Chapter Four: Song of Summoning Souls

Li Lao’er immediately realized the other party must be dissatisfied; this time, it was over. He thought to himself, rather than be killed by you, I might as well end it myself. Remembering his former glory and the sorry state he had fallen into, Li Lao’er picked up a shard from the ground, ready to slash his wrist. Just then, he felt something strike the back of his head. Turning around, he saw on the ground behind him a roasted chicken leg, half-eaten by someone.

Li Lao’er felt as if heaven itself was helping him! Now, with roasted chicken as an offering, it ought to be enough. Wiping away his tears in delight, he piled the chicken into the broken bowl. From behind him came a voice: “Hey, hey, hey, he can’t eat my food and wouldn’t dare. That’s for you.”

“Who’s there?” Li Lao’er swung his kerosene lamp around, and saw, on the other side of the archway, sprawled atop the stone tortoise, a thoroughly disheveled man holding a liquor gourd in one hand and the other half of the roast chicken in the other, pointing at him.

Even from several meters away, Li Lao’er could smell the sour stench emanating from the man—how long had it been since he’d bathed? He recognized this madman; he’d seen him before. The man never greeted anyone, nor did he mingle with the villagers. Why had he come here today? Wasn’t he supposed to be living in the cowshed?

Seeing Li Lao’er’s suspicious look, the mad Daoist took another bite of chicken and muttered, “Kindly gave you meat, eat it or don’t, serves you right if you’re unlucky!”

In his youth, Li Lao’er was a known figure in the underworld. Not exactly infamous, but his hands had seen blood, and he had lived through three dynasties’ turmoil. Had it not been for this setback, he might have become a legendary outlaw himself. Though aged, the fire of his youth still burned within him, a temperament inherited from his mother’s womb. He bent down, picked up the roast chicken, and glared fiercely at the mad Daoist, saying, “If you invite someone to drink, act like a host. I’m not a beggar!”

“Heh, still got some temper!” The mad Daoist flashed a mouthful of yellowed teeth, shook his wine gourd, and rose, saying, “Old friend, come sit, I’ll treat you to wine and chicken!”

People of the underworld carry themselves with a certain air. Though Li Lao’er had grown old, his swagger remained. With a soft snort, he walked over and said, “Give it here.”

The mad Daoist handed him the wine gourd, and Li Lao’er started pouring it down his throat, gulp after gulp. Soon, nearly half the bottle was gone. The mad Daoist grew anxious, jumped down, and tried to snatch it back, cursing, “You shameless fellow, I said drink and you just guzzle it down!”

Li Lao’er was a lover of spirits—who knows how many years he’d gone without money or wine—so he paid no heed and kept drinking, making the Daoist stomp his feet in frustration. “Enough! Enough! Leave me some!” He grabbed the gourd back, shook it by his ear, squinted at it, and muttered mournfully, “Shameless, drank so much in one go!”

Li Lao’er wiped his mouth with his sleeve and hissed, “Give it here!”

The mad Daoist tucked the wine gourd into his chest, saying, “No! Or you’ll finish it all!”

Li Lao’er turned away and said, “Stingy!”

The mad Daoist wasn’t fazed, stared at him and replied, “So what if I’m stingy? Are you honest? You drank my wine!” He circled Li Lao’er, sizing him up, and said, “Looks to me like you’re in trouble. And it’s been going on for a while.”

“I am in trouble, a big one. How did you know?”

The mad Daoist moved behind Li Lao’er, suddenly kicked him in the calf. Li Lao’er’s leg buckled in pain, and he fell to his knees. Before he could cry out, he felt his shirt being stripped off.

The suddenness of it all stunned Li Lao’er. He shouted, “What are you doing!”

Before the words left his mouth, he felt a cold sensation on his back, the smell of blood mixed with stench filling his nostrils. Then something was pressed onto his back, immediately staunching the bleeding, and his shirt was returned.

The mad Daoist helped the bewildered Li Lao’er up and asked, “What did you used to do?”

“I farmed.”

The mad Daoist’s manic demeanor vanished; he looked Li Lao’er in the eye with a severity that brooked no resistance. “You’re lying. You didn’t farm. You did things that can’t see the light of day!”

Li Lao’er, nearly sixty now, saw that the madman was younger than him and grew somewhat annoyed. “What I did is none of your business.”

