Chapter Five: Reunion with an Old Acquaintance on Mount Tai

Humans possess three souls and seven spirits. When the souls scatter and the lamp is extinguished, a person dies. The so-called ghosts and monsters fall into two categories.

The first are spirits—like the commonly seen weasel spirit, tree spirit, snake spirit, and fox spirit. Heaven and earth create all things, and all things possess a certain spiritual nature. In this world, humans are by no means the only ones cultivating the Way; animals and plants with spiritual awareness may well have a deeper understanding of the universe than people do.

The second are ghosts. Humans have three souls—heaven soul, earth soul, and life soul—each governing destiny, lifespan, and the body. The heaven soul governs fortune, the earth soul governs fate; these two souls are born of yin and yang, and all is predestined—immutable, unchangeable, untouchable. Some with great wisdom, combining the Five Elements, yin and yang, and the arts of divination, can interpret a person’s fortunes, foresee calamity or blessing, and thus establish sects that have passed down their teachings for centuries. Believers believe, the skeptical will doubt. When a person dies and the lamp goes out, the heaven and earth souls vanish on their own, leaving only the life soul to return to the yellow earth, travel the Yellow Springs Road, cross the Bridge of Forgetfulness, climb the Terrace of Reminiscence, and drink the Broth of Oblivion.

With the judge, the karma of past lives is reviewed, and all deeds are accounted for—wrongdoings are punished, good deeds rewarded. This is what is meant by accumulating hidden virtue and practicing good, thus ensuring a better rebirth.

Yet some, unable to let go of affairs left unresolved in life or unwilling to depart, refuse to report to the Underworld. Over time, such spirits become wandering souls. Yin and yang should not coexist; lingering in the world, their yin energy gradually dissipates, eventually becoming a wisp of blue smoke, with no hope for the next life—this is the law of nature.

But there are those who stubbornly cling to the mortal world, bound by countless obsessions—power, wealth, status, grudges, vengeance, longing. Human desires are endless, and even in death, these attachments persist; this is what is called malevolent energy. As this energy swells, it eventually transforms into what is known as a “ghost.”

Each ghost’s ferocity varies, depending on the nature of the malevolence that birthed it. Some are malign, others benign; they cannot all be condemned with the same judgment. Some die seeking to repay a kindness, others for vengeance. Such things exist in the world, violating the ordained order, disrupting the balance between yin and yang, and so there are those who step forward to restore the equilibrium.

Taoist priests are such people. They are versed in the Five Elements and the mysteries of yin and yang; they can command the powers of gods and ghosts, expel evil, quell danger, arrange feng shui, and interpret fate. They are emissaries of balance between the worlds of yin and yang, endowed by Heaven and Earth with the power to wield the forces of nature. Where there is evil, there must be good.

Who, then, is the mad Taoist who appeared in Hong Village? He is none other than the mad priest who, years ago, predicted the calamity that would befall my aunt at the age of nine.

Ma Sufeng, known as Clearwind Taoist, is the twenty-sixth leader of the Celestial Purity Sect. He was the master of Cha Wenbin!

Our story truly begins with him.

Ma Sufeng had already been in Hong Village for more than half a month. He was not a native of Hong Village in northwest Zhejiang, but hailed from Sichuan.

Sichuan, Mount Qingcheng—a sacred site of Taoism, the founding ground of the Celestial Master Zhang Daoling, renowned for its prosperity and incense. Since the founding of Taoism, this has been the holiest place in the hearts of followers, with temples of all sizes scattered around Qingcheng. In the early twentieth century, as war engulfed China, an abandoned infant was left at the foot of Mount Qingcheng.

It was a boy, wrapped in a crimson quilt in the depths of winter, with a letter inside specifying his birth date. His face was already purple with cold. A passing Taoist picked up the child and, after begging for rice gruel from nearby farmers, barely managed to save his life.

This Taoist was Ma Dingyan, the twenty-fifth head of the Celestial Purity Sect.

Ma Dingyan was not from Sichuan—his home was a mountain village near Maoshan, not far from Jurong. He was visiting fellow Taoists in Qingcheng. Since taking on Ye Huan as his disciple, he had planned to nurture him carefully, intending for Ye Huan to become his successor.

Ye Huan, seven years old that year, was astonishingly gifted; at five he could recite the Dao De Jing and the Tai Ping Jing backward and forward. Ma Dingyan was delighted, believing that Ye Huan’s future cultivation would surely surpass his own, perhaps even rivaling his grandmaster Ling Zhengyang. Only the day before, on Mount Qingcheng, Master Guiyun, leader of the Celestial Master Sect, had lavished praise on Ye Huan. To receive such accolades in the sacred sanctuary personally founded by Zhang Daoling was a double joy for Ma Dingyan.

The Celestial Purity Sect differs from other sects; it is passed down in single succession—one master, one disciple, never two. This was the rule set by Grandmaster Ling Zhengyang. Ma Dingyan, seeing the infant was too frail, considered finding a local family for him, but one glance at the birth chart gave him pause: the child bore sixteen malignant stars—unlikely to survive if left there.

Moved by compassion, Ma Dingyan hastily brought the child to Mount Qingcheng, hoping to place him in a temple. Unexpectedly, Master Guiyun sent an acolyte with a message: “Clear wind delivers a child beneath Qingcheng; the Way is born of the heart, and the Way is upright; all is destined.”

