Chapter Fifty-Six: The Qian Family

Around seven o’clock, people began coming out from across the way one after another. In the countryside, that was already considered a late start. The man surnamed Qian had also changed his attire; he was now dressed in a camouflage uniform and combat boots, both of which had just started to become popular, and his overall demeanor was entirely different from yesterday.

At half past seven, at the other party’s request, Old Man Miao led them into the mountains. Fatty was ultimately refused entry; their attitude was adamant, claiming this was a national topographic survey and classified.

From afar, I could hear Fatty complaining to Cha Wenbin: “Classified, my foot! There isn’t a mountain here we haven’t climbed! Waving some red-stamped paper to scare me—who knows if it was stamped with a radish!”

“That’s enough. Even if they don’t let you go, you’ll still sneak along behind them. The mountain’s so big, how are they going to stop us from sightseeing?”

“You’re right. Xiao Yi, come on, let’s go hiking. That can’t possibly be against the law. They’re heading south, so let’s go too.” Fatty grabbed my hand and started to leave.

Just as we were about to step out, someone burst hurriedly into the house, barely catching his breath before calling out for Old Man Miao. I recognized him—back when we were young and sent to the countryside, he’d played with us too. His name was Xi Zi, about our age.

I noticed the look of panic on his face and asked, “Old Man Miao’s not here—he’s gone into the mountains with the guests from Beijing. Xi Zi, what’s got you so worked up?”

“My father’s missing. We can’t find him anywhere. I wanted Old Man Miao to broadcast an announcement. My mother’s been crying all morning.”

“Uncle Niu is missing?” I tried to reassure him, “He’s a grown man—how could he get lost? Maybe he just had something to do. Don’t worry.”

Xi Zi turned and rushed toward the village office. “How could I not worry? Something must have happened!”

I chased after him and finally learned more about the situation. Xi Zi’s father had gone hunting last night, leaving after dinner, a little after six, and had not returned by morning. Hunters had gone missing in this area in previous years; it was later confirmed that they’d fallen prey to wild animals. The forests here were home to bears and tigers. Xi Zi was worried his father had met the same fate.

“The door’s locked—don’t bother breaking it down; no one’s home.” I told him, “You’d be better off rallying the villagers. We’ll go house to house and notify everyone, then meet at the village entrance.”

“Alright, let’s do that!” Xi Zi wiped his tears and ran home, while we began to gather people.

This is the good thing about the countryside—whenever there’s trouble, a single word brings everyone together. Soon, more than twenty able-bodied young men had gathered at the village entrance, along with several hunting dogs. Miao Lan’s husband was there too—he was the patrol team leader.

The details were explained, but two points in particular worried everyone. When Xi Zi’s father left last night, he took his hunting dog and said he was going to hunt pheasants. The hunters all knew that the best time to hunt pheasants was around seven or eight in the evening, when, after dark, the birds would roost in the treetops—you could shine a light on them and hit them easily.

Usually, you wouldn’t have to go deep into the mountains to hunt pheasants, just stay near the village forest, and any commotion would be heard by all. But last night, no one heard a gunshot. That was the first strange thing. The second was that the hunting dog, which had gone with Xi Zi’s father, was found this morning by some women washing clothes on the small dam in the river. The dog was wedged between two rocks, and its body now lay before us.

The dog bore no obvious wounds. Its eyes were open, tongue lolling out. When someone picked it up, its neck was clearly elongated.

Miao Lan’s husband felt the dog’s neck. “Broken,” he said.

A gasp ran through the crowd. To twist a hunting dog’s neck like that—surely only a bear could do it. Did Xi Zi’s father run into such a creature?

North Mountain produced all kinds of mushrooms and hazelnuts, and the women often went there together to gather them in this season. There was a hazel grove there, a favorite spot for old pheasants, known locally as Green Brick Ridge.

The village was remote and supplies scarce. When people first arrived, they mostly built houses from wood and thatch. After the Liberation, someone discovered many abandoned bricks of varying sizes on North Mountain, and people brought them back to build houses. The bricks were mostly green, some buried a meter or two deep, others exposed near the surface, easily collected by brushing aside leaves.

Later, there were rumors the bricks had come from old graves, and since country folk are superstitious, they stopped collecting them and began firing their own bricks instead.

Someone saw Xi Zi’s father heading that way at dusk yesterday. Green Brick Ridge was less than a mile from the village, within sight of both places. Beyond a stand of deciduous trees lay an open field, once used for corn. Behind the cornfield was the hazel grove and a low hill shaped like a steamed bun.

This was also one of the sources of the village’s river, though smaller and swifter than the western branch. As soon as the hunting dogs reached the area, they began barking madly. Our search parties split into groups, forming a fan shape to comb the mountain. The area was only about the size of a football field. More than twenty people searched from morning to night, but found nothing except half a steamed bun.

