Chapter Fifty-Four: The Corpse Cocoon

Zha Wenbin picked up the clothes and held them under his nose. A stench like that of a dead rat—this was the odor of a corpse.

“There’s an outsider here; their intentions are not good.” The foremost principle for a Taoist priest is to be familiar with all kinds of smells. Every Taoist, once initiated, must undergo several inhuman experiences. When Zha Wenbin was seven, Ma Sufeng had thrown him into a coffin to spend the night with a corpse. It was not unlike a medical student taking anatomy. For a Taoist, a corpse was just an object, though he also had to judge whether there was any risk it might become a revenant.

And then there were the scents. Yin energy is sensed, but corpse energy is smelled. There’s also baleful energy, resentful energy—many of these require special feng shui instruments to detect.

“Wenbin, someone’s been here before us. We might be late.” I pointed at a patch of freshly turned earth about three meters away. Judging by the marks, a box had once rested here—there were still impressions where the box’s corners had pressed into the soil.

Fatty searched carefully; the soil was less than a meter deep, and inside were scattered items for an infant—little shoes, small clothes, all still new, likely buried as grave goods just a few days ago.

Fatty pinched some earth between his fingers—it was still damp. “Judging by the color, this was dug up less than a day ago. Why would anyone want a dead child’s body?”

Zha Wenbin clutched the piece of clothing tightly, a wave of unease rising in him. Two words hung on the tip of his tongue, but he did not want to say them: the Ghost Path. He had once heard his master mention it—a thing he must spend his life avoiding. If he ever encountered that person…

“Let’s go.” There was nothing left for us here. We had no choice but to leave. But just as I turned away, I saw a line of characters carved into the back of a tree.

“Wait! There’s writing here!”

I shone my flashlight on the spot. The bark of the old poplar had been stripped away, leaving a patch as smooth as a soapbox. On it, a string of small black characters was inscribed, bold and forceful, yet carrying an unmistakable air of malevolence.

I read aloud, “The thing is in the millstone at the mill.”

They both exclaimed in unison, “The mill?”

I shrugged. “That’s what it says. Seems like whoever did this knows the wilds of Yeren Village well—and knew we’d come.”

Zha Wenbin said, “No one would joke about a child who died at birth. Such a thing brings down heaven’s wrath. Let’s go to the mill.”

There was a river in Yeren Village. Long ago, the hardworking people had realized they could use the current to power a stone mill for grinding grain. Downstream, there was indeed a collective mill, the nearest house two hundred meters away. It was harvest time; who would dare leave something there?

We jogged over, and from a distance, saw the mill door was open. Fatty was first to rush in. He was still a good way ahead when we heard him shout, “Here! Over here!” I saw Fatty running out with a box in his arms—no, wait, on that box sat a small child, clinging to his neck, laughing gleefully.

“Put it down!” I shouted, waving my arms to signal him.

Fatty, face alight with excitement, didn’t seem to hear me. He sped over in a whirlwind, thrust the box into my arms. The child reached out as if wanting me to hold her, and I quickly retreated in alarm.

“What are you doing?” I snapped at Fatty.

He grinned, “You kept gesturing for it, so I brought it over. Here, Master Zha, you have it.” He made to hand the box to Zha Wenbin.

“Wenbin, I saw—” I started, but Zha Wenbin silenced me with a gesture. Acting as though nothing was amiss, he took the box and placed it gently on the ground. I saw the child still perched atop, smiling at Fatty, as if she liked him very much.

“Fatty, burn these.” Zha Wenbin produced two sets of paper clothes, one red, one green, along with a stack of spirit money and a stick of incense.

“For whom?” Fatty asked.

“For her,” Zha Wenbin nodded at the box, “The child is pitiable. Be sincere. Burn some extra paper money, tell her to buy herself something to eat, something to use, and not to look for you again.”

Fatty hesitated. “Look for me?”

“Yes.” Zha Wenbin replied offhandedly.

Fatty muttered, “My pockets are emptier than my face. What good’ll it do her to look for me?”

“Just do it. We don’t have much time.” Zha Wenbin glanced at the sky. In an hour, the villagers would be awake. The mill was by the entrance to the village, not like up in the mountains. If anyone saw us here, there’d be no way to explain.

“Fine, you’re all bosses, I’m the underling…” Fatty grumbled while he burned the offerings. I watched the child, who seemed delighted, clapping her hands in place. Soon, she was dressed in a set of green paper clothes.