Thus the boy was taken by Ma Dingyan back to his ancestral home, given his surname, named Sufeng, and made Ye Huan’s junior—a Taoist name Clearwind bestowed upon him.

Had Ye Huan continued down the righteous path, Ma Sufeng would not have inherited the sect. But Ye Huan’s talents were too great. At eighteen, Ma Dingyan sent him on a three-year journey to study the Dao. When Ye Huan returned, he was utterly changed—his body reeked of death.

Ma Dingyan realized his beloved disciple had entered the Ghost Path. It was too late for redemption.

The two fought. Ma Dingyan, with decades of cultivation, blinded Ye Huan’s left eye, but suffered a grievous chest wound himself and died two years later.

On his deathbed, Ma Dingyan passed the leadership of the Celestial Purity Sect to Ma Sufeng, entrusting him with all the sect’s secrets. Beyond the sect’s founding admonitions, one command was paramount: to cleanse the house and rid it of Ye Huan.

Yet from the moment Ye Huan escaped, he vanished without trace. Ma Sufeng, traveling far and wide, searched everywhere, even after the Liberation, but Ye Huan’s fate remained a mystery.

In Hong Village, Ma Sufeng had been searching for five years, his footsteps wandering every corner of the land.

Half a year ago on Mount Tai, at the Temple of Heaven, beneath the vast stars—this was not Ma Sufeng’s first visit to the stone altar where emperors had long worshipped Heaven. Every year, on this day, he would come, to gaze at two particular stars among the countless in the sky.

On the central line between the fourth and seventh stars of the Big Dipper, there is a star that flickers, appearing only once in a century. The Celestial Purity Sect, the Luo Sect, and countless others have their eyes fixed upon it, waiting for the moment it shines again.

On the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month, the moon was full and the air was chill.

Ma Sufeng lay with a wine gourd in one hand, his head pillowed on the other. Only once a year did he come here—legend held it to be the place closest to Heaven—just to wait in silence.

Mount Tai, revered among the Five Sacred Mountains, surpasses the West, suppresses the South, dominates the Center, outshines the North—foremost among mountains.

Mount Tai stands in the east, where the sun rises—a place where, according to the ancients, all things are renewed, the site where spring first awakens. In the Five Elements, the east corresponds to wood; in the Five Constants, to benevolence; in the Four Seasons, to spring; in the Eight Trigrams, to Zhen; in the Twenty-Eight Mansions, to the Azure Dragon.

The traditional character for “east,” with its pictographic roots, contains “wood” and “sun.” In oracle bone script, “wood” and “mulberry” are interchangeable, hence the phrase: “the sun rises over Fusang.” “Benevolence” is Heaven’s greatest virtue, “spring” the season of renewal, “Zhen” and the “Azure Dragon” the places where emperors are born. Thus, throughout history, emperors have come here to worship Heaven, seeking Heaven’s sanction to truly rule the world.

Thus Mount Tai became a mountain of auspicious omen, abode of spirits, source of purple energy, cradle of all things. Even grass, trees, and stones are believed to possess spiritual efficacy. In Shandong, the saying still endures: “Eat the lingzhi of Mount Tai and regain youth.” In pre-Qin times, when emperors consecrated Mount Tai, fearing to harm the stones and offend the gods, they wrapped their chariots’ wheels in reed mats as they ascended. Even the First Emperor of Qin followed this custom, proof enough of Mount Tai’s place in the hearts of men.

“A fine place, but greed is its curse,” Ma Sufeng muttered, taking a swig of wine. Indeed, as he said, what emperor has not yearned for immortality? What newly crowned ruler has not come here in the name of worship, but secretly longed to feel the world beneath his feet?

“As it disappears, its words endure; scholars revere it as Mount Tai and the Big Dipper,” Ma Sufeng intoned, taking another drink, and sighed, “No more than that…”

Suddenly, a faint voice echoed from afar: “No more than that? Such arrogance!”

The little red command flag at Ma Sufeng’s side shot upright at once.

A windless flag moving—within three miles, there must be spirits! A whiff of the air revealed a faint scent of death. Gripping his Seven Stars Sword, Ma Sufeng stood and scanned his surroundings, shouting, “Who dares cause trouble here?”

The voice answered with a ghastly cackle, chilling to the bone.

“Not a spirit—not a ghost, but a man!” Ma Sufeng immediately understood. Mount Tai is the ladder between heaven and earth; all things here are bathed in the light of sun, moon, and stars. Filth of that sort cannot set foot on Mount Tai; only humans can ascend.

Ma Sufeng sheathed his sword and, changing his tone, called out, “Who’s there? Since you’ve come, why not show yourself?”

After a moment, a man emerged, dressed in a long black gown, a large “Longevity” character emblazoned on his chest, feet shod in black cloth shoes with white soles. In one hand he held a soul-summoning banner, in the other, a small white snake. This snake was most peculiar—it bore horns on its head and, strangest of all, had four legs, looking for all the world like a miniature dragon! Even more puzzling, though the night was pitch-black, the man wore a pair of old-fashioned round black sunglasses.

Idly toying with the little snake, the man said, “It’s been a long time. I hope you’ve been well, Brother Ma.”

Ma Sufeng was aghast. “Ye Huan?”