Chapter Seventy-One: The Ritual Performed by Wenbin Zha

The Road to the Underworld, the Bridge of Helplessness, the River of Forgetfulness, the Stone of Longing, Granny Meng’s Soup...

These names have been passed down through generations in Chinese folklore for thousands of years. If one were to ask whether these things truly exist, those who could answer have all died. Only after death can one verify whether what is often dismissed as “superstition” is real—but by then, it no longer matters. What difference does it make to know or not know? If these things do exist, then everyone must walk that path eventually; if they do not, it merely offers the living a reason to remember the departed.

For Daoists like Cha Wenbin, he believes in them and can explain them with authority. He describes the Road to the Underworld as bathed in white light, its surroundings barren and desolate, except for the dazzlingly vibrant otherworldly flowers blooming by the River of Forgetfulness. Seeing those flowers means the divide between life and death has become absolute.

The otherworldly flower blooms on the far shore; when the flower blooms, the leaves are unseen, and when the leaves appear, the flower is gone—like life and death, separated by an unfathomable gulf. Farewell is farewell; departure is departure.

Crossing the Bridge of Immortals is a highly significant ritual in northwestern Zhejiang funeral traditions, at least in my time. Whenever someone died in a respectable farming household, a Daoist would be summoned to perform rites. Many preparations were needed: incense, candles, paper money, meat and vegetarian dishes, and several large benches arranged around an Eight Immortals table. The Bridge of Immortals is another name for the Bridge of Helplessness; it marks the last journey loved ones accompany the deceased. Once the bridge is crossed, it is forever—a final farewell.

Some, unwilling to leave in life but caught by the underworld’s messengers, may choose to jump from the bridge; others, without escort, walk the bridge themselves but turn back in unwillingness. This return causes calamity, for they bring the aura of the underworld back to the world of the living, and those they encounter may suffer misfortune.

On the way to my second uncle’s grandfather’s house, I asked, “Can the dead really return from the underworld? Haven’t they gone to hell, without any chance to escape?”

“To come back from the underworld, one is either reincarnated, cleansed by the tunnel of rebirth and stripped of the underworld’s aura; or one returns after passing through the Gates of Ghosts. Such people face two outcomes: if the body remains intact, it is a resurrection; if the body is already buried, they either become a ghost or borrow a corpse to return, the latter being exceedingly rare.”

“Is there really such a thing as borrowing a corpse to return to life?”

“Of course!” Cha Wenbin thought for a moment and added, “Though I’ve never seen it myself, my master spoke of it.”

“We’re here—that’s the house,” I said, pointing to the new residence of my second uncle’s grandfather. “See, they’re carrying in wreaths. I heard last year that he died, but it wasn’t this lively.”

Even before approaching, the pungent scent of incense hit me—a smell I never got used to, though Cha Wenbin seemed to find it comforting. We were recognized as soon as we arrived, and people began whispering, “Isn’t that the junior apprentice of Master Ma, the Daoist? Oh, look, that rascal from Old Xia’s family is here—rumor has it he was cursed to death by him. Isn’t he afraid of getting beaten up?”

The Fatty glared at the gossiping women and said, “Our Xiao Yi’s words are sharp—whoever he says will die, won’t live past dawn. You two seem idle; shall we have Xiao Yi curse you a few times?”

At that, the women dropped their chickens and ducks and bolted, leaving Fatty and me doubled over in laughter.

It was still the first month of the lunar year, but their family’s affair was so big that most neighbors had come, for appearances' sake. Yet most lingered at the door; few wished to bring ill luck upon themselves by going inside. I saw someone moving through the crowd, offering cigarettes and pleasantries, looking for help with the encoffining.

Normally, people would take on this task—there’s money in it, and the host would tip extra. But today was different: in the New Year, no one expects red envelopes, and who wants to earn money from the dead? The steward searched around but found no one willing, when Cha Wenbin stepped forward: “Uncle, I’ll do it.”

The man saw it was just a youth and laughed, “Go on, which kid comes here for fun? This is a corpse, not a wedding.”

“Let me try. My master is Ma Sufeng.” As soon as he said this, the man paused in surprise.

Who didn’t know Ma Sufeng? Among the older generation, tales of him were legendary—some said he was Zhang Dao Ling’s disciple, others claimed he was a descendant of the True Lord of Mount Mao. In any case, he was considered a living immortal. It was said Ma Sufeng could identify your family and house orientation just by your voice, even predict how many piglets your sow would bear.

