Storm sprites hearkened to the crickle crackle of the burning bamboo roofs and flew in, casually whirling up a wind around a so-so fire and fanning it to a blaze. Home from home. Faces of weeping children, their tears making rivers through the grime of their cheeks gazed from the roadsides and searched the scurrying crowds for a homecoming ma or pa. They searched long. Orphans of three and four with celery-stick arms wailed beside babes in rags while table-carrying neighbours rushed for the city exits. Still the artillery came in, arcing unseen with unpredictable destination. Lightning doesn't strike one place twice. But cannonballs do. And then don't, insolently pulverising a factory or slum that had lain unaccountably untouched as if blessed. No blessings today. Not for the poor who had not the means to leave Nanjing before now, believing their gods would yet intervene and save their starving skins. Not for the rich who fled with their gold while over their shoulders their opulent manors burned and their fountains erupted in shards of hot iron and brick.
