Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Transformation of "Me"

This time, who was it that died? It was my eldest maternal cousin, the very one who had caused a commotion at my doorstep just the day before. That night, after going home in a rage, he drank with a bunch of ruffians, reportedly well into the early hours. Perhaps the day’s agitation had been too much; the group was showing clear signs of drunkenness. In the old rural houses, there was always a threshold at the door, a blue stone step about ten centimeters high.

It was on this stone threshold that my eldest cousin met his end. He got up in the night, drunk, tripped over the stone, and fell forward, landing squarely on an iron rake. In the past, farming tools were precious and kept inside the house, usually behind the main door—a row of hoes, shovels, and the like. This iron rake, known as the “three-pronged rake,” resembled the weapon used by Pigsy in Journey to the West: three sharp, steel teeth, made for turning earth. My cousin’s throat was pierced clean through by the rake. By morning, he had bled dry before anyone in the family even noticed. Now, with two lives lost in quick succession, everyone had something to say.

Relatives are still family, after all. At least the previous generation bore no grudges. My father naturally went to check on things, not caring that it was only the first day of the new year—he hurried out the door.

I didn’t expect to run into Cha Wenbin. I hadn’t even known he was back, let alone that he’d come to pay his respects for the new year. When I saw him again, he seemed more mature than before, with a trace of world-weariness in his eyes. His attire was completely out of step with our single-button suits of the time: a gray robe, cloth shoes, hair grown long and tied in a topknot, looking for all the world like someone from a period drama.

In the main hall, none of the three of us spoke first. I suppose everyone had a thousand questions: Where have you been all these years? How have you been? When did you come back? What are your plans?

I never knew it could be so difficult to face someone. He was carrying two packages of sugar wrapped in coarse paper—the kind used for wrapping white sugar in those days, standard fare for New Year’s visits. I finally broke the silence of tea-sipping. “Wenbin, bringing sugar to my house—you’re making it too formal.”

Cha Wenbin smiled. “Just a local specialty for your parents.”

Fatty nearly spat out his tea. “Since when is white sugar a specialty?”

“It’s not sugar.” Cha Wenbin slowly undid the bindings. Inside were some dark objects. When he picked one up, I realized I’d seen it on many wall calendars.

“Lingzhi?” I’d been around enough to recognize it. The price of such things was already beyond what the old Cha Wenbin could afford. Whether then or now, lingzhi is a costly, almost mythical herb. The ones he brought were a deep, glossy red, thick and even—clearly no ordinary specimens.

He didn’t elaborate, just said, “Wild, for steeping in tea.”

Fatty’s eyes nearly popped out. “Cha, this is no mere local product! You must have made a fortune in these years!”

Cha Wenbin just smiled again. “Mountain goods, just gathering herbs to get by.”

“What do you mean?” I looked at his patched robe—this was the New Year, after all. Why was Cha Wenbin still wearing such clothes?

“It’s nothing. I should get going.” He stood to leave, but I grabbed his arm. “What’s the rush? We haven’t seen each other in years—at least stay for a drink! If you leave now, it’s like you’re slapping me in the face.”

“It’s not time yet. Someone else is waiting for me. I only came back to burn incense at my master’s grave—I can’t stay long.”

“What do you mean you can’t stay? Do you need someone’s permission to be here?”

Cha Wenbin paused. “It’s nothing. Just six more months. Farewell.” With that, he bowed and turned to leave. Fatty and I, taken aback, rushed out after him.

We weren’t slow, but in the brief moment it took, Cha Wenbin had already reached the bridge near my house, where a black car was idling, exhaust puffing. Before we could catch up, he stepped on the gas and was gone.

I could hardly believe it, nor could Fatty. We’d both spent time in the south, where money was everywhere, but even there such cars were rare. Back then, the Cantonese called it a “Ping Zhi”—what we now call a Mercedes. In the interior, you almost never saw them; in those days, having money didn’t mean you could buy one.

Thinking back to Cha Wenbin’s patched clothes and his talk of making a living gathering herbs, I couldn’t reconcile these things. Watching the taillights vanish into the distance, I realized he truly belonged to a different world now.

Some people are destined for destruction, while others are fated for rebirth. Only after rising from the ashes can one become truly great; Cha Wenbin was the same.

