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.
4
Cí looked in a bronze mirror and tentatively touched the wound on his cheek. He dropped his head and walked away.
“Don’t worry about it, boy,” said Feng. “Soon you’ll have a scar to be proud of.”
And what about my brother? How can I ever be proud of him?
“What’s going to happen?”
“To your brother? Be relieved to be free of that animal,” said Feng, chewing on one of the rice cakes they had just been served. “Try one.”
Cí wasn’t hungry.
“He’ll be executed?”
“My goodness, Cí! What if he is? You saw what he did to Shang.”
“He’s still my brother…”
“And a murderer.” Feng pushed the food away in annoyance. “I can’t say what will happen. Another judge will sentence him. I presume a wise man will be put in charge of the case. I can speak to him, ask him to be merciful, if that’s what you really want.”
Cí nodded, but was unconvinced. He didn’t know how to persuade Feng to take more interest in Lu. Flattery, he thought, might be an option: “It was magnificent, sir. The flies on the sickle…the dried blood…I’d never have thought of it!”
“I made it up as I went along. It was only when I shooed the flies and they flew to that sickle that I realized they wouldn’t do that by chance. They went to the one with blood on it, the murder weapon. Your help was key. Don’t forget, you found the cloth.”
“Mmm,” said Cí regretfully. “Do you think I’ll be able to see my brother?”
“Well, first we have to catch him.”
Leaving Feng, Cí wandered through the narrow streets, trying to ignore the windows that shut as he walked by, the neighbors who turned their backs and shouted insults. What did it matter? The rain-slicked stone paths seemed to be a reflection of his soul, his empty, desolate spirit. He could still smell Shang’s putrefying flesh. Everything he saw—the tiles blown from roofs by the wind, the rice terraces snaking up into the mountains, the empty barges bobbing uselessly on the river—reminded him of his ill fate. The wound on his face made him feel diseased.
He hated the village, hated his father for tricking him, hated his brother for his brutality, hated the neighbors for spying on him, hated the incessant rain, which seemed to soak him inside as well as out. He felt near hatred for his dead sisters—for dying and leaving him with Third. He hated himself. What could be worse than betraying your own family?