Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

That is when I discovered that, far from keeping their heads down so as not to look up, they were all sneaking peeks at the viewing stand. Between coughs, the Emperor declared:

“Worthy ministers, you may rise.”

To which they responded with a kowtow and a shout in unison:

“Praise His Majesty’s generosity!”

Another kowtow, a flicking of wide sleeves, and they rose to their feet, before, bent at the waist, retreating to the periphery. The President of the Board of Punishments, Excellency Wang, emerged from the cluster of officials, flicked his sleeves, and fell to his knees to kowtow once more.

“Your loyal servant Wang Rui, President of the Board of Punishments, in compliance with the Imperial Edict, has ordered the fabrication of Yama’s Hoop and has selected two eminently qualified executioners to bring their equipment into the Palace to carry out the execution. May it please His Majesty.”

“Yes, We know. You may rise.”

Excellency Wang kowtowed yet again, thanked the Emperor for His favor, and retreated to one side. The Emperor said something, but it was so garbled I couldn’t make out what it was. Obviously, in the throes of consumption, He was short of breath. The old eunuch made another announcement, drawing out each syllable like an operatic aria:

“His Majesty decrees that President of the Board of Punishments Wang present Yama’s Hoop for his inspection——”

Wang scurried over to where I stood and snatched the red silk bundle in which Yama’s Hoop was wrapped out of my hand. He returned to the viewing stand, holding the bundle gently in both hands, as if it were a steaming-hot pot. There he went down on his knees and raised his hands above his head, offering up Yama’s Hoop. The old eunuch walked up, bent down, and took the proffered bundle, which he carried up to the Emperor, laid it gently on a table, and slowly unwrapped the red silk until the object itself was in full view. It glistened in all its terrifying grandeur. It had not cost much to make, but I had put considerable effort into it. When first produced, it was an ugly black thing, but I’d rubbed and scoured it for three days to make it shine. I’d earned every one of those seventy ounces of silver.

His Majesty reached out with one sallow hand and tapped the object tentatively with the long, yellowed nail of His index finger. Whether it felt too hot or too cold was impossible to gauge, but the golden finger jerked backward almost immediately, and I heard the aging ruler mumble something. Knowing what that something was, the old eunuch stepped up, retrieved the object, and carried it down the line to let the members of the Imperial Harem have a look at it. They each followed the Emperor’s lead by touching it tentatively with index fingers shaped like jade bamboo shoots. Some put on a show of terror, quickly turning their heads away; others simply stared at the thing with no discernible expression. When he had finished, the old eunuch returned the object to Excellency Wang, who was still on his knees; accepting it with deference, he stood up and, walking backward, bent at the waist, returned to where I was standing and handed it to me.

Up on the reviewing stand, the old eunuch bent to whisper something in the Emperor’s ear. I saw His Majesty nod. The old eunuch stepped up to the front of the reviewing stand and announced in a singsong cadence:

“His Majesty decrees: Carry out the punishment of the monstrous offender Little Insect—”

That elicited a howl from the pole-bound Little Insect:

“Your Majesty,” he wailed, “Your Majesty, be merciful and spare the life of this dog of a slave… your slave will never again…”

The Emperor’s bodyguard snapped to attention. Little Insect, his face waxen, his lips bloodless, and his eyes blinking fiercely, stopped shouting as he wet himself. Turning to us, he whispered:

“Laoye, Shaoye, do your job quickly, and when I’m down in the bowels of Hell, I will be forever grateful for your kindness…”

Listening to him rant was the furthest thing from our minds. It would have taken more courage than we possessed to listen to him. We could have made things easy on him by looping a rope around his neck and strangling him, but that would have been the beginning of our downfall. Even if the Emperor had granted us forgiveness, Board President Wang would not have been so charitable. We hurriedly unwrapped the instrument of torture. Grandma Yu and I held it between us—it seemed considerably heftier after passing through the hands of the Emperor and His harem—each holding one of the leather straps, and carried out our rehearsed routine: first we displayed it to the Emperor and His harem, then to Board President Wang and the other officials, and lastly to the gathering of eunuchs and palace ladies, like actors. The Head of the Office of Palace Justice, Eunuch Chen, and Board President Wang exchanged glances before calling out in unison:

“Let the execution begin!”

It was as if the heavens had eyes—the gleaming iron hoop might as well have been made for Little Insect’s head. With hardly any effort, it fit perfectly. His fetching eyes peered out from two holes in the device. Once it was in place, Grandma Yu and I, your dieh, took two steps backward and gripped the leather straps firmly. Little Insect was still muttering:

“Laoye… Shaoye… make it quick…”

At a time like that, who cared what he wanted? I glanced at Grandma Yu; he returned the glance. I knew what to do, and I was ready. We nodded, and I saw the beginning of a smile on Grandma Yu’s lips, the old master’s customary expression when he was working, for he was an urbane executioner. That smile was my signal to begin, so I flexed my muscles and pulled at half strength, and then quickly let up—anyone not of our profession could not detect the alternating tightening and loosening, and saw only that the leather straps were pulled taut… But Little Insect released a tortured cry, shrill and forceful, one that would have put the howl of a wolf in the zoological garden to shame. Knowing that this was a sound the Emperor and His women loved to hear, we kept it up, subtly tightening and loosening—no longer involved in putting a man to death, we had become conductors producing exquisite music.

That day, as it turned out, was the Autumn Equinox: the sky was blue, and the sun shone down bright, causing the red walls and glazed tiles on the roofs around us to shimmer in the light, like little reflecting mirrors. All of a sudden a terrible smell filled the air, and I knew at once that the little bastard had shit his pants. I sneaked a look at the viewing stand, where the Emperor sat staring at the scene, His face a rich golden color. Some of His consorts were ashen-faced; others looked on with the black holes of their mouths in full view. The ministers and other officials stood ramrod straight, their arms at their sides, barely able to breathe. Eunuchs and serving girls were banging their heads on the ground as if they were crushing cloves of garlic; the weakest among them had already fainted. I looked over at Grandma Yu and knew he shared my view that the results so far were about what we had expected. The time had come; Little Insect had suffered enough, and we knew that we must not let his stink reach the nostrils of the Emperor and His women. By then, some of the consorts were already covering their mouths with silk hankies. Their sense of smell was keener than the Emperor’s, who had abused His nose with snuff until it barely 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.