In the Miaoli area, the system of shared responsibility for military outposts between the people and the government had long since broken down. The rifles remained the property of the government, but the local residents supplied the soldiers with ammunition, pay, and money for other expenses. At the end of the year, the authorities ordered Three Chops to turn over the soldiers’ guns, thus putting the military entirely under the control of the local people. The soldiers at South Lake were now short twenty rifles. How were they to cope with the situation? It was announced that the soldiers’ pay would not be affected by the change, but everyone knew that their jobs wouldn’t last.

  With a heavy heart, Ahan returned to Fanzai Wood for the new year. Over the last few months, the Pengs had been entirely dependent on him for their cash income. He soon discovered that his position in the family had become more secure. He was also comforted by the fact that Dengmei’s health had improved; it was even better than before her pregnancy. She glowed with youth and a more mature beauty. He had never seen Dengmei so beautiful. As for their daughter, Ayin, her appetite was good and she smiled and was active in spite of being pale and thin. She was a delight.

  At the new year, word came that the soldiers’ pay would be reduced by half. Recently, their wages had risen, as had prices in general. But now the pay for a dangerous job like theirs was no different than for any unskilled laborer.

  “At that rate, it’d be better not to go back,” said Dengmei hesitantly.

  Anger rose up in him. “What are we going to eat if I don’t go back?”

  “The old people couldn’t have spent all the money you earned.”

  “With so many mouths to feed, I’m afraid they have.”

  “Everything is chaotic these days. There’s sure to be danger.”

  As far as Ahan was concerned, everything was in the hands of fate. But he couldn’t bear to look into Dengmei’s worried eyes. He went to Peng Aqiang and told him he wanted to quit the service. Peng Aqiang’s color changed. “You’ll have to come up with two silver coins for me each month.”

  “There will only be one silver dollar a month,” he reminded the old man.

  “Fine, that’s better than nothing.”

  Ahan objected vociferously.

  “Ahan, it’s not that I don’t treat people like human beings, but can’t you just bear with it a bit longer? Can’t you hang on for six months, until harvest time? Renxing’s time with the Xus will be up and I can ask him to become a soldier. If you don’t want to do it then, you can quit.”

  The old man’s words were tough, but he had a soft heart. The old man was putting a lot of pressure on him. Ahan would just take it as a personal plea. Could he refuse then?

  In the end, Ahan returned to the garrison at South Lake. Upon arriving, he heard it rumored that the garrison was to be disbanded. The wealthier residents of South Lake had moved out at the new year. Most had gone to Long Hill to avoid the fighting. By the second lunar month, rumor had it that the Japanese were going to attack Taiwan. Later it was learned that the target was the Pescadores, which were occupied by Japanese forces by the middle of the second lunar month. The people living in the hills and mountains didn’t know what to make of the situation.

  In the third lunar month of the twenty-first year of the Guangxu era (1895), the Chinese government sued for peace. On the seventeenth day of the fourth lunar month, both sides met in Japan and signed the Treaty of Shimonoseki, which, among other things, ceded Taiwan to Japan. From that moment on, the fate of the people of Taiwan was no different from that of an abandoned or orphaned child.

  Japan sent Admiral Kabayana Sukenori as the first Governor-General of the island. He arrived in Keelung at the end of the fifth lunar month. On the second day of the sixth month, in a ceremony aboard ship in Keelung Harbor, Li Jingfang, the representative of the Qing court, handed over possession of Taiwan to imperial Japanese authority. Taiwan was severed from the motherland.

  The arrival of the Japanese occupation forces in Taiwan brought turmoil. The tragedy began in the north and spread south as society fell into utter chaos and upheaval. Once it became clear that Taiwan had been ceded to Japan, the initial astonishment of the island’s three hundred thousand inhabitants turned to anger. They did all they could in hopes that the Manchu court would take up the fight again. But the court was weak, and all the people could do was turn to the international community for help, to no avail. The sad and angry people of Taiwan found that they would have to rely only on their own efforts.

