Colors of the Mountain by Da Chen Page B

big-time winners whenever news mysteriously found its way out of the pit. But none dared venture near the place. A few really bad older boys from our neighborhood were said to make their homes there during the whole New Year’s holiday.
    If I couldn’t have fun in normal places, then I was determined to find something else to do, either watching the game or even running errands for those bad boys. I had only brought half a yuan with me, that way if they wanted me in the game, I wouldn’t have too much to lose. I was mentally prepared for any roughing up that might occur.
    I checked over my shoulder to make sure nobody was following me, then slipped into the sugarcane field. The leaves were thick and sharp. I ducked beneath them and walked with bent knees toward the heart of the field.
    After ten minutes, I heard vague, hushed voices. Then I suddenly saw lights and a clearing ahead of me. Twenty yards of sugarcane had been felled and trampled down, and there were at least two dozen youngpeople sitting at tables, squatting, and standing in clusters around the cleared area.
    I jumped out quickly and they all froze. Their angry faces stared at me as if I had already overstayed my welcome. The only thing moving was the cigarette smoke spiraling over their heads. It was a perfect group picture of the local criminal elite in full swing.
    “What the fuck are you doing here, you little punk? I thought you were a good mama’s boy. This is no place for you,” Mo Gong, the local shoemaker’s son, barked at me. His diction was crude, his tone menacing. His nostrils flared as he threw his cigarette butt against me. “Get outta here.”
    In the hierarchy of the local criminal elite, he easily took the top spot. He once cut his enemy’s shoulder open with a sharp knife meant for trimming rubber-soled shoes.
    “Yeah, get the fuck outta here or we’ll kick your ass and make you eat shit before you go,” another elite roared.
    I covered my head with my arms like a surrendered war criminal, and moved slowly around the edge.
    Mo Gong took a few steps and threw me to the springy ground of crushed sugarcane. He sat on me, twisted my arms behind my back, and demanded, “Who sent you here?”
    “Nobody, I just wanted to see what’s going on.” My nose ground against his muddy leather boots.
    “Who told you where we were?”
    “I found my way here.”
    “Liar!” He forced my head harder against the ground. It smelled like the pig manure used as fertilizer.
    “Wait, Mo Gong, let go of him,” I heard a calm voice say from above me. It sounded like Sen, the son of the local banker, the brains behind all the scandals in the recent history of Yellow Stone. Mo Gong did as he was told, but not before kicking me once more on the behind.
    I got up and dusted the dirt off my new coat. Sen grabbed Mo Gong and pulled him aside.
    “Don’t hurt him too much or he’ll tell the commune leader and we’ll be in trouble,” I heard Sen whisper. Then he turned around and grabbed my shoulder.
    “I’ll let you stay but don’t come back tomorrow and don’t tell anyone about this place. If you do, I’ll have Mo Gong make you a useless cripple,” he warned, his eyes unmoving.
    “I just want to watch, that’s all.”
    “Quiet! And I want your mouth shut while you watch, hear me?”
    I remained gratefully quiet as I stood far behind the circle. Sen took his place at the head of one of the tables. It was a simple poker game played by four, two against two. The starting bet was half a yuan, which would only give me one shot if I were to jump in.
    Two minutes into the game, Sen and his partner, Mo Gong, started making faces, blowing their noses, and cracking their knuckles. They were playing against a couple of out-of-town village boys who didn’t know their sign language. Soon the villagers were losing fast, and they wanted out.
    “Can’t do that in this town.” Mo Gong put his dirty palm on their money.
    “Says who?” The villagers were a