Sandalwood Death: A Novel (Chinese Literature Today Book Series)

and clemency under the law is what we ask. Release Sun Bing in the name of the people . . .”
    Licentiate Shan raised the petition over his head and held it there with both hands, making no move to rise, as if waiting for someone to come take it from him. But all was quiet inside the yamen, so effectively sealed by the wolfish soldiers that it took on the appearance of a rundown temple. Wisps of green smoke continued to rise from scorched beams in the mess hall kitchen that had gone up in flames the night before, and on the walls hung a row of reeking beggars’ heads.
    Last night heroic men rioted in the Magistrate’s lair, flames lit up the sky and chaos was carried on the air . If I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes, on pain of death I would not have believed the scene that was playing out before me. The thought alone struck fear in me. But a second thought removed that fear, for it belonged to the courageous beggars who had looked death in the eye, proclaiming that losing their heads merely produced bowl-sized scars. I think about what occurred last night and cringe at my dieh’s crazed way, a foolproof plan that quickly went astray. That you will not live costs little, that others died is a heavy price to pay. Your erstwhile saviors gave up their lives. If the First Lady had not played her hand, your daughter would not have survived this day . Why? Why, Dieh, tell me why!
    From time to time, a somber-faced yayi sped by like a cat on the prowl. Licentiate Shan stayed frozen in his kneeling position—a human statue—for as long as it takes to smoke a bowlful of tobacco. The gentlemen and commoners arrayed behind him created flesh-and-blood statuary. And still all was quiet inside. There was no change—a second bowlful up in smoke. And then a third. The soldiers stood there, wide-eyed, rifles at the ready, as if facing menacing enemies. Sweat dripped down Licentiate Shan’s neck. Another bowlful, and his legs began to twitch; sweat stains spread across his back, and still there was no movement inside the yamen, which was as quiet as death.
    Suddenly, from deep within the crowd, the cry “Have mercy—” from old Granny Sun broke the silence.
    The cry was echoed by others in the crowd:
    “Have mercy—”
    “Have mercy—”
    Hot tears blurred my vision, but through the watery veil I saw all the supplicants bang their heads in kowtows. Bodies behind and in front of me rose and fell; on both sides rose a cacophony of tearful shouts and thuds of bone against stone.
    The crowd of local residents remained on the street until the sun was nearly overhead and the sentries had changed shifts twice, and yet no one had emerged from the compound to accept Licentiate Shan’s petition. Slowly, inevitably, the old man’s hands fell lower and lower, and his back began to arch forward. Then, finally, he toppled over in a faint. At that moment, I heard drums pound, horns toot, cymbals and bells ring. Cannons fire three times as the gate makes its rumbling swing. From it emerges an honor guard. I turn away from the wolfish sentries and from the official party. My eyes are fixed on a prison van, on which two cages stand, a prisoner in each. One is my dieh, the true Sun Bing, the other Xiao Shanzi, the sham Sun Bing.
    Meow meow, meow meow, my heart was breaking . . .

C HAPTER S IXTEEN

Sun Bing’s Opera Talk
Good, all right, bravo, wonderful! Now the real drama has begun~~Sun Bing stands alone in his prisoner cage, down streets turned bright by the mid-autumn sun. Looking out through the bars, his gaze falls on kin and friends one by one. Yayi sound the call in front of crazed armed troops, swords unsheathed, arrows on the string, bullets in every gun. German devils, Chinese soldiers, nerves high-strung. All because Zhu Ba’s plans at the jail had come undone. Xiao Shanzi would have taken my place, but death I would not shun. Zhu Ba, oh, Zhu Ba, I, Sun Bing, was unworthy of you and your tribe, and to the yellow springs you have gone. Your heads now from the yamen wall are hung, but your names will live on in Maoqiang songs from this day begun.
    — Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. Sun Bing’s death procession
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    Zhu Ba clamped his vise-like hands around my throat until I saw stars, my ears rang, my eyes bulged, and my temples throbbed . . . I knew my life was ebbing fast. But no, I cannot die like this; to have the life choked out of me by Zhu Ba would be a travesty. Alive I must be heroic,