  On the twenty-second day of the fifth month, a Formosan Republic was proclaimed, with Tang Jingsong as president. Independence was proclaimed the following day. The old imperial yamen was made the office of the new president. And with an eleven-gun salute, the Formosan flag—a yellow tiger on a blue field—was raised on the ramparts. Although the Republic was short-lived, it was the first in the history of Asia.

  On the third day of the sixth lunar month, the Japanese attacked in the area of Keelung, which fell the following day. Once the northern districts were pacified, all semblance of order farther south vanished. On the night of the fifth day, the President of the Republic vanished out the back door of his office. He fled Taiwan for Xiamen, in Fujian province, on a steamer flying the flag of a foreign power. The following night, the Japanese entered Taipei. The Chinese officials who had gone north to defend the island all fled for the mainland. From then on, defense of the island and resistance to the Japanese occupation came from the people of Taiwan themselves.

  It had grown quiet in the border areas between the Chinese and the native inhabitants. The people of Jialihewan and Tabelai villages near South Lake had sent emissaries to the Chinese outposts for news about the fight against the Japanese. Even the native inhabitants had become aware of the Japanese occupation.

  “Perhaps we can fight the Japanese,” suggested one of the emissaries.

  “Do the Atayal people also hate the Japanese?”

  “Yes. We get along with the Chinese. There will be too many people and nothing to eat if the Japanese come.”

  “Are you going on the warpath?”

  “We made peace with the Chinese, so we’ll kill the Japanese.”

  Word that the Atayal tribespeople had joined them against the Japanese was welcome news. As a result, many people expressed the desire to reduce the expenditures for the guardsmen. It was eventually decided that the force at South Lake would be cut in half, leaving twenty men. Ahan had been the last to sign up, so he was the first to be laid off. How was Ahan to maintain his position in the Peng family, since he had lost his job? He gave the matter a lot of thought.

  It was at that point that Three Chops brought the astonishing news that the people from Miaoli, Xinzhu, and Taoyuan had decided to form a volunteer force to fight the Japanese. Three Chops told Ahan that the volunteers would be paid a monthly wage as well as a signing bonus of six silver dollars up front—the equivalent of six months’ wages as a guard. But this time they were going to war against the fearsome Japanese and not as a defense force against the natives. The value of a man’s life had been set at six dollars.

  “Dengmei, little Ayin, what am I going to do?” asked Ahan confusedly. He grew warm all over when he thought of Dengmei. She was the thin, dry girl he had purchased two years ago—now she was an attractive woman in the full bloom of life. Her smiling face suffused with the glow of love and her gentle manner filled his mind. He didn’t want to lose his wife or his daughter. That was all he could think of.

  “Come with me and fight the Japanese,” said Three Chops.

  “No,” he answered automatically. “I must return to Fanzai Wood.”

  Three Chops, who was very fond of him, threw him a sympathetic glance, then set off for Miaoli with seven or eight young guards. Ahan left for Fanzai Wood, his heart filled with uncertainties and worries.

  “I heard you were coming back,” cried Dengmei with joy.

  He had run into Dengmei in front of the temple. She had Ayin on her back as she paced back and forth.

  “What are you doing here?” he said reproachfully.

  Dengmei’s cheeks flushed red as persimmons.

  He was right to return. He would willingly suffer any humiliation to be able to spend his days eating potato soup with Dengmei and Ayin. He was afraid of death and gladdened by his decision to return. But Peng Aqiang’s face was grim, and Renhua was full of sarcasm. Renxing had returned home with his wife, Azhi. Their first child had died, and she was pregnant again. Ahan really did seem superfluous in the Peng household.

  News about the turmoil up north never stopped coming. First they heard that the rich people had all fled north, then that they had fled south, preparing to flee the island from Anping and Dagou. The north had been pacified and the Japanese colonial government had been set up in Taipei, under which a Miaoli Administrative District had been formed. The Japanese army was moving south on its way to Great Lake and was already near Xinzhu. No longer were the Japanese, with their guns and cannons and uniforms, called savages.

