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

functioned. We needed to put an end to this quickly. If a wayward breeze rose up and carried the stink of Little Insect’s shit into the Emperor’s nose, and His Majesty was looking to place the blame somewhere, we would get more than we bargained for. Little Insect’s innards had probably turned to mush by now anyway, and that stench, which went straight to the brain, was decidedly non-human. It took all my willpower to keep from running to one side to throw up—needless to say, that was out of the question. If Grandma Yu and I had been unable to keep from retching, the impulse would have quickly spread to the viewing stand, with disaster the inevitable result. The sacrifice of our lives—Grandma Yu’s and mine—would have been inconsequential, as would the stripping of Board President Wang’s official standing. All that mattered was the health and well being of His Imperial Majesty. That thought had already entered my mind. Grandma Yu’s, too. It was time for the performance to come to an end. So, on a secret signal, we pulled the straps with all our might, squeezing the iron hoop tighter. Little by little, poor Little Insect’s head began to look like a narrow-waisted bottle gourd. The last drop of his sweat had long since left his body, and what came out of him now was a glistening, sticky, foul-smelling grease, reeking nearly as badly as the rancid crotch odor. His howls at this point used up what little of his strength remained and made my flesh crawl, despite my familiarity with killing. No one, not even someone made of iron or steel, could bear up under Yama’s Hoop. Why, not even Sun Wukong, the all but indestructible magic monkey who was tempered for forty-nine days in the Jade Emperor’s hexagram crucible without capitulating, could endure the pressure of the iron hoop placed on his head by the monk Tripitaka.
    The real genius of Yama’s Hoop manifested itself in the victim’s eyes. As Grandma Yu and I slowly leaned back, the tremors of Little Insect’s body traveled through the leather straps and affected our arms. What a pity, those lovely eyes, so expressive, capable of capturing the souls of pretty maidens, slowly began to bulge in the holes of Yama’s Hoop. Black, white, streaks of red. Bigger and bigger, like eggs emerging from the backsides of mother hens, little by little, until . . . pop . Then another— pop —and Little Insect’s eyes were hanging by threads on the edge of Yama’s Hoop. That, of course, is what Grandma Yu and I had hoped would happen. We followed our planned course of action, at a snail’s pace, increasing pressure bit by bit, like inserting a carrot up a bunghole, to narrow the gourd’s waist. And when the fateful moment was at hand, we pulled the straps with one final jerk, producing a crunch. Finally, after all that time, Grandma Yu and I released loud sighs. At some point during the process, rivulets of sweat had soaked our backs, while streaks of dried chicken blood had run onto our necks; to the unfocused eye, that made us appear to be bleeding. I knew how I looked by what I saw on Grandma Yu’s face.
    Little Insect was still alive, but no longer conscious and clearly on the verge of death. Brain matter and blood seeped out through the cracks in his skull. I heard the sound of women vomiting up on the viewing stand, and saw that an elderly, red-capped man had crumpled to the ground, his cap rolling off in the dirt. The moment had arrived:
    “The sentence has been carried out!” we shouted in unison. “May it please Your Excellency!”
    Board President Wang looked at us over the sleeve covering the lower half of his face, then turned to the viewing stand, assumed a respectful rigid stance, raised his hand, and, with a flicking of his sleeve, knelt in the dirt.
    “The sentence has been carried out!” he announced. “May it please Your Majesty!”
    Following a prolonged fit of coughing, His Imperial Majesty announced to the assemblage:
    “You all saw that, yes? Let him be an example to you!”
    His Majesty’s voice was not loud, but each word was clear as a bell to the people on and below the viewing stand. While His words were intended for the ears of the eunuchs and palace girls, every leader of the Six Boards, every member of the royal family, and all the ranking officials fell to their knees as if their legs had been snapped. Amid the thumping of heads on the ground, shouts of “Long live His Imperial Majesty, may He live forever!” “This