparse.
At last it dispersed.
The village was quiet again.
Only the canal water in the distance, murmuring on.
The next morning, early.
The stranger left.
Zhao Dehou stood at the village mouth to see him off.
Morning light spilled down from the eastern hilltop.
Orange-yellow.
It lit the old locust tree.
It lit the well platform.
It lit the peak of the watchtower.
The stranger had gone a long way.
He looked back once.
The watchtower stood in the morning light.
Black and shadowed.
A little daylight showed through its gun slits.
He saw nothing.
He walked on.
At the end of the dirt road he turned the bend.
His figure vanished.
Zhao Dehou turned and walked back toward the village.
Past the old locust tree.
Past the well platform.
Past the foot of the watchtower.
The rotting wooden door on the ground floor stood ajar.
Damp air drifted out through the gap.
He paused for a step.
Pushed open the door.
The hinge creaked.
The wooden stairs sounded under every step.
He climbed to the top floor.
Wind rushed in all at once.
The gun slits cut the morning light into four long strips.
They fell across the opposite wall.
He stood before the eastern slit.
Looked out.
The plateau slope lay quiet.
The wild grass rose and fell in the wind.
Wave upon wave.
Empty.
He laid his hand on the railing.
The wood was cold.
The hemp rope was not there.
Wind blew against his face.
He stood a long time.
Wind poured through the slits.
It lifted the hem of his coat.
He stepped back.
From inside his jacket he drew out the old hemp rope.
Yellow-brown.
Two strands twisted into one.
Both ends frayed to bristles.
He went to the east-facing railing post.
Tied the rope to it.
Wound it around twice.
Knotted it fast.
Left half a foot of loose end.
Hanging outside the post.
He pulled hard.
The rope went taut.
The post did not budge.
He pulled once more.
The knot bit tighter.
He let go.
The evening wind poured through the slits.
It lifted the loose end.
Again and again it slapped against the brick wall.
Pat.
Pat.
In time with a pulse.
He looked at the knot.
Looked for a good while.
Turned and went down.
The wooden stairs creaked.
Dust sifted down through the gaps between the boards.
He felt his way in the dark to the bottom.
Moonlight lay across the doorway.
A pale, glaring white.
Back home.
The night dew had grown heavy.
Grass blades brushed his trouser legs.
Leaving them damp.
He crouched before the cabinet.
Pulled open the bottom drawer.
Dug down to the oldest account book at the very bottom.
Brown paper cover.
Edges worn to fuzz.
He opened it.
All blank.
He fished out the poker.
Dipped it in the black water on the stove.
On the first page he wrote four characters.
"Autumn, year of Guisi."
The strokes were coarse.
The ink was pale.
It bled a little into the paper.
He closed the ledger.
Set the brass key on the cover to hold it down.
Outside.
The hemp rope atop the watchtower still creaked in the wind.
Slap.
Slap.
Counting off the years, one beat at a time.