The funeral was on the side of a mountain, up a winding, rocky path only accessible by foot or horse. It was the middle of winter and a dusting of snow had covered the ground for days. There was no running water, and extension cords connected to power outlets ran up the walls to lone bulbs, which created a stark contrast from the old, traditional, wooden Chinese farm house. The outhouse was a side hut with a branch roof; you had to duck to go inside, and had to be careful not to fall through the wooden plank to the pit below as you conducted your business. I slept in the adjacent farm house, and despite the lack of modern-standard amenities, I slept extremely well for the few hours I slept.
Relatives and friends sat outside of the house at tables, huddled around fires; most hadn't slept, and some had been there for days. The immediate family worked with some hired people to serve three delicious meals a day, pan-frying giant portions at a time in enormous woks, boiling soups in charcoal-stained cauldrons.
Depending upon his or her year of birth according to the Chinese zodiac, some members of the immediate family were allowed to view the body - which, as far as I know, had not been preserved or made up in any way. One of the deceased’s granddaughters, a young, married woman of about thirty, went to view the body. She returned with an expression of pale soberness.
Red Dog was one of the Taoist priests. He was probably in his late twenties. His neck was permanently bent to one side, and his back had a slight hunch at the shoulders. His frame was small but wiry. The priests all lived at the house for the funeral, which lasted about a week, sleeping on the wooden beams of the unprotected attic-like space. Intermittently, usually once every few hours, but sometimes every few minutes (the rest-time gradually seemed to decrease as the burial moment drew closer), the priests would perform their ceremonies just outside the front door. They chanted hymns with the accompanying gong, sometimes seated and sometimes walking in lines, swinging swords in wild, rhythmic dances; other times they lit incense and sang prayers as we in attendance bowed down on clumps of straw to keep the snow and mud off our knees. They also played ceremonial games with the family members.
In one of these games, one of the younger priests, followed by a younger and more athletic member of the close family, would walk in a lap that went through the house, around the coffin, and back outside around a prayer pedestal in front of the house. The priest, abruptly, would break into a sprint while following the same path, and it was the family member’s objective to catch him; if the priest was unable to be caught, a round of the game would end. In one round, the fittest family member, who was just out of the army, never allowed the youngest priest, a poor, exhausted boy of perhaps twenty, to ever escape more than a meter or two; finally, he simply let his round end out of pity.
But no one could ever catch Red Dog. Despite his perceived disability, he was startlingly quick, and would often be beyond catching distance before anyone could even react. His singing was also the most captivating among the priests. It was piercingly clear and unique, and echoed around the neighboring woods and mountainsides in a way that was comforting but demanded attentiveness. When the priests chanted and slowly made their paraded rounds about the seated area, Red Dog often was in front, holding an enormous, curved sabre and waving it around as he sang, the blade always frighteningly close to the priest behind him; but Red Dog was always in complete control, and he handled the weight of the sword effortlessly.
The burial moment finally arrived early in the morning an hour or so before dawn. The stronger men of the group lifted the massive coffin using huge trunks of bamboo as levers. Amidst deafening bursts of firecrackers, they carried it up a dark path through tiered rice fields to the mountainside tomb. As they neared the final bend in the muddy path, the solid coffin shifted ominously and horrifyingly towards a steep ledge, and the outer carriers slipped and slid desperately to regain control. After a few eternity-lengthed moments and through some frantic maneuvering, shouting, manpower, and brawny effort, the bearers regained control, and my heart, for at least one among the party, resumed its near-frozen pulse.
I saw Red Dog only once after that. It was a hazy, warmer day, and he was playing mahjong and smoking contentedly at a family-run convenience store in the village nearest to the funeral site. As I walked past his table and up the road, the mahjong tiles clicked away in a satisfying rhythm.