Chapter 73: The Three Pure Ones Talisman of Heavenly Gang

The closing of the coffin signified the onset of the burial. Several wooden wedges were hammered into the lid, and two thick hemp ropes were tied in a figure-eight knot. The poles used to carry the coffin were chosen with care: they had to be freshly cut, living wood, stripped of bark. In our dialect, we called these “bars.” That’s why when people argue, we say they’re “lifting bars”—but these bars are ominous things, meant for carrying coffins and as thick as a bowl’s diameter. Two men at the front, two at the back, rested the coffin on their shoulders, awaiting the shout from Wenbin Cha: “Raise the coffin! Let’s go!”

A handful of yellow paper scattered through the air, and women and children burst into tears, clutching the coffin tightly. It was understandable—after all, this was the last moment at home; once the coffin crossed the threshold, it would never return. Those who must depart always do, and it was already close to nine o’clock at night. Outside, darkness reigned, and winter’s snow had fallen without warning, piling nearly half a palm’s thickness by the door.

Leading the procession was the steward, whom we called the “guest master.” For weddings and funerals, the host’s family was too busy to manage everything, so someone was always appointed as the chief conductor. This person would coordinate helpers and oversee the ceremony from start to finish—a demanding task, usually entrusted to local experts.

The guest master led the way to the graveyard, illuminating the path with a miner’s lamp that cast a pale glow. Carrying the coffin up the mountain, he frowned, muttering, “The weather changes so swiftly—auspicious snow heralds a good year!”

The fat man rubbed his hands and laughed, “A good year? Ha! All this white fits the occasion—snow during a funeral, it’s as if the heavens want to hinder the journey.”

The pallbearers grew uneasy. Their leader grumbled, “Such a steep mountain, and this snow—how are we supposed to go?”

The guest master, anxious to avoid mishaps, quickly turned and said, “That won’t do. No matter how heavy the snow, we must proceed. It’s late; we can’t delay any longer.”

The man set the coffin down on the ground. “I won’t go. If you insist, have his own family carry him. If this thing falls and someone gets hurt, especially at New Year’s, who will pay for it?”

Several other pallbearers joined in, “Exactly, we won’t go!”

“Hey, that’s not right. You’ve eaten and drunk your fill—how can you back out at the crucial moment?”

“No nonsense! Even if my own mother died, I wouldn’t carry a coffin up the mountain in this snow. You know how treacherous Lone Elder Peak is—just a winding path built of bare stone, slick as a mirror. Try carrying several hundred pounds up there in this weather!”

The guest master was seasoned; he knew everyone well. He slipped inside and spoke quietly with the host, then called the pallbearers’ leader aside. “Add an extra pack of cigarettes. Old Six Xia’s son says he’ll pay—how about it?”

The man glanced at me; I nodded in agreement. He held up four fingers, meaning one pack for each.

Since I’d agreed, I decided to be generous. “Fine, let’s do that. It’s a hard job tonight. Afterward, I’ll treat each of you to an extra pack of cigarettes, two bottles of liquor, and a twenty-yuan bonus. The four pallbearers will each get the same. Is that fair?”

The man grinned, rubbing his hands. “Alright, with those terms, we can’t refuse.”

“Raise the coffin!” Wenbin Cha shouted again. The four men heaved the coffin up with a grunt. The ropes binding it were as thick as a thumb, double-stranded, sturdy beyond measure. Yet, no one expected what happened next.

With a sudden thud, I saw one of the ropes snap under strain, whipping across the leftmost man’s face. He screamed in pain, clutching his face and collapsing. The coffin crashed heavily to the ground.

People are instinctively terrified of death. The coffin landed with a clang, and the corpse inside tumbled out, burial goods scattered, and the yellow paper covering the face fluttered aside. My uncle’s eyes were wide open, round as bronze bells, his mouth agape in an “O.” The long time since death and the freezing weather had turned his facial muscles a purplish hue—an unsettling sight.