  In the middle of the sixth month, Wu Tangxing rallied more than two thousand volunteer troops. They vowed before the Matsu temple in Tongluo to march north. Since all the Chinese court-appointed officials had fled to China, all resistance came from local volunteers. Wu, along with two other imperial degree holders, led the troops north to engage the Japanese at Taoyuan, Longtanpo, and Xinzhu.

  Several typhoons hit the island that month, after which the weather remained overcast without a breath of wind. The land seemed dull and heavy. In the stifling, humid weather, the bloody fighting progressed southward. A path of burning homes was nearing Miaoli.

  One day near the end of the seventh lunar month, Ahan, Renhua, and Renxing were shoring up the terraced fields behind the house and adding soil for the sorghum crop. Ahan was preoccupied with his daughter’s illness. At first it was just diarrhea, but later she began to vomit. After using herbal remedies unsuccessfully for several days, Ahan had taken some of his savings and bought some medicine. After she had taken the medicine, Ayin’s diarrhea and vomiting stopped, but her temperature rose within a matter of hours. The next day her fever continued to rise; her little body was as hot as a stove. The fever showed no signs of breaking even after three days. She started having spasms, and her face was flushed bright red.

  Ahan went to Great Lake by night to buy medicine, but the fever persisted. On the fourth day Ayin lost consciousness. Peng Aqiang seemed indifferent, but Lanmei was concerned. Aling and his wife asked Master Xu Rixing, the exorcist, to come and drive away the evil spirit that had taken possession of the child, to no avail. They then asked Xu Shihui to get a banner from the temple to the Righteous Lords and let Master Xu Rixing arrange for a séance with a boy spirit medium in order to discover the cause of the illness.

  The boy spirit medium spoke clearly, entirely unlike the garbled frenzy that characterized most mediums. “Beacon fires burn for days. Jackals and wolves will roam the land. The star of fate is weak. It will be difficult to survive the turmoil of fire.”

  Ahan had been silent since Ayin had slipped into a coma. Dengmei wept with her head lowered, not daring to look at her husband. Peng Aqiang tried to get everyone back to work. “Death is a decided fate. It makes no difference what you do, and praying is of no use. Go and add soil to the sorghum terraces. We’ve got to make sure that the adults don’t starve.”

  When it came to handling a hoe, Ahan was not very good. Besides, he was worried about his daughter, who could very well breathe her last at any moment. A fury burned in his guts too, and he was afraid he would lose control. He could not rid himself of the resentment he felt. Dengmei became the target. After losing his job, he had asked her to run away with him. He wanted to get away first, then worry about reconciliation and earning the money to pay the Pengs for their freedom. But Dengmei had adamantly refused. Without looking him in the eye, she had replied to him without a moment’s hesitation. And look what had happened to his poor, sweet daughter. He was determined to save her, his daughter, his own flesh and blood. If he, her father, didn’t save her, who would? He wondered why he was so obedient to the unreasonable Peng family. He swayed on his feet.

  Little Ayin’s face took on a purple cast and looked vaguely unreal. Dengmei was crying without restraint. Ahan took the child in his arms; he hugged her close for a long time. He couldn’t lose his own daughter. His feelings as he hugged her would stay with him for the rest of his life, forever. He would always hold his daughter close to him, and never again would he feel the same kind of doting love he felt for this child, regardless of how many children he might have. Perhaps such an intense love could never be experienced in such totality again.

  He would let no one take his daughter from him. Dengmei tried unsuccessfully, as did others. He refused to let go of her. Later he heard that Ayin had been buried in the cemetery on the rise behind the temple. He refused to believe it. He laughed contemptuously because his daughter was still in his arms. But little Ayin was stone cold; no, she was feverish. Perhaps the fever had passed.

  He didn’t leave the house for several days. His cold-hearted wife was busy cooking or washing. She didn’t care for Ayin. Dengmei was getting on with her life.

  “Ahan, you can’t go on like this,” said Dengmei.

  Ahan wondered where he was.

  “Everyone is angry with you and cursing you.”

  Angry with him? Why? As long as Ayin was not angry with him….

  “Ahan! Did you hear me?”

  Dengmei shook him. He pushed her away. Dengmei staggered and fell on the bed. She struggled to her feet but started vomiting. Why was she vomiting?