But those were stories from twenty years ago, during the collective era, known only to that generation. Later, Ma Sufeng spent his days in a drunken haze—from morning till night, he was useless for consultations.

The man eyed Cha Wenbin, who, despite his youthful face, now carried a maturity and steadiness beyond his years. Upon a second look, he seemed genuine.

“I heard Old Ma took in an apprentice—so you’re the one?”

Cha Wenbin nodded in response, and the man became quite pleased, pulling him aside to whisper, “How much? Name your price, and I’ll tell the host.”

“I don’t want money.” Cha Wenbin gestured toward me, “Help my two friends here; this is his second uncle’s grandfather’s house.”

“Not taking money? Wait here, I’ll go talk to them.” The man darted inside, and I leaned in to caution Cha Wenbin, “You’re being the good guy, but he’ll just pocket the red envelope himself if you refuse it.”

Cha Wenbin shrugged, “Money from the dead—I won’t take it. Such money may be earned, but might not be spent.”

Within the time it took to smoke a cigarette, the man returned, looking delighted, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Seeing Cha Wenbin, he rubbed his hands, “Well, young master, the man’s in your care. He’s still lying in the inner room. But I’d rather Young Xia not go in—I’m afraid it’ll stir trouble.”

I laughed, “No trouble—how could there be trouble? He’s kin, and a senior too. It’s proper for me to offer incense.”

The man hesitated, “Better not. You know how your second aunt and cousins are—famous for their tempers…”

Cha Wenbin spun his compass in place and looked up, “Then tell them this: if they refuse to go in, before the funeral, their family may pay with more lives!”

“Really? Don’t joke, young master—it’s the New Year.”

Cha Wenbin pointed to the compass, “Seven-seven calamity, disaster upon disaster, graves upon graves, lives upon lives. Tell them, before the fifteenth day of the lunar month, not only will people perish, but even chickens, ducks, dogs, and pigs—none will survive.”

The man touched his forehead and sighed, “You’re right—just this morning, their dog died after eating rat poison. Isn’t that uncanny?”

I replied irritably, “Then stop wasting time. You think I want to step into this house?”

In another flash, the man returned, grinning at me, “Go ahead—if they scold you, don’t take it to heart. Women’s tongues are sharp, but you’re worldly; don’t stoop to their level.”

Inside, there was no proper funeral hall or altar—the whole house was chaotic. As soon as I entered, I heard my second uncle’s grandmother wailing, mingled with the fierce curses of several women. I caught a few lines: “Why didn’t you die with him? Useless thing!”

The courtyard was nearly empty; by our custom, food for funerals was never served indoors. Rural homes have a central hall, and the main door opens directly to it—used for guests. During funerals, the hall is where the coffin is placed. With a coffin inside, banquets are moved outdoors, under a canopy. But today, not even a canopy was set up; perhaps no one was willing to help.

I called out as I entered, “Is anyone home?”

A cloth shoe flew past my head before I could react, and my eldest aunt rushed at me, claws bared, “You little bastard! How dare you come in? I’ll tear your mouth out! I’ll kill you!”

Unfortunately for her, Fatty grabbed her wrist before she could hit me. With a twist, she cried out in pain and stumbled to the ground, then began screaming, “Help! Murder! Save me!”

Her commotion brought the crowd surging in, leaving me flustered. The woman flailed on the ground, kicking and wailing, clutching the corpse of her dead husband as she beat her chest and howled.

My second uncle’s grandmother hobbled out, pulled me aside, and said, “Ignore her. How is any of this your fault?”

I noticed a red mark on her face, her lips swollen. I asked, “Grandma, what happened to your face?”

She started sobbing softly, “My daughter-in-law hit me, demanding money for the funeral. I have nothing—so she beat me…”

Fatty’s anger flared; he cursed under his breath, “Animal!” He strode back inside, grabbed the woman by her collar, and with one hand lifted her off the ground. He swung his palm, slapping her face left and right. The crowd fell instantly silent, stunned by Fatty’s actions.

A note:

Today should mark the start of paid content, as per the website’s policy, and I must begin writing formally. After much discussion, the site has decided to launch the story, so let it be so. I promise at least one update per day, as agreed. Recently, the company’s affairs have consumed most of my life—a failed entrepreneurial attempt, costing me money, time, and heart.

Looking back, writing seems better—much better.