Chapter Seventy-Seven: Scholar’s Village (3)

When the man heard we had come about this matter, he stood up and said, “Come, I’ll take you there. Things are chaotic now—no one’s in charge.” Just then, a woman rushed out, seized the man by the ear, and berated him, “No one’s in charge, so you have to meddle, always running off to funerals, you busybody! You just can’t keep your nose out of other people’s business, you peddler!”

The man pleaded, “Oh, oh, I won’t go, I won’t…”

Looking at that fierce woman, we knew then—we’d have to see for ourselves. Fortunately, the place was easy to find, right in the middle of the village, with a ginkgo tree at the entrance so large two people could barely encircle it. Each year, the tree bore enough fruit to fill several big baskets, but last year not a single seed had appeared.

Zha Wenbin examined the tree trunk, half of which had already withered, and sighed, “It won’t last many more years, I fear. No wonder—the spirit has run its course.”

My father sighed as well, “This tree must be at least eight hundred years old. It’s a pity to see it die. Why won’t anyone tend to it?”

“Uncle, it’s useless. This tree draws from the essence of the earth. Its roots stretch beneath half the village at least. If you want to know whether land is good, look at the harvest in the fields. Land with good yields can’t have bad feng shui—there’s a vital energy here. Where the energy thrives, crops shoot up; where it’s weak, you’re lucky if flowers bloom at all. This place has flourished for eight hundred years—no dynasty has lasted that long. If even a country can’t endure, how could a single village?”

Standing beneath the tree, Zha Wenbin surveyed the village with a hint of a sage’s manner. He continued, “The pioneers who first came here must have been exceptional, with remarkable vision. Look east and west—the mountains curve like a coiled dragon. And through the center runs a river, following the mountain’s base until it forms a lake at the end, where the mountain turns. In feng shui, this is called the Azure Dragon Drawing Water.

The water the dragon drinks is the essence of heaven and earth. If a dragon can thrive in this land, how much more so could people? But a dragon entrenched in one place will eventually fly away. As the saying goes: ‘Gold Hill is not a thing bound to the pond; when winds and clouds gather, the dragon will change.’ Over centuries, many have benefited from the dragon’s aura here, so scholars have flourished.

In fate, a top scholar is called the Literary Star descended to earth. Any renowned place of culture and martial prowess has a foundation built over generations—the Literary Star loves to gather with its kind. That’s why: ‘Talent grows where the land is blessed; the land is blessed because of the talented.’

This place is exceptional in feng shui. That old master had a brilliant strategy: nurture people, retain the dragon, and promote education.

Those who left here could serve beside the emperor, thus sharing in the dragon’s aura. When they retired and returned home, they’d bring the dragon’s energy with them, helping it remain. Day after day, year after year, generation after generation—a virtuous cycle. If development went well, every generation would produce top scholars. Sadly, once the cycle breaks, it ends forever; the legacy of centuries destroyed by one generation’s hands. When the dragon departs, everything is finished—like this old tree, whose magnificent trunk remains, but inside it’s already rotted, not far from collapse.”

Perhaps Zha Wenbin’s words were just his interpretation, but I noticed the dragon’s turning point he mentioned had indeed changed. What was once a lush forest was now bare rock everywhere.

They say a coal mine was discovered there. The coal consumption in East China is enormous, yet coal-producing areas are scarce. This discovery sent people into a frenzy—day and night blasting away. The dragon’s head has long since vanished, its mouth now left half broken, as if someone knocked out its front teeth, ceaselessly extracting black ore from its gaping maw…

Some things simply defy explanation. My personal view is that every gain comes with a loss. The people here once lived simply and humbly, but cherished learning and culture, taking pride in scholarship. Now, they are wealthy, but have forgotten the village’s origins and their own purpose.

The ancestral hall’s door was open. It may not have been the grandest I’d seen, but it was certainly the most refined. The beam above the entrance was not adorned with the usual birds or beasts, but with a carved wooden panel—one I could understand—a series of story scenes.

The carvings were so vivid that even Fatty, who usually cared little, recognized them: “Sun Jing hanging weights to stay awake, Che Yin using fireflies and snow for reading, Dong Zhongshu not leaving the garden for three years, Guan Ning splitting the mat to sit apart. Hey, what’s the last one, Xiao Yi?”

