Chapter Thirty-Five: The Altar

After the two talismans were burned, strange black filaments scattered across the ground—not the ashes left by burnt paper, but more like strands of hair, charred and strewn atop a white surface. At that moment, even Char Wenbin could no longer hold himself upright. Fatty, noticing him sway backward, rushed to support him; otherwise, he would have collapsed to the ground.

Leaning weakly in Fatty’s arms, Char Wenbin panted and whispered, “Quick… let the rooster out.”

Fatty only felt the boy in his arms burning hot, so feverish that sweat pooled in his palms. He cried out, “What’s wrong with you?”

Char Wenbin fumbled in his pocket and pressed a fire striker into Fatty’s hands. “Don’t worry about me—release the rooster. If we wait any longer, none of us will survive!”

Sensing the urgency, Fatty dared not hesitate. He ran to the chicken cage, kicked it over, grabbed the rooster, and yanked off the blindfold covering its eyes. With the rooster in his arms, he struck the fire striker Char Wenbin had given him. The rooster, having been blindfolded for over a day, was disoriented—when it saw the light, it thought dawn had come, and let out a piercing crow.

The moment it crowed, the rope encircling the ground burst into flames, igniting in a whoosh just like the fuse of a firecracker. Fatty turned to look—and there, in the middle of the courtyard, a woman appeared out of nowhere. Her hair was wild, her figure flickering in and out of sight. Before Fatty could chase her off, she staggered and rushed outside, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Fatty carried Char Wenbin back inside. We had no idea what had happened out there. Char Wenbin only asked Xiaobai for a few cloves of raw garlic, chewed them, and then immediately fell asleep, a trail of blood at the corner of his mouth.

That night, his fever was severe. Fatty and I took turns applying cold water to his forehead, with Xiaobai helping as well. As midnight drew on, he began to talk nonsense, his limbs occasionally twitching—frightening us terribly. I asked Fatty what was happening, but he couldn’t explain; all he could say was that he’d seen Char Wenbin dancing and chanting at the door like some shaman, and then a woman had appeared out of thin air and fled.

The three of us were finally convinced—these things truly existed in the world. After that, I held my bladder until dawn, too afraid to step outside.

It was around six or seven the next morning when Char Wenbin finally woke, his breath reeking of garlic. The first thing he asked was whether we were all right. Once he was sure we were safe, he said, “Yesterday was dangerous. That thing is powerful—it’s no ordinary wandering ghost. Uncle Qiu, you have to tell me the truth—where did you first encounter her?”

Uncle Qiu, seeing how frail the boy was, felt a pang of guilt. But he didn’t lie; he swore to the heavens, “You saw it yourselves—if not for you all last night, this old man would be gone. At my age, it wouldn’t matter if I died, but would I drag you all down with me? She destroyed my whole family—I wouldn’t deceive you.”

Char Wenbin sipped some thin porridge. “All right, then. When the sun reaches the courtyard, please take us to where you first saw that woman.”

Uncle Qiu thought for a moment. “No, you mustn’t get involved in this.”

Fatty waved his hand anxiously. “Uncle, it’s not that we want to meddle—now we have no choice. Will that woman let us go? You touched that gold years ago and your whole family perished. We didn’t just touch it—we fought her! Do you think we’ll have a peaceful life now?”

Uncle Qiu sighed. “Fine. It’s at the western ridge. I haven’t been there since.”

“The western ridge?” The three of us shouted the name in unison. Even if I’d forgotten my old home in Hong Village, I’d never forget that place. Never had I come so close to death—the fox, and the tiger Fatty and I managed to kill by luck. I once thought that even if I spent the rest of my days in Savage Hamlet, I’d never go near the western ridge again. That place truly claimed lives.

Fatty, too, began to falter. “Uncle, you must be joking. Everyone in the village says we can’t go there.”

Uncle Qiu sighed again. “It’s at the western ridge. I still remember the general area. They say another young man had trouble there later, so for years, no one’s dared approach. There are plenty of ways to make a living—why risk it?”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. I looked at Char Wenbin, who still lay weakly on the kang bed. “Wenbin, what do you think?”

Char Wenbin said, “That thing is badly wounded too—it won’t recover soon. We should press our advantage.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?”

