Chapter Fifty-One: Who Is She?

The so-called Gate of Reincarnation is the place where spirits emerge to be reborn. You can imagine the underworld as a circle, with countless pipes extending from it in all directions, each pipe’s exit being a Gate of Reincarnation. Thus, a person’s fate is already determined at birth: if you are reborn in the south, you might be from Guangzhou, while if you are born in the north, you’d be from the Northeast.

Zha Wenbin still held the compass in his hand, its needle having remained motionless for quite some time. Using this device required even more precision than mine sweeping; any subtle fluctuation could lead to an entirely different outcome.

According to Zha Wenbin, my grandfather’s compass could discern life and death and was thus called the Disk of Fate. The needle only moved at the very instant between life and death, making it exquisitely sensitive and delicate. Here, the position of death had already been determined, as the gate to the netherworld was open, but finding the Gate of Reincarnation was much trickier. Their only hope was that someone would be reborn tonight.

Such things, it is said, are all predetermined.

As Taoists say: Pangu left a single thread of hope. The Dao is fifty, Heaven manifests forty-nine, thus leaving one. The Dao begets one, one begets two, two begets three, three begets all things. All things are born and die; some live, some die, and in death is rebirth. This is the work of fate. Through the vast red dust, there is greed and murder, sorrow and joy—cause and effect intertwined, forming cycles of calamity one after another, endless and immeasurable. Under these limitless calamities, cultivators in the Divine Land may retreat from the world, accrue virtue, or seek other paths—there are no bounds to their means! Thus, Heaven’s way is heartless, treating all beings as ants; yet it is also compassionate, leaving a thread of hope for all.

What we sought was that single thread of hope. Coincidentally, a woman in the village was due to give birth tonight. It was said her labor pains had already begun two days ago, and the midwife estimated the child would come tonight.

Zha Wenbin casually scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle slowly from his palm. There was no wind tonight; the moon was full, and the surroundings were eerily still.

“What time is it?” he asked.

Fatty glanced at his watch and said, “A quarter past midnight.”

Zha Wenbin handed us each a talisman. “One each, keep it in your clothes. And stuff your nostrils with cotton—don’t be startled. It’s about to begin.”

“Is it really as supernatural as you say?” Fatty asked.

“You’ll see for yourselves. Those born on the Ghost Festival carry a heavy yin energy; in their past life, they were often people full of resentment. Such souls die with unresolved grievances and require a large escort to reincarnate. A few years back in Luoyang, I saw one; just the underworld escorts numbered five, plus a carriage and horses. My master said that person had been an executioner in his previous life, a butcher of thousands, a man with a terrifying aura.”

“What if we find the Gate of Reincarnation?” I asked.

Zha Wenbin thought for a moment before replying. “In a moment, I’ll go in. You two guard this side; no one is to approach me. If any living thing touches me, I might not make it back.”

Fatty patted his chest. “Don’t worry, not even a fly will get past me.”

Just as we were speaking, Zha Wenbin suddenly raised a finger, “Shh, they’re here. Move aside, and don’t stare. If you anger them, they’ll take us away in an instant—those are the underworld soldiers, the ancient sword-bearing guards.”

I looked down, and sure enough, the needle on the compass had shifted, the black end now pointing squarely at the crimson character for “death.” Following the direction of the needle, I glanced up and saw that mist was rising in the western woods, making it hard to see clearly.

“When they pass through here, hold your breath. Those talismans were drawn by my master—they’re called Sun-Shielding Talismans, and they block yang energy.”

Fatty was delighted. “Good stuff! Next time we go grave-robbing, draw me two more. The old ghosts in the tomb will think I’m one of them.”

“Don’t get any ideas. It takes seven days to draw just one, and it requires the umbilical blood of a newborn delivered in a yin year, month, day, and hour. Where are you going to get that?”

I squinted at the mist, and sure enough, some shadowy figures seemed to be emerging. I quickly said, “They’re coming—I think I see people ahead.”

Zha Wenbin looked at me in surprise. “Xiaoyi? You can see them?”

I narrowed my eyes and looked more closely. “There’s a mist, figures moving inside, but I’m not sure.”

He turned to glance as well, then looked back at me like I was some kind of anomaly and whispered, “You have yin-yang eyes?”

I didn’t catch it. “What?”

“Nothing, we’ll talk later.” As he spoke, he took out a small porcelain bottle shaped like a gourd, poured something onto his finger, and rubbed it onto his eyelids, blinking hard as if using eyedrops.

Seeing Fatty’s curiosity, he explained, “Ox tears—they let you see unclean things. I’m afraid you wouldn’t sleep at night if you saw, so I didn’t give it to you.”

“They’re here! Look, a carriage!” I saw that leading the mist was a white horse, its rider wearing a tall, strange black hat.

Once again, Zha Wenbin looked at me as if I were a monster.

