37°50'49.1"N 98°48'24.0"E – Outskirts of Lóngmén, Tianjun County

  25.05.2024 – 07.15 UTC +08.00

  A sea of red umbrellas. Everyone held one. They looked handmade, out of layers of paper and adorned with black and white symbols. Túshā, the symbols read. The villagers were all dressed in their best clothes, all in shades of red. The children were dressed in brighter red, while the elders’ clothes were almost brown.

  Live music, wild and festive, and dominated by the stringed Zhāmùniè, originated from a makeshift stage, a few meters north of the house. I had heard of Tibetan music before, from travelling musicians. But never so festive or intense. The stage was where most of the people seemed to gather and dance, everyone holding a red umbrella.

  “What the hell,” I said for the third time. The faint morning sunshine painted the natural scene in brighter colors than last night, and trees unnaturally large and green from the parasitic ivy on their trunks contrasted with the sea of red.

  I ran down the stairs to exit Fang’s house and courtyard. I could not see him or his wife anywhere.

  A dog barked. Little Guy. I turned to my left, and he was sitting there, presumably waiting for me.

  “Hey Gài,” I said and petted his snout, “you would not happen to know what they are doing here?”

  The dog looked at me, as clueless as I was. His fur had dirt and tiny branches, from who knows where he lay last night. I tried to pat him and shake the dust off his fur.

  “Okay, wait here. Before we leave, I need to see what this fuss is all about.” The dog ruffed.

  I left his side and headed to the crowd, diving into the mass of people with the red umbrellas. As I passed through, I tried to look for Fang or even Xiulan, the only two familiar faces I could hope to find. Very quickly, I found myself forgetting about them and trying to figure out the crowd’s vibe instead. Some were elated, smiling and laughing all the time. Some were even moved with tears, talking with other people loudly and excitedly. Others were dancing, eyes closed and expressionless.

  “Túshā is coming!”

  “Did you hear?”

  “News from the north.”

  “It is inevitable! Túshā!”

  “Mama, what is Túshā?”

  “We have to be joyful! Not fearful.”

  “Of course!”

  I listened to many conversations as I walked towards the stage, until it was rendered impossible by the music. The rhythm was so intense and, then, suddenly, it stopped.

  “And now! We read from the Scarlet Book!” A familiar voice announced. I looked up at the stage, and here he was, Mr. Fang, speaking in front of a microphone. The musicians had stopped fiddling and moving to the side. The crowd stopped chatting, turning their attention to him, save for a few people who seemed to still dance to their own tune, eyes closed.

  “What book?” I asked a lady next to me, only to be shushed.

  “What I remember of Túshā shall be passed on for courage, in front of the inevitable,” a man read. He was only a bit younger than Mr. Fang, but looked too similar to him not to be family. He was standing next to him on the stage, reading from a heavy book, wrapped and bound in leather. And he continued to read:

  “Jiajiachang village, by the Zhuanglang. I saw first the scarlet run through the river’s waters, paint the mud red. Most people like me ran; most did not escape, but some I saw looked up at the sky. Look at Túshā, captured by its sight. I knew I should not look, lest I be branded forever by its sight, and I am truly, even till I spell those words.

  “But I turned. A wave of bodies, high up in the sky. All torn by its might. Covered in scarlet, raining from above. An indomitable sight, a truth to be shared only with anyone already destined to witness it.”

  The man turned the page. I felt my stomach churn. Who would dare narrate, much less put those words on paper?

  Everyone around me cheered. I saw Fang kiss the reading man’s forehead, saying something to him out of the reach of the microphone, and the man exited the stage. Then it was the turn of another woman to read another passage.

  “At Barong, waves had formed. The waters were scarlet, as they had arrived. I did not know its direction, but at that moment I knew I had turned wrong. I could see the sun setting in the north, an unnatural sight. A scarlet sun, bathing the bodies above.”

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  I decided that was enough. I pushed through the crowd and headed as fast as I could to the stage. What was the point of reading through the horrors of the past? If they knew what was coming – apparently way better than we did back at home – why are they wasting time?

  “I could see them hanging in the sky. Floating, surrendering. Túshā had passed and struck through here. I decided to turn my back and run, even if some of those people still cried and yearned for death. They were doomed, and all I can do now is write these words, as I cannot erase their picture from my eyes.”

  I pushed through the crowd, bringing me to the front row. I saw Mr. Fang now kissing the woman’s forehead, as she gave the book back. He was about to give it to the next person, an elderly man of at least eighty years old. But instead, his gaze fell on me.