He pushed himself up on the kang, his face pale as frost clinging to autumn maple leaves, yet he managed a smile. “I’m tough. Don’t worry. We have to move quickly—everything’s ready. We’ll go after breakfast.”

Fatty pumped his fist for encouragement. “Let’s do it! We’ll follow you, Master Char. Last time, we even killed a tiger—what’s a ghost to us?”

The western ridge—a name that made everyone in Savage Hamlet tremble. Yet here we were, a group of outsider youths, setting foot there for a second time in half a year. If not for the string of deaths, perhaps it would have been a pleasant place for an outing: beautiful mountains and clear waters, showing no sign of danger. Only Char Wenbin’s brow remained furrowed the entire way. By the time we reached halfway up the mountain, it was already noon. Uncle Qiu, being old and frail, needed frequent rests, so our journey was slow. None of us expected him to lead us right back to that place—the very stone beach where I’d once fallen asleep.

Uncle Qiu, panting, pointed. “It should be around here. It was dark that night, and I followed the stream.”

“Are you sure you remember?” I asked.

“No mistake. It’s here. See that overhanging rock ahead? That’s where I met the girl.”

Char Wenbin glanced in the direction Uncle Qiu indicated. Wasn’t that the very place the three of us had sheltered from the rain, where we’d encountered something we’d rather forget?

“Come on, let’s take a look. It was too dark that night—we didn’t know what was really going on. Fatty, tie a red string each time we pass a spot, so we don’t lose our way here.”

Last time, Char Wenbin and Fatty had wandered into this forest, only finding their way out by starlight after night fell. Even in broad daylight, the place was dim and overgrown, the grass waist-high, as if no one had visited for years. This time, Yuan Xiaobai was with us—her presence made us extra cautious.

The gun was a homemade musket from the Lan family; Fatty carried it. I had a machete—didn’t even bring the red-tassel spear from last time. After a short walk around, we reached the spot where we’d sheltered from the rain. Another twenty meters ahead, in the brush, was where I’d fought the tiger.

I had to admit, daylight made everything less terrifying. At last, we could see clearly: a cliff, as if sliced by a giant blade, slanted outward for dozens of meters. Its base was hollowed inward—that was the very spot from that night.

Char Wenbin clapped my shoulder. “Xiao Yi, does this seem familiar?”

I bobbed my head like a pecking chick. “Of course—it’s unforgettable!”

He patted the cliff. “I don’t mean that incident—I mean this rock wall.”

I found his question odd. “What’s to recognize about rocks? We’re not savages.”

He looked up at the cliff. “Don’t you think these rocks are just like the ones in the village ponds?”

His comment jogged my memory. Indeed, for a so-called natural cliff, it seemed too precise—like a steamed bun cut clean in half. The black stone face was crisscrossed with slanting marks. I counted carefully: nine parallel marks, then another nine, repeating densely, though many were hidden by moss.

Yuan Xiaobai gently traced the grooves with her finger; they were about the width of her finger. She pressed her hand to the cold stone. “No doubt it was carved by hand. Did you see the same in the pond?”

Char Wenbin posed a question. “Who would undertake such a massive project? If all the workers in Savage Hamlet spent their lives carving this, how many years would it take?”

Fatty muttered, “Who would bother? No one’s bored enough to do this for fun.”

Char Wenbin tugged at a vine dangling from the rock face. He pulled hard—the intertwined vines held fast. Dusting off his hands, he turned to us. “I need to go up and take a look.”

Fatty stared at him, thinking the fever must have fried his brain. He’d never seemed this gutsy before.

“Master Char, you must be joking. This cliff’s smooth and slants outward—even monkeys couldn’t climb it!”

Char Wenbin tugged at the vines again. “Actually, your words reminded me—why would anyone cut so many grooves on an outward-slanting cliff over ninety degrees? I never understood before, but now I think I have an idea.”

“What? Don’t keep us guessing!”

“Think about it—when it rains, moss grows; it’s damp and slippery. As you said, even monkeys can’t climb such a wall, let alone people. Why design it this way, just like the ponds in the village? And don’t forget, this is the northeast.”

“So what about the northeast?”

“In the past, there was something here called shamanism. If you ask me, this was probably a sacrificial altar…”

…