The Corpse Reader

3

Judge Feng was needed to help interrogate some of the village residents, so he and Cí agreed to meet again after lunch. Cí wanted to visit Cherry, but he needed his father’s permission if he was going to miss work.

Before he went into the house, Cí commended himself to the gods and then entered without knocking. Startled by Cí’s return, his father dropped some documents, which he quickly gathered from the floor and put in a red lacquer chest.

“Shouldn’t you be out plowing?” he asked angrily, shoving the chest under a bed.

Cí said he wanted to visit Cherry, but his father wouldn’t hear of it.

“You’re always putting pleasure before duty.”

“Father—”

“She’ll be fine. I have no idea why I let your mother talk me into letting you two get engaged. That’s girl’s worse than a wasp.”

Cí cleared his throat. “Please, father. I’ll be quick. Afterward, I’ll finish the plowing and help Lu with the reaping.”

“Afterward? Perhaps you think Lu goes out in the fields for a nice stroll. Even the buffalo is a more willing worker than you. When is afterward, exactly?”

What’s going on? Why is he being so tough on me?

Cí didn’t want to argue. Everyone, including his father, knew full well that Cí had worked tirelessly the last few months sowing rice and tending to the saplings; that his hands had become callused reaping, threshing, and panning; that he had plowed from sunup to sundown, leveled the soil, transported and spread the fertilizer, pedaled the pumps, and hauled the sacks of produce to the river barges. While Lu was off getting drunk with his prostitutes, Cí was killing himself in the fields.

In a way he hated having a conscience; it meant he had to accept his father’s decisions. He went to find his sickle and his bundle, but the sickle wasn’t there.

“Use mine,” said his father. “Lu took yours.”

Cí gathered up the tools and headed to the fields.

Cí hurt his hand whipping the buffalo. The animal roared at the treatment but then pulled as though possessed in a desperate attempt to evade Cí’s blows. Cí clung to the plow, trying to push it into the sodden earth as the rain poured down. He whipped the beast and cursed, furrow after furrow. Then a thunderclap stopped him in his tracks. The sky was as dark as mud, but the suffocating heat was unrelenting.

Suddenly there was a flash of lightning and an earth-shuddering boom. The buffalo cowered and tried to leap away again, but the plow held fast in the ground, making the animal fall on its hindquarters.

The buffalo was flailing in the water now, trying to get to its feet. Cí heaved but failed to help it up. He loosened the harness and hit the beast a couple of times, but it only raised its forehead out of the water as it tried to escape the punishment. Then Cí saw the terrible open fracture in its hindquarters.

Dear gods, what have I done to offend you?

Cí approached the buffalo with an apple, but it tried to gore him with its horns. It tired itself out writhing and bellowing, and rested its head to one side for a moment, dipping a horn in the mud. Looking in its panic-stricken eyes, Cí sensed it was trying to convey that it wanted to escape its crippled body. Snot streamed from its huffing nostrils. It was as good as meat for the slaughterhouse.

Cí was stroking its muzzle when he was grabbed from behind and pushed into the water. Lu, brandishing a staff, stood over him in a rage.

“Wretch! This is how you repay me?”

Cí tried to protect himself as the stick came down on his face.

“Get up.” Lu hit him again. “Time for a lesson.”

Cí tried to get up, but again Lu struck him, then grabbed him by the hair.

“Know how much a buffalo costs? No? Time for you to learn.”

Lu thrust Cí’s head underwater. Once Cí had flailed for a bit, Lu yanked him up and pushed him under the harness.

“No!” cried Cí.

“Don’t like working in the fields, eh?” He was trying to tie Cí into the harness. “You hate that Father loves me best.”

“Hardly! Even though you’re a bootlicker!”

“What?” roared Lu. “You’ll be the one licking boots when I finish with you.”

Wiping away blood from his cheek, Cí looked hatefully at his brother. Custom dictated that he not fight back. But it was time to show Lu he wasn’t his slave. Cí got up and punched Lu in the gut as hard as he could. Lu, not expecting the blow, was winded for a moment, but his return punch knocked Cí to the ground. Cí had years of pent-up hate, but Lu was bigger and a much better fighter. When Cí got up, Lu knocked him down again. Cí felt something crack in his chest, but he wasn’t in pain. Then another blow, this time in the gut. Still on the ground, he took another blow. He couldn’t get up. He felt the rain on his face. He thought he heard Lu shouting at him, but then he lost consciousness.

