Chapter Three: Master Li Offers Incense

Master Li had witnessed three dynastic changes in Hong Village, from the late Qing through the Republic, and into the new China. As times shifted, so did the village, quietly transforming under the spring breeze of socialism. The rallying cry of the era was to unite all revolutionary forces and actively participate in the construction of the new nation.

With the expansion of farmland, the movement to level graves began. More and more villagers discovered oddities beneath the soil—strange jars and vessels. The usable ones were cleaned by elderly women and put to use; the rest were smoothed into the earth. For a people who had just endured the baptism of war, the dead seemed of little consequence. The unearthed bones were packed into bamboo baskets and carted by wheelbarrow to be hastily buried in mountain gullies. Tombs with earth mounds grew ever fewer, eventually vanishing entirely. By then, visible graves in Hong Village were almost nonexistent; as for the ancient tombs buried deep, only someone like Old Li, versed in such matters, could find them.

It was during a well-digging that someone unearthed a lump of iron several meters below ground, coinciding with the fervor of the campaign. Hong Village erupted once more—every production team took up hoes and shovels, digging and tunneling with zeal. In those days, collective honor outweighed all else.

The brigade secretary, upon seeing the iron lumps, loudly proclaimed that Hong Village could supply steel to the entire nation!

The once barren mountain now bore scars everywhere; even the hillside was at risk. Old Li realized the secret he had guarded for decades would soon be laid bare.

He had thought to prevent it, but was powerless. He said, if he spoke out, it would dredge up a murder case; if he stayed silent, the whole village might suffer. He could only observe and evade, watching stone figures and horses topple one by one, and ancient relics hauled up from the earth. Perhaps it was the rise of socialist atheism, but at least for a time, the village remained peaceful.

People noticed that the larger the iron lump, the deeper it was buried. Spurred by slogans to surpass England and America, they dug with frantic energy. Eventually, someone realized brute force alone was not enough—they needed brains.

They thought of Old Li, the elderly expert in geomancy. Surely he knew where the tombs lay. The brigade secretary personally sought him out, dismissing superstition—if it could yield steel and political achievements, he would boast to the commune about having a geology expert.

Old Li had no choice. He knew if he did nothing, it was only a matter of time before someone triggered the hidden mine. Better to defuse it himself than let calamity strike.

He led four or five young men around the mountain, careful never to approach the hillside. Every so often, he’d produce a small cache to appease them. His plan was, after a while, to report to the village: everything beneath had been dug up—time to put such thoughts aside.

Yet, despite all his calculations, one misstep remained unseen. Old Li could never have predicted that the hidden cache would eventually explode…

At that time, a stranger arrived in the village—a tall, thin, ragged middle-aged man, with a wine gourd strapped to his waist, perpetually drunk.

He neither entered the village nor disturbed the locals. At first, everyone assumed he was a beggar from elsewhere. In those three years of severe famine, countless people had wandered in search of food—no one found it unusual.

But this man was different. He didn’t beg at homes, nor did he accept food when offered. He slept beneath the archway at the village entrance. His hair was wild, a tattered bag bearing the eight trigrams hung at his chest, and a long sword was strapped to his back. Each day, he visited the town’s supply cooperative for wine—a rare luxury in those days, not easily afforded or obtained.

It was 1960, the peak of the three years of natural disasters. Grain was scarce everywhere, and wine, made from grain, was in dire shortage. All supplies were stretched thin; eating required grain coupons, smoking needed tobacco coupons, drinking called for wine coupons—even buying a box of matches for a penny required a match coupon.

Wine coupons were precious. Even most officials couldn’t drink as they pleased. Many villagers brewed homemade spirits from corn stalks after harvest, but even that was rare.

Yet this ragged fellow, resembling a beggar, went daily to buy wine, then staggered into the state-owned restaurant, flashing cash and coupons for roast chicken, duck, and other delicacies. Once everything was ready, he would wobble back toward Hong Village and drink as he went.

Within days, everyone knew of the eccentric in Hong Village. The villagers sent people to investigate, but he ignored them. Some advised the brigade secretary: such lavish spending—could he be a spy sent to sabotage?

The secretary agreed—it was intolerable. With steel production in full swing, sabotage was unacceptable. He gathered the militia, preparing to forcefully detain the stranger. Yet others suggested: anyone who drinks and feasts daily must be extraordinary—what if he was sent by the authorities, disguised to test them?

The secretary considered this—no spy would parade so openly through the cooperative and restaurant.

Both options seemed untenable. He decided to report the matter to higher-ups. Days later, a mysterious telegram arrived at the village office. The secretary, drenched in sweat, rushed to the village entrance, only relaxing when he confirmed the “madman” was still there. He bowed and said, “Thank goodness you’re still here.” Then, lowering his voice, he pleaded, “Brother, please don’t blame me—I failed to recognize greatness. There’s a vacant room in the village; I’ll have it made ready for you.”

The “madman” swept his hair from his face, eyed the fawning secretary, gulped wine from his gourd, exposing yellowed teeth, and muttered, “Lunatic!” Then he drifted off, unbothered.

The mad Taoist and the villagers coexisted peacefully. Occasionally, children with cravings would bravely ask him for meat, which he freely gave. With the secretary’s protection, local ruffians dared not trouble him. Thus, the “madman” settled in Hong Village—not in the fine house arranged for him, but in a cowshed, living among the cattle. He continued to drink and eat daily; no one knew whence his money came, not even the secretary, for the telegram bore only four words: “Treat with utmost respect!” The red seal beneath those words left the secretary feeling as if the sky had darkened—a place he could never have imagined.

Once again, it was the first day of the lunar month. Old Li, as usual, carried offerings to the archway. In those lean times, his offerings were meager: a half-eaten, moldy coarse bun, a plate of wild greens without a trace of oil, and a single egg, stolen from the collective farm. If caught, he’d be charged with “undermining socialism,” likely sent to the police.

Production materials were scarce; even the paper money and joss were few, wrinkled in his basket. Old Li was anxious. Lately, the red thread around him had deepened, no longer fading after offerings as before. Instead, it seemed to grow more intense—he knew this meant others were growing dissatisfied, but he had no choice. Last night, his deceased brother appeared in a dream, complaining of torment below, prompting Li to steal the egg.

On the lunar first, the sky was pitch dark, without a trace of moonlight. Old Li carried a kerosene lamp and his basket, walking cautiously for fear of being seen—the egg, if discovered, would cost him dearly. His chest ached, the thread now inflamed, and his thin clothes clung painfully to his skin.

He reached his usual spot beneath the archway, scanning the area to ensure he was alone. He carefully laid out the dishes, knelt in devotion, arranged incense and joss paper, and bowed to the archway. Remembering he hadn’t eaten for two days, Old Li gazed tearfully at his gnarled hands, sighing, “Please, do not push me anymore—the living are starving, and I have little left to give.”

Just then, a gust of wind swept through, and with a crash, the bowl holding the bun, already cracked, toppled and shattered completely…

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