Chapter 116: Returning to One’s Roots (1)

After several rounds of wine, the kinship was acknowledged and the ancestors honored. I noticed that old Hu still seemed clear-headed, so I subtly signaled to Zhu Zihao. The boy caught on immediately and raised his glass respectfully, saying, “Grandfather Hu, there’s something I’d like to ask you. When my grandmother married into the family, there was an item she brought with her—a painting of a general. Have you ever seen it?” With that, he pulled a photograph from his pocket, an image of the very painting in question.

Hu Genglin took the photo, his eyes poor, and after some adjustment, he clicked his tongue and said, “Isn’t this the one from the old master’s house? It turns out it was given to the young lady as part of her dowry.”

Sensing a lead, I hurriedly asked, “Do you know anything about the origins of this painting, sir?”

“At that time, I was just a boy, merely a shepherd boy in the Jiang household. But I did know there was such a painting because every year during the great festivals, the Jiang family would hold a grand ceremony,” he replied.

“A ceremony?” I was puzzled, and Zha Wenbin, standing beside me, explained, “It means a sacrificial rite.”

“It was lively during these ceremonies—chickens and sheep were slaughtered. The masters would first pay respects to the figure in this painting, and we servants had to pay respects as well. The master never told us who he was, so we all assumed it was an ancestor of the Jiang family,” the old man said.

I asked, “You don’t recognize him?”

“No,” the old man shook his head. “Servants wouldn’t dare inquire about their masters’ affairs. All I heard was that it was passed down from the Jiang ancestors, and it’s been many years. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

This answer was a disappointment to both me and Zha Wenbin. Without knowing the painting’s origin, our whole effort seemed in vain. But then the old man changed tack, “Before the old master passed, he said one thing to me—that if he ever met the young lady, I should tell her that since she has left, she should never return. He said he had already removed her name from the family register, that this grievance should be settled.”

“Grievance?” On the way back, the word lingered in Zha Wenbin’s mind, repeated over and over. Even that old Hu didn’t know what this grievance referred to. Judging by his honest demeanor, he wasn’t hiding anything. The clue seemed to end here, everything abruptly cut off.

Back at the guesthouse, Zha Wenbin sat pondering deeply: what exactly was this grievance? He felt all these events were connected somehow. Could it be…? Suddenly, a terrifying thought flashed through his mind.

At dawn the next day, Zha Wenbin pulled us back to the village. This time, he wanted to inquire about other matters. He explained, “The Jiang family is a prominent clan, long rooted here. They should have a genealogy book, a shrine, or ancestral tombs. If we can’t find living relatives, then we must ask the dead.”

“Jiang family’s burial grounds?” The village chief Xu looked equally stumped. “During the land reform, many unclaimed graves were leveled. Though this generation is barren land, there are still many graves—large tombs stacked atop smaller ones, layer upon layer, mostly around Dragon Head Mountain. But all records from that time are long lost. Finding the Jiang ancestral tomb will be difficult.”

“I have an unusual request for you, Chief Xu,” Zha Wenbin said. “When Boss Zhu’s great-grandfather passed, the family was already in decline, and he was buried like any common man, in a random spot. Boss Zhu, being filial, wants to tidy up that grave and move his great-grandfather’s remains to the ancestral tomb on the mountain. But this land is known as Antique Beach; if I disturb any ancient grave, it would be illegal. So I want you to witness this—we’re not grave robbers.”

“That’s natural. With me here, at least in this little patch of land called Nanhu Village, I can make the call. Do you want me to find someone to help?”

“No, we’ll handle it ourselves.”

How to find it? Where to look? The vast barren wasteland was strewn with scattered stones. Only Dragon Head Mountain stood like a weary old man against the wind. According to Chinese customs of burying near mountains and water, roughly locating it wasn’t too hard. Using the geomantic principles of seeking the dragon and pinpointing the spot, and considering the Jiang family’s stature, they surely considered the tomb’s feng shui and orientation.

It was like asking Zha Wenbin to find a good burial site nearby today—he knew where to look, so surely the ancients weren’t far off.

Night fell, and we gathered at the usual place, but now with an added altar. On a simple desk draped with yellow silk sat three long incense sticks emitting curling smoke from the censer. There was a whole pig’s head, a half-cooked roast chicken, two bowls of rice, a pair of lit candles, a plate of fruit, dried nuts, and small pancakes.

