Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

podium on the drying floor of the Sima compound where Niu Tengxiao, Gaomi’s county magistrate, had gotten the women to unbind their feet. Finally, the cart turned left, following the Black Water River, and drove into a field that extended all the way to the marshland. Gusts of moist air from the south carried the odor of decay. Toads in roadside ditches and in the shallows of the river croaked weakly. Swarms of fat tadpoles changed the color of the water.
    The cart sped up once it entered the field. The “Old Titmouse” driver used his whip on the lead horse, gimp leg or no. The cart bounced around wildly on the uneven road, the corpses giving off a terrible stench. Something wet dripped through the cracks in the bed of the cart. By then, the crying had stopped altogether, and family members were covering their mouths and noses with their sleeves. Sima Ting and his followers brushed past us and rushed up to the cart, bent at the waist as they ran, leaving us and the cart behind, that and the stench. A dozen mad dogs set up a cacophony of howls as they leapt all over the wheat fields on either side of the road. They kept appearing and disappearing amid the wheat stalks, like seals leaping through the waves. It was a day set aside for crows and hawks. All the crows in Northeast Gaomi descended on the township’s basin, like a dark cloud settling over the horse cart. They circled the area, their excited screeches filling the air as they formed a myriad of patterns before going into nosedives. Older crows went straight for the corpses’ eyes, pecking them out with their hard, pointed beaks; younger, less experienced birds attacked the skulls, setting up a loud tattoo. “Old Titmouse” flicked his whip at them, each time bringing down at least one bird, which was turned to mush under the wheels of the cart. Seven or eight hawks circled high in the sky, sometimes forced by competing air currents down below the crows. They were just as interested in the corpses, but refused to join forces with crows, over whom they maintained smug superiority.
    The sun poked its face out from behind a cloud, bestowing upon the maturing wheat plants a resplendent glow and causing the wind to change direction, which created a momentary stillness that put waves of wheat to sleep, or to death. A golden platter, seemingly extending all the way to the horizon, rose under the sun. Spikes on the ripe wheat were like tiny golden needles that set the world aglitter. The horse cart turned onto a narrow path in the middle of the field, forcing the driver to thread his way between two rows of wheat stalks. The lead horses, one apricot yellow, the other leek green, could not negotiate the path side by side, so either the yellow horse had to walk amid the wheat stalks or the green horse was forced to plod through the layer of gold. Like pouting little boys, one would push the other off the path, only to be pushed right back. And so the cart slowed, which sent the crows into a frenzy. Dozens of them landed on the heads of corpses and began pecking away, their wings drooping. “Old Titmouse” had his hands too full to worry about the birds. The crop that year was sure to be a good one, since the stalks were thick, the tassels full, and the kernels plump. Wheat spikes brushing against the horses’ bellies and scraping against the cart and its tires produced a skin-tingling scratchy sound. Dogs poked their heads out from between stalks, eyes shut to protect them from the spikes. Tracking the cart was easy; they just followed their noses.
    Our procession thinned out and grew longer once we were in the wheat field. No one was wailing any longer, not even sobbing softly. Every once in a while a child would stumble and fall, and someone, usually a family member, would reach out a friendly hand and help him to his feet. In the midst of this solemn unity, children refused to cry even with a split lip. Silence reigned, but it was a tense, uneasy silence. The passing cart and mad dogs startled partridges in the field, sending them flapping into the air only to settle once again into a sea of gold. Wheat snakes, those poisonous red vipers unique to Northeast Gaomi, slithered among the wheat like lightning bolts, causing the horses to shudder; dogs crept along the ruts, not daring to look up. The sun was partially hidden behind dark clouds, the revealed half sending down scorching rays of light. Cloud shadows seemed to fly above the wheat field, momentarily