Chapter Fifty: The Infernal Eclipse

I have always chosen not to believe in curses, thinking they were nothing more than vicious words said before death. But here, in the Savage Hamlet, curses have always existed.

Not much has changed in the three years since I last came, except for one thing: the village chief has been replaced. Old Miao has taken over from his predecessor; he is a veteran party member and a retired soldier, a man whose words carry weight because of his seniority. We had expected trouble on this trip—after all, this was someone else's territory—but our adversaries and their families are all gone, so we felt at ease.

Old Miao told us that the government is currently implementing ecological forestry protection, and the Savage Hamlet will be included in the next fifty-year mountain closure and reforestation zone. Most people here are descendants of loggers, but now that this way of life is gone, some are already planning to move out of the mountains. Miao Lan’s husband is the captain of the government’s mountain patrol, just returned from military service, a simple and honest young man. When we arrived, Miao Lan was five months pregnant.

Old Miao lives alone now, so the three of us stayed together in his house. The purpose of this trip was to look for a soul—Yuan Xiaobai’s soul.

“Xiaobai lost a soul. The fact she’s survived two years is a miracle,” Chen Wenbin lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Back then, it wasn’t obvious; I almost let her lose her life for nothing. Our time is very limited. Before we left, I lit the longevity lamp. At most, we have fifteen days.”

“Hasn’t she seemed much better?” I asked.

“It’s just surface. Like a brief sparkle before death. When the soul is lost, the spirit scatters. I’ve only stabilized her seven spirits temporarily, sealing them with silver needles, but it’s not a permanent solution. I’ve been thinking, her spirit must be here. Thankfully, your grandfather left this compass. We’ll know as soon as we go out and have a look.”

“Is that compass really so powerful?” In my memory, that compass looked quite ordinary. I played with it as a child, but every time, Grandfather would watch nervously as I handled it carelessly.

Chen Wenbin looked at the compass. The needle rested on the line between life and death—it had always stayed there. At least, I’d never seen it move.

“I don’t know. Master said it’s useful, so it must be. Don’t lose it. Fatty, keep an eye on the time; we leave five minutes early.”

“Alright. The high-tech watch Xiaoyi got is accurate, less than a second error in a year, right?” He wore the electronic watch I gave him—a trendy item from Hong Kong.

Five minutes before twelve o’clock, we set out in the Savage Hamlet, passing by the eighteen pools one by one.

“This one has it… This one too… Wenbin, Wenbin, come quick, this one doesn’t, truly doesn’t!”

“Doesn’t? Are you sure?” Chen Wenbin stood by another pool about twenty meters away.

Fearing he wouldn’t hear, I shouted, “No, I’m sure, it really doesn’t!”

It didn’t. Truly didn’t. Among the eighteen pools, this was the only one without the reflection of the moon…

That day was the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month—the so-called Ghost Festival.

Chen Wenbin said that every place has a Gate of Ghosts, and on this day each year, wandering spirits appear, whether they died far from home or are lonely ghosts. He said Yuan Xiaobai’s soul hasn’t vanished in two years because it was drawn into some place, a place with enough yin energy to sustain even a solitary soul.

A soul separated from the body is like a flower broken from its stem. Left in the courtyard, it will wither in two days, but in a humid environment, the flower can blossom, even for two weeks or longer.

A flower can be nurtured, so can a soul. Two years ago, Grandpa Qiu touched a gold coin and encountered trouble when he tried to leave. A woman—a ghost, to be precise—wiped out his family between dusk and dawn. So Grandpa Qiu never left the Savage Hamlet, not until he died.

The old village chief who betrayed us met the same fate, proof that Savage Hamlet harbors mysteries. Chen Wenbin had discussed this with his master, Ma Sufeng. Ma Sufeng had promised to come with us but changed his mind at the last moment, reportedly to go somewhere else. He instructed Wenbin that to find the breakthrough in this hamlet, one must start with those pools; in his opinion, the eighteen pools were both a royal tomb and a formation.

