warriors, scholars and beauties, three religions and nine schools of thought . . . all brought together like a running-horse lantern of old.
There, in front of the stage, the County Magistrate has erected an Ascension Platform, fronted by soldiers, our presence to behold. Black and red batons on the shoulders of some, broadswords in the hands of others. In front of the platform, a mat shed secured with rush rises behind a cauldron in which sesame oil churns. Fellow countrymen, the grand opera is about to begin, the story to be told!
————
3
————
I tied the rooster to a shed post. The creature cocked its head and looked up at me, its eyes the color of yellow gold, sparkling and blinding bright. I turned to my son. “Xiaojia,” I said, “knead some dough with fresh water.” He cocked his head to look at me, gawking like the rooster.
“What for?”
“Do as I say, and don’t ask questions.”
I studied the shed while he was kneading the dough. The front was open, the back closed. It stood opposite the opera stage. Perfect, just the way I wanted it. The floor was laid well enough, with a gold-colored rush mat on top of the noisy layer of wheat stalks. New wheat, new rush, both exuding a fresh aroma. My sandalwood chair had been placed in the center of the tent, enticing my backside to sit in it. I went first to the cauldron, where I dropped the two spear-shaped stakes into the fragrant oil. They sank straight to the bottom, with only the squared-off butt ends floating to the top and breaking the surface. Ideally they should cook for three days and nights, but I did not have three days. A day and a night would work, since sandalwood this smooth would soak up little blood even without being cooked in oil. Fate has smiled on you, Qinjia, by allowing this to be the instrument of your death. I sat in my chair and looked up at the red sun setting in the west, ushering in dusk. The Ascension Platform, built of thick red pine, had a gloomy appearance in the twilight and exuded the aura of death, like a great frowning idol. I could not fault the County Magistrate’s preparations; the platform, encircled in mist and hooded by somber clouds, fairly epitomized the solemnity of the occasion. Magistrate Qian, you should take your rightful place in the Board of Public Works as a supervisor of grand projects. Your talents are hopelessly stifled in piddling little Gaomi County. Sun Bing, Qinjia, you too are one of Northeast Gaomi Township’s outstanding individuals, and though I do not like you, I cannot deny that you are a dragon among men, or perhaps a phoenix; it would be a crime for you not to die in spectacular fashion. Anything less than the sandalwood death, and this Ascension Platform would not be worthy of you. Sun Bing, your cultivation in a previous life has brought you the good fortune of falling into my hands, for I will immortalize your name and make you a hero for the ages.
“Dieh,” my son said excitedly from behind me with a platter of dough the size of a millstone, “the dough is ready.”
Believe it or not, he had used up the entire sack of flour. But no harm done, since we would expend a great deal of energy tomorrow, and would need plenty of nourishment to get through the day. I twisted off a chunk of dough, rolled it between my hands, and pulled it into a long strip, which I dropped into the oil. It rolled and twisted in the churning oil like an eel fighting to stay alive. With a clap of his hands, my son jumped up and down.
“Fried fritter!” he shouted. “It’s a fried fritter!”
Together we dumped a steady stream of dough twists into the oil. They sank to the bottom, but quickly floated to the top and tumbled in the space between the sandalwood spears. I was frying them in the same oil so the essence of grain would attach to the wood. I knew that these stakes would enter Sun Bing’s grain passage and travel up through his body, and that the grain coating would be beneficial. The aroma of frying fritters spread—they were done, so I fished them out with a pair of tongs. “Eat one, son.” With his back to the mat shed, he started in on the lip-burning fritter; his bulging cheeks showed how happy