“Fits her well…” I murmured.

“What?” Fatty looked up, thinking I was teasing him.

Meanwhile, Zha Wenbin was preparing his tools: a small pouch made of cotton and linen, a few children’s toys, and a length of inked marking line.

He tossed the toys onto the box and dusted a thin layer of white flour over it. Before long, Fatty realized his efforts had not been wasted, for faint, small handprints began to appear on the box.

The handprints climbed back and forth. As soon as they did, Zha Wenbin swiftly gathered the toys into the pouch. The child hesitated, then dove headfirst into the bag.

Zha Wenbin saw a trace of flour left at the pouch’s opening. He quickly bound it shut with the inked line and tossed it into the ashes of the burning paper. Taking out a talisman, he pressed it onto the pouch.

With a “whoosh,” the pouch ignited instantly, flames soon engulfing the box as well. A delicate fragrance, like that of lotus blossom, began to waft through the air.

When the fire died down, Zha Wenbin prodded the ashes with a stick, turning up a small, jade-like green bead, smooth and translucent.

Fatty’s eyes lit up—he wanted to snatch it. “Burial goods! Looks like jadeite. Why not let me have it?”

“You’re bold,” Zha Wenbin sneered. “Take it if you dare. But let me warn you—it’s not jadeite. It’s her corpse sac.”

“What?”

Zha Wenbin carefully wrapped the green bead in a cloth. “When a person is born, they take in their first breath—a breath brought from a previous life. All their resentment, rage, and baleful energy are in it. The first thing a newborn does is cry, and when the mouth opens, that breath is expelled. Only by releasing all the breath from the previous life can one fully accept this new one. This child died before being born, so her breath remained trapped inside. Don’t be fooled by her age—this is exactly what southwestern sorcery values most. They call it raising little ghosts. Such a child’s resentment is at its strongest, yet she’s untouched by human experience—no thoughts, no will. If you can control her, she’s far more dangerous than any ordinary ghost. And this corpse sac contains her breath—that’s what we’re after.”

The Miao house: what had once been Miaolan’s room was now occupied by Yuan Xiaobai. The lamp was burning. Before her was a cup of water, in which Zha Wenbin had dissolved a burned talisman, and a cloth bearing the green corpse sac.

“Eat it,” Zha Wenbin instructed her. Fatty and I said nothing, knowing that if Yuan Xiaobai understood what it was, she would never eat it.

Yuan Xiaobai harbored no suspicion—she trusted her friends. She picked it up and, with a gulp of water, swallowed it in one go. Fatty and I felt our stomachs churn and rushed outside to throw up.

“What’s with them?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Zha Wenbin replied easily. “They sneaked some of Old Miao’s pickled vegetables last night and must have upset their stomachs.”

“By the way, what was it I just ate?”

“This,” Zha Wenbin answered with imagination. “A herbal remedy I concocted called Soul-Returning Pill. It won’t harm you. Get some rest—I’ll take my leave.”

The Soul-Returning Pill was a fabrication, but for Yuan Xiaobai, the effect was real, for the breath she needed was in the mouth of that infant.

As long as one lives, one breathes. When one dies, it’s called the final breath.

Yuan Xiaobai had, in truth, been condemned to death—her soul should have been reincarnated that night, into the unborn baby girl. In other words, if the baby had been born, Yuan Xiaobai would have been her previous incarnation. The first breath the infant would have expelled at birth was the last breath Yuan Xiaobai took in her life, containing her entire existence.

Zha Wenbin had retrieved that breath and returned it to Yuan Xiaobai. By sunrise, the Yuan Xiaobai who had been with us years ago would return completely. This was the first thing he had come to find.

Dawn broke. I rubbed my reddened eyes and kicked Fatty’s foot to wake him. As I opened my eyes, I saw Zha Wenbin staring blankly out the window.

I threw on a coat and went over. “What’s wrong?”

He nodded toward the table. “Remember the clothes we took from the poplar tree last night?”

“Of course—didn’t you bring them back?”

“I left them on the table, but now they’re gone. I noticed it as soon as I woke. And then there’s this.” He handed me a piece of paper. Four words were written on it: ‘Well done indeed!’

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Zha Wenbin sighed. “It means nothing—except that if he wanted our lives, we’d already be dead. The doors and windows were all shut, yet someone entered, wandered around, and left without a sound. I don’t know what he means to do, whether he’s friend or foe. I’m truly worried.”

Goodnight.