To break such a formation, Wenbin wasn’t qualified. His task was merely to retrieve Yuan Xiaobai’s lost soul. Ma Sufeng warned him not to be reckless—even a celestial immortal could lose his beard here.

In Mount Zhongnan, Wenbin had seen a forbidden artifact in the Chongyang Palace. Ma Sufeng had once snuck into the secret Xuanming Pavilion, where lost secret arts and formations were stored, many from before the Han dynasty. When Master Chongyang founded the Quanzhen sect, he gathered Daoist teachings from all over the land, compiling them into books. Daoist hermits revered him, bringing their most treasured secrets to Chongyang Palace.

Master Chongyang spent thirty years compiling and editing Daoist classics, also sealing away some he deemed too sinister or not righteous, placing them in Xuanming Pavilion.

One reason Ma Sufeng entered Zhongnan Mountain was to explore the Xuanming Pavilion; he had been searching for a legendary Daoist supreme text, the “Ruyi Tome.” During his nocturnal visit, he was discovered and nearly killed, but managed to bring back a few fragmentary pages. These pages recorded Northern Daoist arts, including one formation: Hell Devours the Moon.

Ma Sufeng stole only the first half; the second half was snatched back by Chongyang Palace’s Daoists as he fled. The missing half mentioned that among the eighteen wells, one connects with the underworld—the Gate of Ghosts.

The text read: “Eighteen wells, arrayed in formation. One opens the underworld, the gate of life and death, devours the moon.”

Daoism has a saying: “When the celestial hound falls to earth, the moon disappears; it devours the world’s blood for five thousand days.”

In Daoist culture, a lunar eclipse—the celestial hound devouring the moon—is an omen of great misfortune. When the celestial hound appears, bloodshed follows. But what if the celestial hound devours the moon not in the sky, but on earth?

That is: the celestial hound falls to earth.

“How long is five thousand days?” Fatty counted on his fingers for ages but couldn't give a clear answer.

I was skeptical. “Wenbin, is it really that supernatural?”

“At least here, it is. You saw it yourself.” Wenbin pointed to the pool. “Today is the seventh month’s middle. The date fits. This pool truly has no moon. You explain why?”

“I…” I was speechless. Indeed, the other seventeen pools, regardless of water quality or location, were no different. Why did all but this one reflect the moon?

“The compass will reveal all.” Wenbin took my grandfather’s compass from his pocket, laying it flat in his palm. In his right hand was a small sachet containing Yuan Xiaobai’s hair.

He took one strand, biting it gently, wrapping the other end around his middle finger. Then, with a bite, he broke his lip. Blood welled up, and his mouth moved rhythmically, emitting a low hum, eyes half-closed—chanting a spell, I guessed.

As he chanted, a bean-sized drop of blood formed at his lip. Wenbin flicked the hair gently, and the drop slowly slid down Yuan Xiaobai’s hair. When it reached near his finger, he moved the compass with his left hand and suddenly released the hair with his right. What happened next was incredible.

The hair hung vertically, his teeth still gripping it, the blood drop now at the tip, halfway through the hair, half still clinging. The drop quivered, about to fall, but remained suspended, defying gravity.

What amazed me even more was what happened next: the ancient compass began to move…

Wenbin, hair between his teeth, blood at the tip, spun the hair above the compass. At first, nothing happened, so he spun counterclockwise. He spun for so long I felt dizzy watching. Suddenly, the compass needle moved, then more obviously, until after the time it takes a stick of incense to burn, wherever the hair spun, the needle followed.

He spun faster and faster, the needle whirled ever more eagerly, before he suddenly braked. The blood drop at the hair’s tip finally fell, landing exactly on the compass, and the needle pointed precisely at the spot.

Wenbin looked up at the direction indicated, his mind already made up. He said to me, “Where there is death, there is life; all things balance. Life and death counter each other, yin and yang have always opposed. If there’s a Gate of Ghosts here, there must be a Gate of Rebirth. Come, let’s take a look!”

He said:

Cervical spondylosis makes it impossible for me to lower my head anymore; I can only write slowly.