I am Cha Wenbin, from northwestern Zhejiang. I have no parents; I am an orphan, taken in by my master—a Taoist priest. Thus, I became a young Taoist as well. We had no temple, no strict rules; we could eat meat, drink wine, even marry. At seven, my textbooks were replaced with thick, thread-bound classical tomes. I had to recite those arcane, unintelligible texts a hundred times daily.

I am the heir, the last head of the Heavenly Rectitude Sect. This tiny sect has only me; I cannot change the times, but the times have changed me.

Years ago, while working in the countryside as a sent-down youth, a group of people took me away. I could not refuse their offer: my three friends would be spared if I followed them for three years. I knew they could take my friends’ lives at any time, for I had seen that man.

Before he died, my master repeatedly warned me: if I ever saw that man, I must pretend to know nothing. He told me that man was a nightmare—so long as I didn’t open the door to the nightmare, it would not begin. That man always wore black sunglasses and carried the stench of corpses—no, of death itself.

They found a bronze disk in a house where someone had hanged themselves. The house had been built on the wrong site—directly above a tomb, the entrance right underneath. That house was a place of evil; anyone who entered would meet a terrible fate, for in terms of geomancy, it was a “funerary pit.”

To open a funerary pit, you need a priest; ** is best. They chose Yuan Xiaobai, a girl who now cowered in the corner like a lamb before slaughter, trembling. Her eyes were vacant, her movements dull—clearly, she’d been bewitched. They needed a compliant sacrifice.

The so-called boss hid in the darkness; I couldn’t see his face. He said if I went with him, he’d spare her life. I had no choice.

The ritual began. It was the first time I’d witnessed such practices—a group of old women, old enough to be my grandmothers, stuck long feathers in their hair and painted their faces thickly: black, red, white…

They danced barefoot around Yuan Xiaobai, holding ritual tools made of bone. A masked man sat on the ground, chanting with a gourd-shaped bone vessel in his hand. His body trembled; I sensed his soul had left him, leaving only a shell. I didn’t understand his words, though they resembled some of the incantations my master taught me, but not quite on the same rhythm. The masked man kept stuffing black objects into his mouth, spitting out foamy white residue.

The way the residue fell was systematic. Soon, I realized the discarded bits formed a secret sequence—an array from the art of Qimen Dunjia. The man with black sunglasses saw this first and cackled, saying to the shadowy boss, “Found it!”

Then they cut Yuan Xiaobai’s veins: one bowl, two, and by the third, each was filled with fresh blood before stopping the bleeding.

The man with black sunglasses dipped a writing brush in the blood and drew a giant talisman on the floor—a corpse-summoning charm, but upside down. At the top of the charm, he drew a doorway half a meter wide. The masked man carried Yuan Xiaobai and leaped through the doorway, shrieking, and collapsed with a crash, twitching and foaming at the mouth.

“A shaman!” He was a shaman, I was sure. This nearly extinct sorcery had appeared before me again. Unlike any religious method, it was its own system, passed only through oral tradition—an elder would appoint a successor before death, then, after passing, transfer the power to the next shaman, much like the reincarnation of a living Buddha.

I watched Yuan Xiaobai; I could still sense her breathing, her rhythm steady, eyes open. Thank goodness, she was alive.

That doorway was the entrance to the funerary chamber—the shaman had served as priest, offering a perfect sacrifice to its master. But that corpse-summoning charm?

Did they intend to call out the true master below? As I pondered, a crash came from outside—roof tiles falling. Looking up, I saw several tiles flipped from the center of the roof, a shaft of light piercing through, hitting the blood-red doorframe.

The man in black sunglasses waved a soul-summoning banner twice, and four or five strong men rushed forward. Yuan Xiaobai and the shaman were carried out. The men began digging with shovels and hoes. After about two meters, someone shouted, “Found it!”

Then I saw a bronze coffin bound in chains hoisted out with a pulley. The coffin was green with age, covered in carvings of clouds and celestial beasts—was this the true master?

“Burn it!” I heard the voice from the darkness.

Now, a word to the reader: in this chapter, the narrative perspective begins to shift. It may feel abrupt, but please, bear with it.