I looked at Fatty with contempt. “That’s Kuang Heng boring a hole to borrow light. It’s in all the textbooks—clearly you never studied properly.”

“Yes, yes, borrowing light. But Kuang Heng had a problem—he damaged someone’s wall, shouldn’t he pay for it?”

I was speechless at Fatty…

But these carvings were priceless. The wood itself was yellow pear, which even I could recognize, and the craftsmanship was exquisite—surely a team of master artisans would need three years to complete it. It proves the perseverance of the ancients far surpassed ours.

The door bore eight studs, arranged vertically and horizontally. Zha Wenbin remarked that the builder was cautious—only palace gates had nine studs, but this one purposely had one less to avoid attracting criticism. “Caution ensures longevity,” he said.

Inside, I recalled the scene somewhat—there was still the great furnace for burning paper and incense, cast in brass, half a person tall and quite imposing. It was clear the place was still protected, with most items preserved. In the corners stood rows of coffins, large and small, too many to count.

As soon as Fatty saw the coffins, his old habit kicked in—he loved this sort of thing. “Jackpot! Let’s pry them open—who knows what treasures from the Song and Qing dynasties are inside? Just from the wood, I’d say some are at least three centuries old.”

“So this is a charity hall?” When I was young, everyone called it the ancestral hall. Knowing so many coffins were inside, I never wanted to enter…

Zha Wenbin smiled at me. “Xiao Yi, do you now understand what you saw back then?”

I replied awkwardly, “It’s better now—out of sight, out of mind. So all those oddly dressed people I saw as a child must have been…those things.”

The coffins were clearly arranged in order. I counted roughly—just the eastern chamber held more than a hundred. Their color shifted from light to dark, spreading outwards. The coffins in the center had been there longest and looked the most ancient.

“Anyone with status or reputation in the clan must be here. To enter this ancestral hall, you had to be a notable figure. See, there’s something written here.”

Prompted by Zha Wenbin, I noticed a gold-lettered black plaque on the left wall, inscribed in neat calligraphy: “For descendants of the Zhou family, as decided by the clan, only one from the best three households may enter, and future generations must honor them, to manifest virtue.” The signature read: Zhou Ziyuan!

Fatty joked, “So this is the old ancestor’s rule—three families compete, only one coffin qualifies. Quite interesting! The spiritual civilization work here is impressive—a true veteran party member, clever and resourceful!”

“Nonsense. Forty years ago, you’d have your tongue cut out for saying that.”

Just then, our neighbor returned—likely after settling things with his wife. He was a helpful sort. “I was afraid you’d get lost, so I slipped out quietly. Don’t wander around—our ancestors are resting. If you disturb them, you’ll invite trouble.”

Fatty retorted, “Alright, stop scaring people. Rest assured, I only collect scrap metal—not coffin boards.”

“Listen, child, believe it or not—it’s true. During the Cultural Revolution, a band of Red Guards came to smash and loot. Even the Kangxi Emperor’s inscription at the village entrance was destroyed, but they never touched this place. When they marched here, it was already dark. They claimed the revolutionary fire would illuminate the black night, and broke the lock, heading for the western chamber.” He pointed to the corner. “Right there. Before they got close, a bolt of lightning struck down, right onto the incense burner. Ten Red Guards were thrown into chaos; the rest were stunned. Some say more than one person saw my old grandfather at the moment the lightning struck—standing behind the incense burner…”

After he spoke, I noticed a crack on the incense burner. He took my father over. “See? It was split open then. Later, everyone pooled money to repair it, but there’s still a seam—you can spot it if you look closely.”

My father, a lifelong atheist, never agreed with my grandfather about these matters. But now, in his old age, he’s started to believe—perhaps because of all he’s experienced.

My father asked, “Brother, I’ve brought these two kids to see my cousin’s husband. Where is he now?”

The man pointed inside. “There, behind the partition. He was found here, and a few brave souls carried him in. The coffin hasn’t even been prepared yet—they’re waiting for someone to handle it. The old clan leader is gone, and his family has all scattered. I suspect if they leave the corpse here, the rats will gnaw it…”

He said:

Friends, Xia Yi’s first triple update is complete. Feels good! More tomorrow.

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