for my eyes were riveted on Zhao Jia, Xiaojia, and Meiniang. Three members of one family, all gathered around Sun Bing as he suffered the cruelest of punishments, and it seemed somehow fitting and proper. Even if Excellency Yuan had been present at that moment, he would not likely have had reason to interfere.
Zhao Jia raised the lantern overhead, throwing its golden light onto the mass of hair spread across Sun Bing’s skull. With his left hand under the chin, he lifted the head up for my benefit. I’d thought that he had died, but no. His chest continued to thrust in and out, and labored breaths still emerged from his mouth and nose, all signs that his vitality remained strong. I was disappointed, but relieved. A picture began to form in my mind, hazy and unreal: Sun Bing was not a criminal suffering from a cruel punishment, but a desperately ill man, beyond all hope, and yet the people were equally desperate to prolong his life, wanting him to live on . . . I wavered between wanting Sun Bing to die or to go on living.
“Give him some ginseng tonic!” Zhao Jia ordered his son.
That command awakened me to the acrid yet sweet smell of fine ginseng wafting up out of the black bowl Xiaojia was holding. Deep down I had to admire Zhao Jia for his attention to detail. In the wake of the infliction of the punishment, when all around us was a scene of chaos, he was calmly preparing a ginseng concoction. Maybe it had already been steeping over a fire in a corner of the shed even before he began, one of many preparations for what he knew would be required.
Xiaojia stepped forward, with the bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, scooped up a spoonful, and held it up to Sun Bing’s mouth. When the spoon touched Sun’s lips, his mouth opened greedily, like a newborn puppy that has found its mother’s teat. Xiaojia’s hand shook slightly, spilling most of the liquid onto Sun Bing’s chin, where a fine beard had once grown.
“Be careful!” Zhao Jia snapped unhappily.
Obviously, Xiaojia, a man who butchered pigs and dogs, was not cut out for a job that required finesse. Most of the second spoonful ended up dripping onto Sun Bing’s chest.
“What are you trying to do?” The loss of the ginseng pained Zhao Jia, who held the lantern out to his son and said, “Hold this. I’ll feed him!”
But before he could take the bowl from Xiaojia, Meiniang stepped up and snatched it away.
“Dieh,” she said in a comforting tone, “you are suffering so. Drink some of this ginseng tonic, it’ll make you feel better . . .”
Tears filled Meiniang’s eyes. Zhao Jia, lantern still in hand, raised it for Xiaojia to tilt Sun Bing’s head up by the chin so Meiniang could spoon the liquid into her father’s mouth, little by little, without wasting a drop.
For a moment I forgot that I was standing on the Ascension Platform, where a man was being put to death, and imagined that I was watching a family of three feeding a tonic to a sick relative.
Sun Bing started coming back to life by the time the bowl was empty. His breathing was not as labored, his neck had regained the strength to hold his head up, and he was no longer spitting up blood. Even the bloating in his face had begun to recede. Meiniang handed the bowl to Xiaojia and reached out to untie the straps binding his arms to the crossbar, muttering comfortingly:
“Don’t be afraid, Dieh, you’re going home . . .”
My mind went blank. How was I supposed to deal with this sudden turn of events? Zhao Jia, an old hand, sprang into action. Thrusting the lantern into his son’s hands, he interposed himself between Sun Bing and Meiniang, as cold gleams of light flashed in his eyes.
“Good daughter-in-law,” he said with a dry, sinister laugh, “snap out of it. This man has been condemned by the Imperial Court. If he is freed, the family of whoever lets him go will be slaughtered all the way to the ninth cousins!”
Sun Meiniang slapped Zhao Jia in the face, then turned and did the same to me. Then she got down on her knees before us both and released a gut-wrenching wail.
“Free my dieh,” she sobbed. “I beg you . . . free my dieh . . .”