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

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    That was good shooting. Who did it? My dieh didn’t know, and the government soldiers who started looking the moment they heard the shot didn’t know. I’m the only one who knew. Gaomi County could boast only two marksmen that good. One was the rabbit hunter Niu Qing; the other was County Magistrate Qian Ding. Niu Qing had one eye—the left one. He’d lost his right one when his gun blew up in his face. A distinct improvement in his marksmanship followed the accident. He mastered the skill of shooting rabbits on the run. If he raised his fowling piece, a rabbit would be on its way to the netherworld. Niu Qing was a good friend of mine. My good friend. The other marksman was the venerable Qian Ding, our County Magistrate. Once, when I was in the Great Northern Wilderness hunting for herbal medicine for my wife’s illness, I saw Qian Ding, with his attendants Chunsheng and Liu Pu, out hunting. Chunsheng and Liu Pu were on donkeys driving rabbits out of the bushes so the Magistrate, sitting astride his horse, could draw his pistol and, seemingly without aiming, send a rabbit flying up into the air to land with a thud—dead.
    From where I hid in the brush, not daring to make a sound, I could hear Chunsheng praise the Magistrate to the skies with words like “crack shot,” while Liu Pu sat in the saddle, head down, a blank look on his face that gave away nothing of what he was thinking. My wife once told me that the Magistrate’s loyal follower, Liu Pu, was Qian Ding’s wife’s ganerzi, and the son of some big shot. He was, she said, a wise and talented man. I refused to believe her. What talented man would serve as somebody’s lackey? A talented man would be like my dieh, who lifted up his sword, smeared his face with blood, and—thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack, six heads rolled on the ground.
    The Magistrate was no marksman, was how I saw it, just a lucky shot, like a blind cat bumping into a dead rat. He’d probably miss the next. Well, as if he knew what I was thinking, he pointed his pistol into the air and brought down a bird. A dead bird, like a black stone, plopped down right next to me. Would you believe it! A superhuman marksman, meow meow . The Magistrate’s hunting dog came bounding over to me. I stood up with the dead bird, its body heat burning my hand. The dog leaped and jumped up and down, barking the whole time. Now, I’m not afraid of dogs; dogs are afraid of me. Every dog in Gaomi County runs away with its tail between its legs, yelping like crazy, when it sees me coming. Dogs’ fear of me proves how much I take after my dieh, a panther. The Magistrate’s dog looked mean, but I could tell from its bark that it was expecting to be backed up by its master to make me think it wasn’t afraid. Me, Gaomi County’s King of Hell for dogs! The dog’s barks brought Chunsheng and Liu Pu riding up from two sides. I was a stranger to Liu Pu, but Chunsheng was a friend of mine. He’d often visited the shop, where he was treated to cut-rate food and drink. “What are you doing here, Xiaojia?” he asked. “Searching for herbal stuff,” I said. “My wife is sick, and she sent me out to find some heartbreak grass with red roots and green leaves. Know where I can find any? If so, tell me, and hurry, because she’s in a bad way.” By then the Magistrate had ridden up and was giving me the once-over with a pitiless look in his eyes. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What is your name?” He sputtered when I didn’t answer. When I was still a little boy, my mother told me to act dumb in the presence of an official. “He’s Dog-Meat Xishi’s husband,” Chunsheng whispered, “a borderline idiot.” Well, fuck you, Chunsheng! I felt like saying. I was just saying how you were a friend of mine, and that’s no way for a friend to talk. Would a real friend say that his friend is a borderline idiot? Meow meow , fuck you! Who are you calling a borderline idiot? If that’s what I am, then you’re a total idiot.
    When Niu Qing pulled the trigger, only buckshot came out of the barrel. But the Magistrate fired a single bullet each time he pulled the trigger. A neat little hole dotted Song Three’s head, and if that doesn’t prove it was the Magistrate, I don’t know what does. But then why would the Magistrate want to kill Song Three? Oh, now I get it. Song Three, you must have stolen money from the Magistrate, something most people would not dare to do. Stealing from the