I hadn’t seen such a scene in a long time, except as a child when villagers would call a Taoist priest for funerals. Back then, adults forbade children from participating, scaring us off with various reasons. It made me fear this “sacred” scene. But tonight, I was part of it. Zhu Zihao and I stood on either side of the altar, our roles as attendants.

In my left hand, I held a kind of mourning staff—a wooden stick wrapped with white paper strips. In my right, a white lantern inscribed with the character for “offering.” The feeling was strange; I wondered what Zhu Zihao thought.

Zha Wenbin had changed into a bright yellow Taoist robe borrowed from the county’s cultural troupe, fitting well. He wore a square cloth hat, and at a glance, he looked the part.

There was only one purpose for this grand ceremony tonight: to seek our kin!

Zha Wenbin told us that after the rulers of the ancient Mongol Empire were buried, they were interred in deep pits, unlike the Han custom of mounding earth. The pits were then refilled and leveled, and grass seeds sown. Guards would watch the tomb for a full year until the new grass fully covered the mound, then they would withdraw in spring.

They would bring two camels—a large one and a small one—and kill the small camel in front of the mother. Later, when seeking the ancestral grave, they would lead the mother camel; she would find the spot where the young camel died, kneel, and weep. That indicated the burial site.

Zhu Zihao was not that little camel, but Zha Wenbin had another method. Traditionally, Chinese believed that ancestors bestowed protection and blessings on descendants after death. Whether true or not was another matter, but Taoists held that ancestors and descendants shared a spiritual lineage—blood and shared aura.

This aura, Zha Wenbin explained, was “based on the mother as foundation and father as shield. Without spirit, one dies; with spirit, one survives.” In other words, the mother’s yin blood formed the base, the father’s yang essence provided defense. Losing the spirit meant death; gaining it meant life.

By this reasoning, everyone carries the aura of their ancestors, the root of their soul. If we could use Zhu Zihao as a link and employ special methods within this general area, we might locate the correct spot.

On the altar lay a roll of red cloth containing several strands of Zhu Zihao’s hair. A small wine cup held clear water, into which Zhu Zihao’s blood would be mixed later—a symbol that “the body’s hair and skin are received from the parents.” There was also a cage holding a pair of moles—a male and a female—captured by many helpers at Chief Xu’s request. This was no easy task.

The night sky was cloudy, and Zha Wenbin had calculated the timing. Soon, a northwest wind would arise, dispersing the clouds so the “Heaven’s Eye” could be used to locate the grave. Opening the altar risked attracting restless spirits, as incense, candles, and paper offerings would summon wandering souls. This was also an opportunity—if any Jiang ancestors remained restless, the Heaven’s Eye might reveal them, linked to Zhu Zihao.

He hung a small bell, slightly larger than a fingernail, at Zhu Zihao’s waist. This bell had another name: the “Longing Bell.” Often, people make unconscious movements—actions they themselves barely notice—what science calls the subconscious. The bell harnessed this principle.

It was like when you think you see a familiar person walk past, glance briefly, then find no one there. That person was real, but the eyes deceive. What is seen is often false; what is unseen is felt by the heart, fleeting in an instant. Zha Wenbin’s master told him: this is enlightenment.

A practitioner’s life is a pursuit of enlightenment, striving to control such sensations. Few succeed because it must be a conscious effort—not passive. Only the strongest bonds of love, kinship, and friendship can make the heart truly lead the body.

Thus, the Longing Bell’s origin: when you can’t distinguish who you truly love, wear the bell and remain calm. If the person is your beloved, the bell will ring because you will move involuntarily—your heart moves your body. That is the involuntary response.

With a sudden gust, the paper offerings scattered into the air. Zha Wenbin gently shook the bell; its clear chime pierced the silent night.

“Sky waters long, earth waters long, metal waters long—three waters merge as one! Waters call the great ghosts, summon the second ghosts, four little ghosts push the mill! Push forward and turn right; reverse push and turn left. If not turning, press beneath the Yin Mountain, bones buried for a thousand years, never to rise! Southern Dipper Six, Northern Dipper Seven, Supreme Lord Laozi commands urgently!”

With a booming voice, he spat a mouthful of wine onto the altar’s candles. A great blaze flared. I realized this was the Yang-raising fire, meant to elevate our yang energy. The chant was the infamous “Ghost Summoning Spell,” never to be learned lightly. Without sufficient yang energy, one would surely invite unwelcome spirits…

A warning:

The ghost summoning spell in the final passage is best left unlearned…