Feng was with Shang’s corpse when Cí stumbled in.

“Cí! Who’s done—” But before he could finish, he had to leap forward to catch Cí as he fainted.

Feng laid Cí down on a mat. One of Cí’s eyes was swollen shut, but the cut on his cheek didn’t seem too bad. Feng touched the edge of it.

“You’ve been striped like a mule,” he said, examining Cí’s torso. The bruise on his side was alarming, but luckily none of the ribs were broken. “Did Lu do this?” Cí shook his head groggily. “Don’t lie! That animal. Your father did well leaving him behind in the countryside.”

Feng was relieved to find Cí’s pulse still rhythmic and strong, but he sent his assistant to get the local healer. Soon a small, toothless old man came bearing herbs and concoctions. He examined Cí and then applied ointments, gave him a tonic, and recommended rest.

Cí woke to a buzzing noise. Managing to sit up, he realized he was in the annex with Shang’s body. Shang’s dead flesh had begun to rot in the monsoon heat, and the stench was unbearable. Once Cí’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that the buzzing was coming from a swarm of flies, contracting and expanding like a ghostly shadow, attracted by the dried blood at the corpse’s throat.

“How’s that eye of yours?” asked Feng.

Cí jumped. He hadn’t noticed Feng still there, seated in the dark a few feet away.

“Not sure. I can’t feel anything.”

“You’ll be OK. No broken bones and—” A thunderclap sounded nearby. “By the Great Wall! The gods are certainly stomping around.”

“I feel like they’ve been angry with me for a while,” said Cí.

Another thunderclap boomed in the distance.

“Shang’s family will be here soon. I’ve invited them, along with the village elders, so that I can share my findings.”

“Judge Feng, I can’t stay in the village. I beg you, take me with you to Lin’an.”

“Cí, don’t ask the impossible. You owe your father your obedience and—”

“My brother will kill me—”

“Wait, here come the elders.”

Shang’s family entered carrying a wooden coffin on their shoulders. Shang’s father, clearly distraught over losing the son who should have been honoring him at his death, headed the procession. Other relations and neighbors followed. When they were all inside, they gathered around Shang’s body.

Feng greeted them, and each bowed. He waved the flies clear, but they returned immediately. To keep the flies away, Feng ordered that the wound be covered. Then he sat down next to a black lacquer table in a chair his aide had brought for him.

“Honorable citizens, as you already know, the magistrate from Jianningfu will be here later. Nonetheless, according to the family’s wishes, I have already started the investigation. I will therefore bypass the protocol and present the facts.”

Cí observed from the corner of the room, admiring the shrewd wisdom in everything Feng did.

The judge began: “Everyone knew that Shang had no enemies, and yet he was brutally murdered. What could the motive have been? I have no doubt that it was a robbery. His widow, an honored and respected woman, confirms that when he disappeared he had three thousand qián on his person. Young Cí, however, who demonstrated his perceptiveness this morning by identifying the cuts to the neck, assured us that when he found the body there was no money at all.” Feng got to his feet and, fingers interlaced, walked among the family and the elders. “Cí found a cloth stuffed in the oral cavity. I have marked it as evidence.” He took the cloth from a small box and spread it out for everyone to see.

“Justice!” cried the widow, sobbing.

Feng nodded and was quiet for a moment.

“At first, it might look only like a piece of linen with blood on it. But if we look carefully at the bloodstains,” he said as he ran his fingers over the three main marks, “we see a pattern.”

Whispers broke out—what could it mean? Cí asked himself the same question.

Feng continued: “In order to reach my conclusions, I’ve conducted tests that I’d like to repeat for you.” He called his assistant forward. “Ren!”

The aide stepped forward holding a kitchen knife, a sickle, a bottle of tinted water, and two cloths. He bowed, placed the objects on the table, and withdrew. The judge soaked the kitchen knife in the tinted water before drying it on one of the cloths. He did the same with the sickle, and then held up the results.

