Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Land of Four Dragons

In just twenty minutes, the physician known as Bull entered, carrying a bundle of jet-black objects wrapped in a handkerchief. With a pair of scissors, he cut open the woman’s blouse, pressed the bundle against her bloody wounds, and then bound them tightly with bandages. Once finished, he clapped his hands and said, “When she wakes, do not give her water. For three days, she may not eat meat, especially offal like chicken blood or pig blood—anything with blood is forbidden.”

“What about the other two?” I pointed to the woman and the man surnamed Qian lying on the floor.

Bull, whose cloth shoes had toes poking through, kicked the man and said, “No trouble. These two were just overcome by fumes, inhaled a bit of poison. They’ll wake up on their own.”

Fatty stared wide-eyed and exclaimed, “That’s it? Seventy yuan? You’re even worse than the state-run shops!”

“I’ll come every day to change her medicine. Old Miao across the street has a rooster. Remember, whenever you have time, get some rooster spit and smear it on her tongue. But don’t blame me if you’re bitten before she’s fully recovered—nothing good comes of it.”

As the barefoot doctor was about to leave, Wenbin Cha took a step forward to block his path and said, “Sir, may I have a word with you?”

“Don’t be so formal. People call me Cannon Bull, I’m a few years older than you, so forget the ‘sir’ business. I’m just a common fellow, can’t stand those honorifics. If you’re willing, call me Brother Cannon. Otherwise, use my real name.”

Fatty laughed, “Can we call you Grandpa Cannon?”

“In the old days, folks really did call me Grandpa Cannon. Fine, enough chit-chat. I know what you want to ask.” He looked Wenbin Cha up and down, “You’ve trained, haven’t you? Which school?”

Wenbin Cha clasped his fists in salute, “With an elder here, I dare not presume. I’m from the modest Tianzheng Dao branch.”

“That counts as a disciple of Mount Mao. We’re brothers in the same tradition, though that was long ago—I was expelled ages back. So don’t call me elder. Fatty’s got it right, call me Grandpa Cannon; it rolls off the tongue.” Grandpa Cannon continued, “Back then, life was hard. I was born in wartime, my family fled south, but even there it wasn’t peaceful. We escaped to Nanjing, only for it to become a city of death. I was dug out of a pile of corpses.”

Grandpa Cannon rolled up his trouser leg to show us; his left thigh was visibly sunken. He lifted his shirt to reveal a finger-long scar across his left abdomen.

“I was only three that year, knew nothing. Shot in the leg, then stabbed. When they pulled me out, I was barely alive, brought to Jurong and raised till seven, then sent to Mount Mao.”

Seeing those wounds, truth be told, those of us born in peaceful times couldn’t truly comprehend, but we couldn’t help but see this ragged doctor in a new light. He went on:

“At seventeen, I left the mountain. The place was so poor, we had no rice for the pot. We belonged to the lower orders, looked down upon, so we wandered everywhere in search of a bite to eat. My senior brother was only four months older than me, and together we traveled across half of China, finally joining up in Hunan.”

Wenbin Cha asked, “Did you rob graves too?”

“I know it’s a sinful trade, especially for someone of our Daoist tradition, betraying our ancestors’ teachings. But what choice was there? The living had no food—what good was treasure to the dead? If money isn’t for the living, why leave it to the dead? I took their riches and burned them as spirit money to repay them. I knew the ropes, so partnered with my brother, pulled off some big jobs, enjoyed a few years of glory. But walk by the river long enough, you’ll get your feet wet. My brother fell, triggered a trap in a Western Han tomb, took two arrows, pierced clean through. After that, I quit.”

“How did you become a doctor?” I asked.

“After my brother’s accident, I returned to Jurong. Gave all my earnings to the temple, planned to live quietly, recite scriptures, and pray for the disturbed souls and my departed brother. But then a group of Red Armbands stormed the temple, toppled our ancestral tablets. I couldn’t stand it and fought them, ended up sent to a farm to tend livestock. Slowly, I picked up some veterinary skills. Came back just the year before. I don’t want to return to Jurong—my master knows about my past and expelled me. This place is my root, and it’s comfortable enough. Anyway, come over for a drink sometime. I brew my own corn liquor. I’ll be off.” With a wave and a tune humming from his lips, he left.