Xi Zi said his father had taken two buns with him when he left. When he saw this half-eaten one, he broke down in tears, insisting his father must have been eaten by a bear. The forest wasn’t big, and we had swept it again and again. As night fell, we could only descend the mountain. Back in the village, Old Man Miao had returned, and after hearing the whole story, organized another search party with torches, searching into the small hours, but found nothing. The entire village was anxious—there’d been no bear attacks for nearly thirty years, and if one was truly roaming the woods, nowhere would be safe.

“There’s something odd about this,” Cha Wenbin said, rolling over on his kang. “I don’t believe Xi Zi’s father was killed by a bear. We searched all day and found no bear tracks or droppings. And that dog—if it were a wild beast, it would have wounds. Why would its neck be twisted like that?”

Fatty, still awake, chimed in, “So what are you thinking?”

Cha Wenbin asked in return, “If a person twisted the dog’s neck, why would they do it?”

“To keep it quiet, of course. A dog barking would alert people.”

“Right. But what were they afraid of alerting? This village is so small, everyone knows everyone’s secrets. What would drive someone to such extremes?”

“Then it must be outsiders!” Fatty was starting to understand. At that moment, I was watching the building across the way, and Fatty came over to ask, “Xiao Yi, any movement over there?”

“None. Same as yesterday, all quiet.” I’d been watching for nearly two hours. The lights had gone out just after seven, the doors tightly closed, and not a soul had come out.

“That’s what’s strange,” Cha Wenbin said, coming over. “Since yesterday, no one’s come out at night. The village office’s toilets are outside—are you telling me eight people never need to get up at night?”

Fatty squinted, “Should we go take a look?”

It was only about twenty meters from here to the village office. The three of us crouched low and slipped over in a flash. We knew the place well—back in the day, we’d snuck in often enough to cause trouble. The office was surrounded by a two-meter-high wall with shards of glass on top—a popular security measure at the time. We used the old trick.

There was a jujube tree outside, twenty meters tall and a meter from the wall. Climb the tree, toss an old quilt over the glass, and hop over—no problem at all.

When Fatty landed, he muttered, “Just like old times…”

The office, built in the sixties, had two floors: offices below, sleeping quarters above for the outsiders. Fatty was good at this kind of thing. Despite his build, he could walk silently without shoes—he credited it to the thickness of his soles.

There were four rooms upstairs, all locked, with newspaper pasted over the windows—no way to see inside. But that was no obstacle. These old locks could be opened with a card, slipped in at an angle through the doorframe.

With a soft creak, Fatty slipped inside. From downstairs, we saw him come out and shake his head—empty.

Then the second door, then the third. When he opened the fourth, he finally spoke up, “No one’s here—not a soul!”

“Knew something was off,” Cha Wenbin said.

Fatty started down the stairs, then paused and called up to us, “But you two had better come take a look as well—there are things here that shouldn’t be.”

We hurried up. Fatty led us into the third room, where all sorts of things were strewn on the floor: professional ropes, a broken Luoyang shovel, and something Cha Wenbin clearly didn’t want to see—a hand-tied straw doll, with two steel needles stuck through its chest. On the back of the doll was a slip of paper, bearing Old Man Miao’s name and his birth date and time.

“What do we do? Should we torch all their stuff right now?”

“No,” said Cha Wenbin, gripping the straw doll tightly. “If we act now, we’ll only tip them off. These people are ruthless. If things turn ugly, villagers could get hurt or killed. For now, they’re only using little tricks. Until the situation becomes open conflict, we should lay low.”

Fatty picked up the broken shovel. “These people are tomb robbers. Looks like they’ve already dug a pit or two—must’ve been tough going if they broke their drill.”

Cha Wenbin asked, “I just remembered something. That man said his surname was Qian, right?”

“That’s what he said.”

“You’re sure he’s from Sichuan?”

“Definitely—you can’t mistake that accent.”

“Xiao Yi, do you still remember Old Man Qiu, the one who keeps the black cat? He was one of the earliest settlers here. The man who brought him was also surnamed Qian!”

Hearing this, I also found it suspicious. “I remember! He said the man was called Qian the Rat. Apparently, he was the only one who escaped, and he was from Sichuan.”

“That’s it. Qian the Rat spared no effort to come here from Sichuan back then, but left defeated. Yet he did see the gold. Now, decades later, such a fortune remains—who can guarantee they wouldn’t try again?”

Fatty said, “According to Old Man Qiu, Qian the Rat left terrified and in disgrace. Would he really dare come back?”

“He’s surely gone by now, but his descendants remain,” Cha Wenbin continued. “Why did no outsiders come all these years? The people in Sichuan must’ve known about the gold, but after Qian the Rat’s experience, they had no good way in. Now they’re here, clearly well-prepared, having spent all these years working it out. I suspect they’ve found a solution.”

“Sounds reasonable. So, should we follow them tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Cha Wenbin answered firmly. “At dawn, we’ll wait at their door. Since someone’s doing the scouting for us, we can save ourselves the trouble of searching blindly.”

Goodnight. Heading back to Hangzhou now—the holiday’s over and my neck is much better.