Cí saw that the marks left on the cloth used to dry the knife were straight and tapered; on the cloth used to dry the sickle, the marks were curved—just like on the cloth found in Shang’s mouth. The murder weapon was likely a sickle. Cí marveled at Feng’s brilliance.

Feng continued: “I had my man, along with Bao-Pao’s men, go around this morning and collect all the sickles in the village.”

Ren came forward, this time dragging a crate full of sickles. Feng went to the corpse.

“The head was separated from the body with a butcher’s saw. And Bao-Pao’s men found one in the field where Shang was killed.” He took a saw out of the crate and placed it on the ground. “But death itself came from something different. The instrument used to end Shang’s life was, without doubt, a sickle.”

The group murmured over the news.

“The saw has few distinguishing marks,” continued Feng. “The blade is made from base iron and the handle from an unidentified wood. But, as we all know, sickles are always inscribed with their owner’s name. Once we match the marks made by the weapon, we’ll have the murderer.” He gestured to Ren, who opened one of the annex doors and led several peasants into the room. They gathered at the far end where it was too dark for Cí to see any of their faces.

Feng asked Cí if he felt up to helping. Cí nodded, though he was still having trouble standing. He took a notebook and a brush as the judge went over to examine the sickles. He meticulously placed the blades against the marks on the original cloth and held them up to the light. He dictated every action, and Cí transcribed.

Until that point, Cí had found Feng’s resoluteness somewhat strange: The majority of the sickles would have been forged using the same mold. Unless the blade they were looking for happened to have some peculiar notch, it was unlikely they would find anything conclusive. But now he understood: since it was prohibited under the penal code to condemn the accused without prior confession, Feng had come up with a way of flushing out the criminal.

There’s no evidence; he’s got nothing.

After finishing his tests, Feng pretended to read Cí’s notes before handing them back. Then, stroking his whiskers, he approached the peasants.

“I’ll say it only once!” he shouted. “The blood marks on the cloth identify the murderer. They match one sickle only, and the sickles have your names on them.” He peered into frightened peasants’ eyes. “You all know the punishment for such a terrible crime! But,” he bellowed, “what you don’t know is that if the murderer does not confess now, the execution will be by lingchi, and it will happen straightaway.”

The group murmured again. Cí was horrified. Lingchi, or death by a thousand cuts, was the bloodiest death imaginable. The condemned was stripped, tied to a post, and chopped up into pieces—literally filleted. Then the pieces were laid out in front of the condemned, whom was kept alive until a vital organ was extracted.

The peasants’ faces were etched with terror.

“But because I am not the judge charged with ruling in this prefecture,” continued Feng, standing no more than a foot from the group now, “I am going to give the criminal a chance.” He stopped in front of a young peasant who was on his knees whimpering, gave him a disdainful look, and carried on. “I am offering the mercy that Shang was not afforded. And the chance to regain a shred of honor, the chance to confess before being accused. This is your only chance to avoid disgrace, as well as the worst of deaths.”

To Cí, Feng looked like a hunting tiger, with his slow gait, his curved back, his taut gaze. The peasants cowered.

Time seemed to stand still. There were only the sounds of the thunder and rain, the hush in the annex, and the stench of the body. No one stepped forward.

“Come forward, you fool! This is your last chance!”

No one moved.

Feng clenched his fists, digging his nails into his hands, and cursed under his breath. Cí had never seen Feng like this. The judge snatched the notes from him and pretended to read them again. He turned back to the peasants and then unexpectedly went over to the corpse, where the flies still swarmed.

“Damned bloodsuckers!” he said, swiping his hand to disperse them. “Bloodsuckers…” Feng waved his hands again, directing the cloud of insects toward the sickles. A bunch of flies settled on one particular sickle. Feng let out a satisfied sound almost like a growl.

Feng crouched over the sickle and looked it over carefully. He noted it was the same as all the others, and apparently, clean. Nonetheless, this was the sickle that attracted the flies. Feng brought a lamp beside the sickle, revealing some red flecks on it. Then he turned the light on the handle and the letters marked there. Reading it, Feng’s face froze. The tool he held in his hands belonged to Cí’s brother, Lu.