He was gone, and it was time for us to sleep. After a night of chaos, we hadn’t closed our eyes and had spent seven big notes, not knowing what we’d gained.

Around four or five in the afternoon, in a daze, the door creaked open. Bull and Old Miao entered together to change the woman’s medicine. Old Miao held a rooster, rubbed salt on its beak, and hung it by its legs. Soon, sticky liquid dripped from the rooster’s mouth—saliva—directly onto the patients’ lips.

After that, Old Miao opened the door, checked outside, ensured no one was nearby, locked up, and turned to scold us, “You little rascals are out of line. Not telling the truth almost cost a life. If you can’t explain, we’ll all end up in trouble!”

I glanced at Bull, “Grandpa Cannon, you took the money and now you’re going to sell us out?”

“Where’s all this nonsense?” Old Miao shot me a glare. “You think no one’s watching here, so you can do whatever you please? Speak up. Where are the others? What happened? Asking me for a rooster, I knew it couldn’t be good.”

Grandpa Cannon wore an innocent expression, as if to say, Sorry, I haven’t said a word, I know nothing.

So we had to tell Old Miao everything, though Wenbin Cha kept it brief, “Don’t spread this. We noticed something strange in Wildman Hamlet when we arrived. Many mysterious deaths over the years, almost lost Xiaobai as well. If word gets out, people will panic, chaos will follow, and things will spiral out of control.”

Old Miao fixed me with a stern look, “What’s the trouble?”

Wenbin Cha replied, “Same thing we encountered in that broken mountain shrine at Wildman Hamlet. That sort—the kind that doesn’t mind crowds. This place has heavy Yin energy, easy to nurture such things. Zhang Hamlet has been restless for years. I fear something big will happen before it’s done. I’ve looked over the place—not really fit for the living.”

Grandpa Cannon seemed very satisfied with Wenbin Cha, his gaze full of approval. He said, “Kid, you’re perceptive. I wasn’t as sharp at your age. This place is indeed problematic—good for the dead, not for the living. Too far from people, surrounded by mountains, the only inhabited spot within a hundred miles. One river, two mountains, four green dragons turning their gaze, all converging on the western mountain for water, gathering at Wildman Hamlet. Trouble is inevitable.”

Wenbin Cha smiled, “It’s a fine burial site for emperors, but any dynasty buried here is doomed to be short-lived. Sir, am I right?”

Grandpa Cannon asked, “Oh? How do you explain that?”

“Since ancient times, a nation has but one lord, one dragon. Two tigers fight; one must fall. As you said, four dragons are entrenched here. The dragon represents water, mountain, and ruler—proud, unwilling to share. Has any emperor in history ever wished to share his realm? In such perfect geomancy, dragons will clash, fight to the death, dragon energy will be exhausted, and the evil will triumph.”

Bull nodded, “Interesting. Go on, kid.”

“When the dragon energy is spent, dead dragons bring resentment. Imagine an emperor buried here, his dynasty cut short—how could he rest in peace? Daoist doctrine values balance; dragon is pure Yang, symbol of strength. When it decays and breeds resentment, it becomes pure Yin, pure evil—not like ordinary restless spirits. Moreover, four dragons meet here, energy peaks then falls, reaching the depths of evil. If bodies are buried here, a century later disaster will follow.”

Wenbin Cha turned to Old Miao, “Old Miao, I suggest all villagers be cremated, leaving no intact bodies. Otherwise, every burial here will breed resentment.”

Though Old Miao was an old revolutionary and had seen strange things, his stance remained firm, “Superstitious nonsense. You’ve been here so long—has any ghost ever bothered you?”

Wenbin Cha, refusing to argue, merely said, “I propose Old Miao open a coffin and examine a corpse. I guarantee, if it’s buried, the body won’t rot, no matter when, no matter who. Do you believe it or not?”

Goodnight, friends. Golden League—everyone gets a ring, haha.