  Early the following day, Peng Aqiang walked in and spoke loudly, cursing him. Liu Ahan sat silently without replying or defending himself, his face expressionless. Peng Aqiang stomped off angrily. Dengmei was standing by his side in her apron. She was pale and her eyes were red.

  Dengmei tried to screw up enough courage to tell him what the old man had said. Yet when Ahan looked at her, she could not speak—she knew his temper. Despite his mild appearance, he had a violently explosive temper. He could maintain the outward appearance of putting up with anything, but once he found himself in a situation that ran counter to his desires, he might explode. She feared that if she told him what the old man had said, he might get his hackles up and quarrel with her. But if she didn’t talk to him, how could she face her foster father? He had told her that if Ahan didn’t go to work in the fields, he need not expect to eat supper.

  All she could do was sweeten her voice to temper the old man’s harsh words. “Ahan, Father says you really should go back to work in the fields.”

  Ahan’s eyes remained vacant.

  “Things will be difficult if you don’t work—they won’t give us anything to eat.”

  She went outside, retrieved the hoe leaning by the door, and thrust it into Ahan’s hands. Ahan looked at her as if he had suddenly awakened. He put the hoe over his shoulder and went out. But as he reached the bamboo bridge over the stream, he stopped and again stood stock still.

  Dengmei seemed to choke on her words but soon regained her voice. “Go on, Ahan. Father said that if you don’t work in the fields you needn’t expect to eat supper.”

  This time Ahan heard her. He moved off toward the slopes, hoe still over his shoulder. She breathed a sigh of relief and quickly went to water the vegetable garden.

  The work in the fields was hard, and the meals had increased from two to three each day. The fields were close by, and the Pengs returned home to eat at noon. But Ahan did not come home. Dengmei stood waiting for him.

  “Tell him he can’t have lunch,” said Peng Aqiang.

  “Didn’t Ahan go to work?” she asked, astonished.

  “He sat on a rock and did nothing.”

  Panting, Dengmei hurried up the slope. At the top she found him lost in thought, sitting on a rock, his hoe laid to one side.

  “Ahan, what are you doing?” she complained.

  “I’m hungry,” he said confusedly.

  She gently whispered to him, then coaxed and pushed him back to the house. She went to get some food from the Pengs’ kitchen, but unexpectedly Lanmei was standing in the doorway. Aling and his wife had returned to the fields, so Dengmei went to their room and secretly took a couple of potatoes out from under their bed. She peeled them and gave them to Ahan. As Ahan ate, he muttered how delicious they were.

  “You must do some work this afternoon.”

  “I will,” he agreed without protesting.

  “We have to put up with the situation. You said so yourself. Okay? Someday we … but this afternoon you must work with everyone else.”

  That afternoon, Ahan followed Renhua to the fields behind the temple to fertilize the jute, a crop recently introduced to Taiwan. Jute was the perfect crop for the poorer fields. The work was light, just right for Ahan.

  They stopped working at dusk. Everyone put away their tools and baskets, changed out of their work clothes, and washed their hands for dinner. Only then did Ahan slowly make his way back.

  “Did Ahan work this afternoon?” Dengmei asked Renhua.

  “No, he slept in the fields,” said Renhua resentfully. “He just lay there staring at the mountains.”

  Dinner was served. Ahan appeared to be his normal self. He had washed his hands but not his face. He sat at the table waiting for his elders to sit down and for the meal to begin.

  Dengmei, who had just brought in the last dish—lettuce soup—stood at the kitchen door watching Ahan. The old man and his wife sat down and everyone picked up their chopsticks. The centerpiece of dinner that night was fried spotted grouper fry, considered the most delicious of freshwater fish and a real delicacy. Renhua and the Xu brothers had caught a number of the fish the day before using a weir trap. That night she had hidden a small one in their room with the intention of giving it to Ahan, as he was particularly fond of that kind of fish. She had assumed that Ahan would not have the nerve to eat the fish served at dinner. But there he was, helping himself to the fish even before Peng Aqiang, the head of the household, had touched it, against the custom. He had clearly forgotten his place.