“Why can’t I see anything? No way—Zha, give me some of that eyedrops too!” Fatty reached for Zha Wenbin’s waistband for the bottle.

As soon as Fatty applied it and looked up, he cried out, “Oh my god, there really are ghosts!”

The lead carriage stopped at once. Its driver rose, leaned forward, and peered in our direction. I quickly clapped a hand over Fatty’s mouth and whispered, “Do you want to die?”

It wasn’t just one carriage—it was three! Behind them, two neat rows of underworld soldiers marched in formation.

Zha Wenbin turned away, covering his mouth. “Good grief—who could this person have been to merit such a grand escort?”

Fatty peered over the haystack, whispering, “I think there’s a woman in that palanquin. Who is she—could she have been an executioner too?”

“A woman?” Zha Wenbin and I both scrambled up to look, and sure enough, as Fatty said, after the three carriages came a sedan chair, carried by four garishly dressed little ghosts. These little ghosts looked like comic villains from Peking Opera, their faces marked with big white patches, mouths painted as small as cherries, all wearing tiny hats. They bounced as they walked, never touching their heels to the ground—floating instead.

I glanced at Fatty, whose eyes were as round as copper bells, completely engrossed in the spectacle. I tugged at his sleeve to remind him to duck down, but he just nodded and turned back to keep watching.

I worried I’d have nightmares. Ever since I could remember, I’d always seen all sorts of strange things.

When I was nine, an old woman in our village died—just a normal death.

In the countryside, funerals are a big deal. To show neighborly respect, every family must come pay their respects. I remember it was a Sunday night, and I still had homework to finish, so I stayed home working on it.

Around eight o’clock, three firecrackers went off in the village, echoing through the quiet rural night. My parents immediately turned off the TV and stepped into the courtyard, guessing someone had passed. Our yard faced the road; soon neighbors began filing into the village with flashlights, greeting my parents along the way—a matter of tradition and custom.

When someone died in the village, everyone was expected to visit the bereaved family as soon as possible to bid farewell to the deceased. In China, it’s an old saying: the dead are honored above all. In such a society, personal relationships often outweigh money. These everyday happenings are the very ties that hold a village community together.

I was still just a child then, nine years old. My father told me to stay home since I hadn’t finished my homework, and that he and my mother would be back soon.

By half past nine, I’d finished. It was the twelfth lunar month and bitterly cold. I went to the small outbuilding to fetch some charcoal for the fire. Our courtyard had a single forty-watt bulb, its dim yellow light barely brighter than a lantern in that kind of weather. Stepping outside, I glanced toward the shed and thought I saw someone at the edge of the yard. I don’t know where I found the courage, but I shouted, “Who’s there?”

Someone entered. The gate was still closed, so I didn’t know how she’d gotten in, but I wasn’t afraid—I just watched her. In the lamplight, she was a dark figure, not very tall, slightly stooped, wearing a deep blue padded jacket. She stepped closer, and only then did I see it was Granny Zhang from our village. Her granddaughter was in my class.

She didn’t speak, just smiled at me. I’d often visited her house as a child. There wasn’t much to eat in the countryside, but Granny Zhang would make corn cakes—cornmeal stuffed with salted vegetables and dried tofu. Whenever we children visited, she’d give us each one, golden and fragrant.

Since we had a guest, I knew my father would scold me if I didn’t greet her—he’d always taught me to be polite. So I said, “Granny Zhang, my parents aren’t home. Would you like to come in and sit?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, turning to leave. After a moment, she turned back to ask, “Xiaoyi, have you seen Yueyue today?”

“Yueyue went to her grandmother’s in Shaoxing, didn’t she? She told me at school she’d be back Tuesday.”

“Then if you see her at school, tell her to come home to see me. Tell her Grandma misses her.”

“Okay,” I replied. Then I looked again and she was gone.

Around ten, my parents returned, speaking in hushed tones as if not wanting me to overhear. My mother asked if I’d finished my homework and told me to go to bed if I had.

I said, “Granny Zhang was here tonight, looking for Yueyue.”

My parents both blanched. My mother hurried over, grabbing me, and scolded, “Granny Zhang? Looking for Yueyue? Don’t talk nonsense!”

“But she really was here. I saw her in the yard when I went to get charcoal.”

My mother looked down at the brazier—indeed, the coals were fresh, not yet burning hot. It seemed they realized something was wrong. My mother quickly urged, “Old Liu, go take a look outside!”

I saw my father grab the old blunderbuss from the corner as he went out. He was gone a long while before returning to shake his head at my mother, who then hurried me off to bed. That night, all three of us squeezed onto one bed.

From the age of five, I’d always slept alone. But that was the only night after I turned five when I slept with my parents. The next day at school, I heard from classmates that Yueyue’s grandmother had passed away the night before. Then whom had I seen?

Let me post this chapter first.