At once, everyone fell silent. The pallbearers froze. Someone shouted, “The corpse is alive!” and the courtyard erupted as men, women, and children screamed and fled.

In a flash, only the three of us remained, with my grandmother squatting in a corner, wailing.

Just then, I saw sparks flicker along the outside power lines—likely a short circuit from the storm—plunging the house into darkness.

Wenbin Cha barked calmly, “Nobody move!”

He lit a candle, found a few more in the inner room, and left the corpse lying outside as he called us in. “Take the old lady back to her room and seal the doors and windows.”

I asked, “What about the outside?”

“Leave it for now. Since the body refuses to depart, let it stay. Later, we’ll burn it right in the yard. When it broke from the coffin just now, it absorbed vital energy—I suspect something may happen within an hour.”

A person entering a coffin marks the separation of life and death; the greatest taboo is leaving the coffin after entering. As the saying goes, “The coffin closes, the verdict is settled.” Once inside, worldly matters are no longer yours. Reopening the coffin before three years brings misfortune; if broken within that time, the corpse may become a source of evil, especially when Wenbin Cha sensed a heavy resentment in the body. A stormy, snowy night is the perfect breeding ground for such calamity.

After comforting the old lady, the fat man and I fetched hemp ropes as Wenbin Cha instructed. In those days, rural homes commonly grew hemp—its fibers, boiled and stripped, were incredibly strong, far superior to modern plastic ropes. The fat man bound the corpse tightly; truth be told, I was uneasy about the task, but he worked as if tying a piglet, quickly wrapping it into a “dumpling.”

He placed the body face up, trying to straighten its clothes, only to find its eyes staring directly at him.

He slapped it, cursing, “What are you looking at? Stare again and I’ll rip your eyeballs out!” Strangely, my uncle’s eyes had never closed after death—a sign of lingering resentment, so Wenbin Cha was eager to bury him. But that slap did the trick; his eyes closed at last. The fat man, oblivious, left the body, unaware that as he turned away, the eyes suddenly snapped open again.

“All set. Should I drag it inside?” the fat man asked Wenbin Cha. At that moment, Wenbin Cha and I were preparing; I was grinding ink—though his was red cinnabar. The table was covered in freshly drawn talismans. When I asked what to do, he replied, “Everyone makes mistakes. Unless absolutely necessary, do not destroy utterly.”

Wenbin Cha was such a man—a Taoist dedicated to guiding souls. Only those who harmed others, who walked evil paths, could provoke his wrath.

Yellow talismans hung askew throughout the room, the fat man’s handiwork. Two candles flickered, their flames dancing as I shielded them from the howling wind outside. Wenbin Cha was completing the final step: the Heavenly Three Purity Talisman.

This talisman differed from ordinary ones. Wenbin Cha could draw a regular Master’s Talisman in about a minute, from start to finish without pause or interruption, or else the talisman would be ruined. Yet this Heavenly Three Purity Talisman had taken him over ten minutes, and he’d only reached the talisman’s base.

Its complexity defied description. Later, I sought advice from Taoists on Zhongnan Mountain, who told me few in the world could draw it, for it was not drawn by hand, but by heart.

The heart guided the hand, which merely held the brush to the paper; the heart would move the hand across the talisman. Each Taoist took a different amount of time and produced a unique form. Most were accomplished if they finished in seventy-two strokes. I asked the master how long it would take him—he pondered, then said, “Forty-nine strokes.” But that day, I saw Wenbin Cha finish in just thirty-six strokes. When I told the master, he was astounded, unable to believe that the child he once met could, in twenty years, draw the Heavenly Three Purity Talisman in thirty-six strokes. From then on, the master secluded himself, never leaving his mountain.

It wasn’t a matter of the talisman’s power, but of the heart’s purity. In life, few are free of distracting thoughts. The path of cultivation is to clear the heart of distractions. Only with a tranquil mind can one grasp the flow of the Five Elements and the forces of the universe. Many spend their lives seeking the ability to draw this talisman; those who succeed are said to have attained the Way.

He said:
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