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

was a white snake, she was a good white snake, like Bai Suzhen, the heroine of The Legend of the White Snake . She was Bai Suzhen, and I was her lover, Xu Xian. But who was the Green Snake Demon and who was the sorcerer Fa Hai? Of course. Yuan Shikai was Fa Hai. My eyes lit up. I see her, I see her! She’s standing with a bunch of women! Her flat white head is raised, her purple tongue flicks in and out, she’s slithering this way. Meow meow , I felt like crying out, but my dieh’s panther eyes were fixed on me.
    “Son,” he said, “stop looking around!”
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    7
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    After three bursts of cannon fire, the official in charge of the execution announced loudly to Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler, who had taken seats in the center of the stage:
    “Your humble servant, Gaomi County, respectfully reports to His Excellency the Governor that the midday hour has arrived, and the Imperial prisoner Sun Bing has been identified as the condemned. The executioners are in place and await instructions from His Honor!”
    Yuan Shikai, seated on the stage, stuck his turtle neck out from under his shell, which looked like a pot lid and gave his official robe the look of an oilpaper umbrella, the very umbrella that Xu Xian had given to the White and Green Snakes. But how had that umbrella wound up on Yuan Shikai’s body? Oh, it’s not an umbrella, it’s a turtle shell. How wonderful that a turtle would be a high official, meow meow . Turtle Yuan stretched his neck toward the mouth of Gray Wolf von Ketteler and sputtered something in turtle-wolf talk; then he took a red command flag from one of his subordinates and swung it in a hard downward chop. This was no meaningless demonstration: like a knife cutting through a tangle of jute or slicing through a cake of bean curd, it was a deft and resolute action, proof that this turtle had reached profound Taoist attainments. This was no ordinary turtle; no, it was exceptional, for official status of this magnitude was beyond the reach of an ordinary reptile. Of course, he was still no match for my dieh. When the official in charge saw Excellency Yuan drop the little red flag, he sprang into action, growing half an inch in height; rays of light, green in color, surged from his eyes, menacing enough to frighten anybody. His tiger whiskers twitched; he bared his fangs. He looked good to me. Drawing on the power of his throat, he announced loudly:
    “It is time——let the execution begin——”
    His body shrank back to normal as soon as the proclamation ended, and his whiskers retreated to his cheeks. You don’t have to reveal your identity. I know you’re Qian Ding. That may be an official’s cap resting on your tiger head and a red robe girding your body, and while you may be able to hide your tail under your clothes, I knew it was you as soon as I heard you speak. His proclamation ended, he stood beside the execution stand, bent at the waist, his back arched, as his face slowly regained its human form; drenched in perspiration, it made for a pitiful sight. Three more thunderous blasts from the dozen cannons shook the ground. Now that it was nearly time to join Dieh in our spectacle, I took one last look around. There were, I saw, throngs of people surrounding the parade ground—men and women, young and old, some in their true form, others having reverted to their human form, and others still in the midst of changing from one to the other—half human, half beast. At that distance I couldn’t tell Zhang Three from Li Four, whether pigs or dogs or cows or sheep, nothing but a swarm of heads, big and small, all awash in sunlight. Feeling a surge of pride, I threw out my chest and raised my chin, meow meow , and then looked down at the new ritualistic clothes I was wearing: a black Buddhist robe with a vestment over my left shoulder, a wide red sash with long tassels around my waist, black trousers tied at the ankles, and high deerskin boots. I couldn’t see the hat with a circular crown that rested on my head, of course, but everybody else could. My face and ears were smeared with a layer of rooster blood, which had dried and begun to crack, making my skin feel funny. But no matter how it felt, it had to be done, since it was a tradition handed down by our ancestors. My dieh often said that traditions are the essence of any endeavor. Because the dried blood on his face had begun to crack, in my eyes he was looking more and more human—now a half man–half