A Jiu's Gu

I found a mute boy at the entrance to the stockade. He was covered in wounds, thin as a rake. He curled up in a pile of moldy straw and looked up at me, his eyes so black they seemed ready to swallow me whole. I raised him for seven years. Taught him to speak, fed him, and let him crawl into my bed at night. He cooked for me, chopped firewood, and put mint leaves in my cup. When I took photos, he would squat nearby and watch, quiet as could be, like a little dog tethered at my side. Until the night he came of age. He pinned me in front of the Gu god statue in the main hall, one hand holding both my wrists down. He bit the tip of his tongue and passed a mouthful of blood into mine. He said: “Du, you've been drinking the Gu I've been feeding you for seven years. The water, the food, even the lamp you smelled at night: it was all Gu. Did you really think you could still leave?” He smiled, the little mole at the corner of his mouth shifting slightly. It was the same face as the child who'd looked up at me from the bamboo shelter seven years ago. But his eyes had changed. “Gege, you raised me for seven years. Now it's my turn to take care of you.” Dark blue-green patterns began to crawl across my wrists, following my veins, inch by inch toward my heart. Like vines, like snakes, like something he'd buried inside me seven years ago finally coming to life. I remembered the year I found him. As I carried him to the car, he rubbed his face against my neck. It felt cool, like a snowflake landing there. Later, a ring of blue-green appeared on that patch of skin. It wouldn't wash off. Only now did I understand. With that single nuzzle, he'd planted himself inside me. -