Chapter Thirty-Three: Prelude

Since ancient times, classical texts have recorded: the peach tree is the essence of the five woods, a sacred wood that suppresses evil spirits, its spiritual energy resides at the gate of ghosts, subduing a hundred spirits. Thus, even today, peach wood swords are made to ward off evil, a form of immortal art. The peach tree is also called the Dragon-Taming Wood. According to ancient records, Hou Yi was slain with a peach wood staff and, after death, became the God of the Cloth Temple. This deity often stands beneath a peach tree, holding a tiger by a leash. Every ghost must approach for inspection; if the God of the Cloth Temple detects an evil spirit, the tiger devours it. Therefore, any evil spirit encountering peach wood will deliberately detour around it. Imagine, if a peach wood staff can slay Hou Yi, the commander of ghosts, it is more than capable of dealing with lesser spirits.

The peach wood sword carved by Zha Wenbin, though rough, was crafted with considerable care. It measured about seven inches long and two fingers wide, from afar resembling nothing more than a child’s toy for playing horseback battles in the countryside. The blade was blunt, not sharpened, with form but no substance. It appeared ordinary, yet a red thread wound from its handle to Zha Wenbin’s middle finger.

It is commonly believed that all ten fingers are connected to the heart; so too is Taoist magic driven by the force of the mind. If the heart is upright, yang energy flourishes, and the balance of yin and yang ensures that evil cannot overcome righteousness. Thus, biting and bleeding the middle finger to hold its blood in the mouth is called ‘pure yang blood,’ the essential blood of the practitioner. It can vanquish evil, but may also be attacked in turn, depending on whether evil or virtue prevails.

That year, Zha Wenbin was only sixteen or seventeen, not yet an adult by today’s standards. I did not know how deep his mastery of Taoism ran, only that he arranged those items with meticulous order. Having grown up in the countryside myself, I’d seen such things before, since my grandfather worked in this field. But Fatty and Xiao Bai were utterly perplexed—could these things really work?

The old village secretary was a fearful man. Fatty went to his house, bluffing and scaring him, exaggerating the story of Old Qiu. The old fellow was so terrified he nearly chopped off his own hand, never daring to take the gold coin. After all, it was common knowledge that Old Qiu’s wife had jumped into the pond with their daughter years ago, though no one knew there was more to the story.

The black dog’s life was spared; Fatty cut its thigh to let some blood, which he smeared onto the peach wood sword, polishing both sides until they gleamed as if lacquered. As compensation, Yuan Xiaobai boiled two eggs and fed them to the dog, thus settling the matter.

The remaining items were all prepared: four sets of red and green paper clothes, each no bigger than half a basin; seven copper coins strung on a red thread; hemp rope carried by Fatty; an ink line box held by me; and a rooster kept in a cage, its head covered with a black hood.

At that time, the crackdown was severe, so in the wild man’s village, it was impossible to find advanced items like a compass. We gathered a handful of aged rice, a piece of sulfur and saltpeter mixed with charcoal, a bottle of river water, and a pinch of mud from the field.

Collecting these few things took us the whole afternoon. The incense, candles, and paper money were all stolen by Fatty from the ancestral hall. By evening, several village women stood beneath the big tree at the village entrance, stamping their feet and shouting, “Whose little rascal is so ill-behaved? Stealing money meant for the dead—aren’t you afraid the ancestors will come for you at night? Oh heavens, what’s to be done? Someone’s taken the ancestral incense and candles—are they digging up ancestors’ graves? Who’s the culprit that brought this calamity?”

Their words amused me greatly, so I teased, “Fatty, did you hear? Tonight someone will come after you for money.”

Fatty, seeing Zha Wenbin with a peach wood sword, went to carve one himself, though it looked more like a firewood stick. He brandished it and declared, “Money I have none, but I have a peach wood sword! I am a Maoshan Taoist, protected above by the Three Pure Ones, aided below by the Five Emperors. Complaining about a few incense coins? If you annoy me, tomorrow I’ll torch the place!”

“Make one for me too.”

“Carve it yourself, there’s still a pile of wood left.” So I joined in, and for someone who grew up playing horseback battles, making a wooden sword took mere moments.

Old Qiu’s house remained pitch-black. He never needed a lamp; his eyes were like a cat’s—this was a rare talent, a gift possessed by few: night vision.