  “Splendid! The most important passage is that of the present!” His voice, loud through the speakers, betrayed an excitement unfitting to the situation. “The messenger, Jiang, come up here!”

  “I…” I hesitated. I wanted to ask what was happening, not take part in it. Fang came closer and reached out with his hand from up on the stage. People around me scurried away, realizing I was not from there, but a messenger, as the man had called me.

  “Please, deliver your message,” Fang said away from his microphone, so that only I could hear.

  “I guess,” I answered, and I climbed on the makeshift wooden stage.

  Fang handed me a microphone. My hands were sweaty as I grabbed it. What if it slipped? What if I could not speak? What did they want to hear me say?

  The crowd was a sea of red umbrellas, only occasionally interrupted by the black symbols. I read them:

  “Túshā is coming,” I said, and heard my voice echoing with delay from the old speakers. The crowd cheered, opening and closing their umbrellas in a celebratory wave of red paper.

  I looked at Fang, confused. Why were they cheering?

  “Tell them what you saw, kid. What you witnessed,” he said.

  “I…” I turned back to the cheering crowd. I did not want to remember or talk about it. But the words flowed like the river.

  “I am from Sulixiang, by the Shule River. My father had warned me with the stories from centuries ago. We did not have a book like you, but we had memory. And he had warned me not to look back when I ran away. Not to see the bloo…” I saw Fang’s eyes widening, and I realized I had said something wrong. “The scarlet.” He nodded.

  “But then it came. No warning. There was a second sun, in the color of deep red. Scarlet, I realize now. The fittest and the youngest of us tried to run. My father did not waste time with goodbyes and urged me to run. When it arrived at the town, I did not look back. I ran and ran, hearing only people screaming and begging for mercy. Praying to whatever god they had. And that river too. I saw it scarlet, as I ran, it also ran next to me, painted.

  “I was far from the screams when I looked back. And I saw them, dots in the sky. Dripping scarlet.”

  My voice trembled at the end. That was the last I had seen of my home. The memory would never leave, but I knew I had seen less than the others in their book. And perhaps I was thankful for my father’s warning. I saw, at the edge of the crowd, Little Guy’s figure. He stood and waited for me.

  He had escaped the horror with me, my dearest friend. Keeping me sane, especially the first days and nights. I often wondered what he had seen, if anything.

  The crowd cheered, like never before. The musicians started playing again, and Mr. Fang came near and took the microphone from my hands. He turned it off.

  “Jiang, you were excellent. A first-hand witness. What a gift to their courage!” He said.

  “I don’t understand. How is this helping? You said you had a way to defeat it, but how…”

  “Defeat it?”

  “Yes, you…”

  “I would never say such a thing. I only said, we are prepared,” he said, pointing to me on how to get off the stage. His forehead wrinkled. Did I offend him?

  “Prepared to do what?”

  He did not answer, and his silence made me hesitate. I did not want to get off the stage. Had this man, or the traditions of this village, somehow deceived everyone? They had to run. Instead, they all danced and drank. I grabbed the microphone from his hands.

  “The people have to run,” I said. He chuckled.

  “Run? Boy, you are madder than I am. No one can escape. Let them have one last drink before they begin.”

  Begin what?

  I saw behind him, the musicians one by one, downed a red drink. And after they did, their fiddling of the strings became more intense. Frenzied.

  “You can drink with us too, if you so wish to end your worries. But if you wish to foolishly run, do not interfere,” Fang said, and with his left hand tried to take the microphone. I pushed him on the side, and I turned it on.

  “Everyone! Do you understand?” I shouted through the microphone. “You have to run now! It is on its way!”

  The crowd turned silent and looked at me. They looked annoyed, angry even. Among them, I spotted Xiulan, the only other familiar face. She was smiling, nodding, and I could read her lips saying the same words as last night.

  Now it is too late to leave.

  “Why is nobody running?” I asked.

  I heard glass break, and I saw pieces of it right by my feet. It was one of the glasses with the red drink. Next to me, Fang shouted, and through the silence, he needed no microphone.

  “You heard the boy! Be brave! No time to waste! Down with it and begin!” His mouth had unnaturally twisted, and red liquid still dripped from his lips.

  People who had not already drunk, I saw them hurry to drink. People who had already closed their umbrellas, turning them upside down, and revealing shiny and sharp handles.

  “Túshā is coming!” They shouted.

  “Stop!” I shouted through the microphone, a pointless move. Men and women of all ages and sizes turned their umbrellas into blades.

  And without Túshā arriving, Carnage began.