While he waited, he finished cutting the roots and freed the plow’s blades. Luckily, the plow wasn’t damaged, which meant Lu would only be angry that he wasn’t yet done plowing. At least, that was what Cí hoped. He reset the plow and got back to work. He tried whistling to distract himself, but all he could hear were his father’s words: “Avoiding problems solves nothing.”
Yes, but this isn’t my problem.
However, he plowed only two more furrows before halting the buffalo again.
He cast a wary eye on the head as it bobbed on the water, then looked a little closer. The cheeks were caved in, as if someone had viciously stomped on them. There were tiny lacerations on the bruised skin from the carp bites, the eyelids were swollen, the flesh beside the trachea was in tatters…and there was the strange cloth coming out of the wide-open mouth.
Never in his life had he looked on something so horrifying. He shut his eyes and vomited. Then, with a start, he recognized the face. It was old Shang. The father of Cherry, the girl Cí was in love with.
Recovering a little, he looked at the strange expression, the mouth forced unnaturally wide by the cloth. Taking hold of the cloth’s edge, he pulled and unraveled it, bit by bit, like a ball of string. He placed the cloth in his sleeve and tried to shut the jaw but couldn’t. Cí vomited again.
He washed the face with the muddy water. Then, getting up, he retraced his steps over the plowed land in search of the rest of the body. It was midday before he found it, on the far eastern side of the plot, a few li from where the buffalo had gotten stuck. The corpse’s trunk still had the yellow sash and the five-button gown that identified the man as an honorable person. There was no sign of the blue cap Shang always wore.
Cí couldn’t go on. He sat down in the stone ditch and nibbled at a stale bit of rice bread but found it impossible to swallow. He looked at poor Shang’s headless body, abandoned in the mud like that of some common criminal.
What on earth am I going to say to Cherry?
What kind of person could have cut short the life of someone like Shang, a dedicated family man who was respectful of tradition and performed all the proper rites? All Cí knew was that whoever was responsible didn’t deserve to go on living.
Lu didn’t arrive until late afternoon. He had three workers with him, and each carried a sapling, which meant there must have been a change of plan: they were going to plant the rice without waiting for the field to drain. Cí left the buffalo and ran over to his brother. He bowed in greeting.
“Brother! You won’t believe it—” His heart was beating hard.
“What do you mean, I won’t believe it?” Lu roared, pointing to the untilled plot. “I can see it with my own two eyes.”
“I found a—” Before he could finish, his brother punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground.
“Slacker!” spat Lu. “What makes you think you’re better than everyone else?”
Cí touched the cut on his brow. It wasn’t the first time his brother had hit him, but because Lu was older, according to Confucian customs, Cí was forbidden to fight back. He was the one with the swelling eye, but he still had to apologize.
“Brother, forgive me. I was delayed because—”
But Lu kept going.
“Because the puny little bookworm doesn’t have it in him to do a little hard work! Thinks the rice will plant itself! He leaves it for his brother Lu to break his back!”
“I…found…a…corpse,” Cí managed.
Lu raised an eyebrow.
“A corpse? What are you talking about?”
“There, in the ditch.”
Lu turned toward the spot, where a couple of rooks were pecking at the head. He walked to it and pushed the head with his foot. Frowning, he came back.
“Damn it! You found it here?” He picked up the head by the hair, holding it at arm’s length in disgust. “Confucius! It’s Shang, isn’t it? What about the body?”
“Over there.”
Pursing his lips, Lu turned to the workers.
“What are you waiting for? Go and pick it up! Dump those saplings and put that head in the basket. Damn it! We’re going back to the village.”
Cí went over to the buffalo to take its harness off.
“And what the hell are you up to?” asked Lu.
“Didn’t you say we’re going back?”
“We are,” he spat. “You can come back when you’ve finished your job.”
2
For the rest of the afternoon, choking on the stench given off by the laboring buffalo’s hindquarters, Cí tried desperately to imagine what crime Shang could have committed to get his head chopped off. As far as Cí knew, Shang didn’t have any enemies and had never given anyone any trouble. His worst offense, it seemed, was to have fathered several daughters, which meant he had to slave to make enough money for remotely attractive dowries. Shang had always been honest and respected.
The last person someone would think of killing.
In addition to the plowing, Lu had ordered Cí to spread a pile of black earth made up of a mix of fertilizers—excrement, earth, ashes, and weeds. Before Cí had realized it, the sun had set. Climbing on the buffalo’s back, he set off wearily in the direction of the village.
Cí considered the similarities between Shang’s body and cases he’d seen during his time in Lin’an. He had accompanied Judge Feng to the scenes of several violent crimes and had even witnessed the results of brutal ritual killings carried out by various sects, but he’d never seen such a savagely mutilated body. It was good that Feng would be at the house; Cí knew he’d find whoever was responsible.
Cherry and her family lived not far from Lu’s house in a hovel that was precariously balanced on worm-eaten stilts. Cí arrived there deeply anxious. He’d thought of a few different ways of telling her the news, but none of them seemed right. It was pouring with rain again, but he stopped outside the door and racked his brain for what to say.
I’ll think of something.
As he lifted his hand to knock, he realized his arms were trembling.
No one answered. He knocked again without receiving a response, then gave up and headed to his house.
Cí had barely opened the door when his father began reprimanding him for being late. Judge Feng had been there for some time, and they’d been waiting for Cí to begin dinner. Seeing their guest, Cí brought his fists together in front of his chest and bowed in apology, but Feng wouldn’t allow it.
“By God! What have they been feeding you? Only last year you were still a boy!”
Cí hadn’t noticed it himself, but it was true: he was no longer the scrawny boy people used to make fun of in Lin’an. Working in the fields had transformed his body, and his lean muscles were like a bunch of tightly woven reeds. He smiled shyly. Feng didn’t seem to have changed at all. His serious, furrowed face contrasted with his carefully arranged whiskers and his silk bialar cap—an indicator of his rank.
“Most honorable Judge Feng,” said Cí. “Excuse my lateness, but—”
“Don’t worry yourself, boy,” said Feng. “Come in, you’re soaked.”
Cí ran to his room and came out with a small parcel wrapped in delicate red paper. He’d been looking forward to this for a whole month, ever since he’d heard that Feng was coming. As was custom, Feng rejected the gift three times before accepting.
“You really shouldn’t have.” He put the gift with his belongings without opening it. To do so otherwise would mean he valued the object over the act of its having been given.