“It’s not my business, but it’s yours. You carry corpse qi and a type of poison. All these years, you’ve been under someone’s control. Each full moon, you feel pain in your chest, back, and soles. If you don’t cure it, your days are numbered.”

Li Lao’er realized the man spoke of him exactly. He knew he must have encountered a true expert. His family’s ancestor, the “Eyes of the Master,” had apprenticed under a master, which is how Li Lao’er learned the art of tomb robbing. He understood enough, so he stopped hiding, lifted his shirt to show the red line on his chest, and said, “Look!”

The mad Daoist was startled, gasping, “That’s brutal!”

“Sir, do you have a solution? To be honest, when I was young, I took a life—beat a local warlord to death. I fled from Henan all the way here and found there was business to be done underground, so I tried my luck. But I didn’t find any treasure and even lost my own brother. He often appears in my dreams, telling me I must come here to make offerings on the first and fifteenth of every month, or he’ll torment us both.

Though my brother and I are separated by life and death, we are both under someone’s control. These years have seen disaster upon disaster, and I can’t come up with anything decent for the offerings. I don’t think I have much time left. If not for your intervention tonight, I’d have ended it already.”

“Death? You think dying will set you free? Let me tell you, even dead, you’ll still be under his control. Here’s what you do: tonight, go home and stick this talisman on your chest.” The mad Daoist handed him a yellow paper talisman, drawn with cinnabar symbols.

Li Lao’er took the talisman, asking skeptically, “Will this work?”

The Daoist glared at him. “Enough talk! If you don’t want to die, stick it on. Tonight, I’ll come to your house!”

“I still have to go up the mountain later. The brigade wants me to find them those things…”

“Forget it. Just say you’re unwell. If you keep searching, the whole village will be doomed!”

All day, Li Lao’er paced his house. The pus on his body kept flowing, forcing him to wipe it repeatedly with straw paper, but unlike before, the wound no longer hurt, and the two red lines were about to join.

At dusk, the village loudspeaker suddenly blared. The voice of the party secretary rang out: “Tonight, every household must close doors and windows after dark. We’ve received word that a small group of spies has infiltrated to sabotage our production plan. Authorities have sent people to investigate. No matter what sounds you hear outside, do not open doors or turn on lights—we are capturing the spies…”

After reading the script, the old secretary, wiping sweat from his brow and bent over, spoke to the mad Daoist, who sat nearby picking his teeth, “So, are you satisfied?”

The mad Daoist stood, grabbed the tea mug from the table, gulped down some water, and said, “If anyone comes out and something happens, you’re responsible!” He opened the door, swaying out while humming a tune. The party secretary, sweating profusely, pressed his mouth to the microphone wrapped in red cloth and repeated the message again, his anxiety mounting. He finally declared, “Anyone who doesn’t close doors and windows tonight will have work points deducted. Everyone who does will get an extra work point!”

The whole village erupted—this was a windfall. You could earn a work point just by staying home and sleeping! The men instructed their wives, as soon as dinner was finished, get up onto the kang bed. Some mischievous children were even tied with ropes, lest they run out at night and cause trouble…

Tonight, Hong Village was utterly silent. Before darkness had fully fallen, every household had already secured doors and windows. The curious peered through cracks, eager to glimpse what a spy looked like. From the village’s edge came the faint singing of a man:

“O Heaven, so heartless, a soul lost to the Nine Springs!
Running, the heart shatters, where to seek one’s kin?
Wailing, sorrow endless, how can a lonely soul rest?
High ridge, so hard to climb, beloved spirits gaze back!
Calling, the heart floats, swallowing grief and cooling heat.
Tears, tears, where to lean, the soul-calling fails, the heart aches.
Calling, calling, where does it reach, forever parted by heaven and earth.
Sorrow, sorrow, what thoughts remain, beloved spirits, do not look back;
Do not look back, do not look back, child, child, laughter choked by tears…”

An old man, hearing this, immediately twisted his grandson’s ear, who was peeking outside. “Don’t look! Cover your ears. Don’t listen!”

“Grandpa, why? He sings so beautifully!”

The old man scooped him up and hurried inside. “Little darling, you mustn’t listen—that’s a soul-summoning song!”

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