Night vision differs from yin-yang eyes; the latter can see things unseen by ordinary people, the former is simply more sensitive to light. On the stove were two leftover sweet potatoes from yesterday; it seemed Old Qiu had no appetite for dinner tonight. Zha Wenbin took out the gold coin and handed it to him, saying, “If you trust me, keep this. She is a malevolent spirit consumed by hatred. If we don’t remove her, none of us will ever leave this place.”

Old Qiu took the coin, wiped it with his sleeve, and nodded slowly. “It’s the same thing, no mistake. The one I stole years ago looked just like this. I am a dying man, old bones with nothing left to lose. Your lives are still long ahead. If one old man’s life can buy your safety, then it’s worth it.”

Zha Wenbin instructed, “Xiaobai, you and Xiaoyi stay inside and keep him company. Fatty and I will be outside. Unless I call for you, don’t come out. As long as you stay indoors, nothing will go wrong.”

He and Fatty turned to leave. A chill crept into my heart, so I asked anxiously, “Wenbin, do ghosts really exist?”

Zha Wenbin smiled at me, “Even if there are ghosts, they’re nothing to fear. The dead are gone, what tricks can they play? We took what’s here, true, but we never meant to steal it. If she insists on being unreasonable, I’ll call upon the ancestral master to reason with her.”

With a bang, the door was locked, the windows shut. On the yellow talisman paper, red lines twisted in various patterns—cinnabar ink. It was my first time seeing Zha Wenbin draw a talisman.

Unlike ordinary yellow paper, talisman paper is of superior quality, long and narrow, cut not with a knife but with a measuring ruler. The measuring ruler was a traditional instrument, meticulously crafted: one foot two inches long, eight-tenths thick, one inch two-tenths wide, precise to the fraction. Length and width were determined by the scale, measured strictly—one means one, two means two, with no room for sentiment, much like Judge Bao’s impartial verdicts or the magistrate’s enforcement.

The ink must be cinnabar, harvested from mineral veins infused with the essence of sun and moon, absorbing the righteous energy of heaven and earth, thus carrying a powerful pure yang magnetic field. Held in the palm, it feels warm. Try it at home if you wish, but don’t let it touch your eyes or mouth.

Cinnabar differs from jade or other minerals, which feel cold in the hand. Because cinnabar holds a strong yang field, it is highly effective in repelling extreme yin entities. Throughout our ancestors’ thousand-year history, cinnabar has been used to ward off evil, draw talismans, and consecrate objects. Not only Taoists, but immortals and Buddhists as well, rely on cinnabar for consecration, purification, and banishing evil.

The brush itself is less particular—a regular calligraphy brush suffices. But the skill reveals itself in the stroke. From the moment Zha Wenbin dipped the brush and began, he executed it in one smooth motion, reciting a chant I could not decipher. The incantation was strange, the tone so peculiar it sounded like a woman humming through her nose with eyes closed—long and continuous, yet shifting rapidly. Neither northern nor southern dialect, it truly resembled a heavenly script. It is said that reciting a Taoist incantation from a written text is useless, for though the book records the meaning in Chinese, the pronunciation follows no standard pattern, much like using literal translations to speak English words to a foreigner—they would not understand.

From the first stroke to the last, the brush never lifted; all the lines and transformations followed the rhythm of his chant, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes heavy, sometimes light—countless variations, all guided by a single thought. This is why, with the same talisman paper, his drawing works while copying it a thousand times would do nothing for me.

When finished, he bit his middle finger and stamped the top with blood, marking it as officially sealed. Given the circumstances, after drawing these talismans, Zha Wenbin was drenched in sweat, breathing heavily; after all, he was still young and his cultivation shallow.

Outside lay a yard, fenced with stones, as tall as a person. The gate faced north, inclined seven degrees east. Without a compass, Zha Wenbin estimated the position using the stars. With his foot, he drew a pattern on the ground—a shape like an inverted gourd, broad at the front, narrow at the back, then broad again, then narrow.

Fatty sprinkled lime powder along the lines of this inverted gourd. The door was marked with a grid, made with the ink line box—nine horizontal and nine vertical lines. The windows were the same. The big black dog from the old village secretary was tied in front of the main gate, lying on the ground, licking the wound Fatty had made, casting a resentful gaze at Fatty but not daring to bark. People fear the fierce, dogs fear the unpredictable, but Fatty was definitely a fool—if the dog dared bark at him, we’d surely have meat to eat tomorrow.

As we busied ourselves, that black dog licking its hind leg and stealing glances at Fatty suddenly sprang upright, ears swiveling sharply, adjusting its stance and staring intently in one direction...

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