Chapter Ten: Hezi Village (Part Two)

After coming ashore, there were only two paths through the village: one stretched straight through the center, leading to the rear mountain, while the other looped around the village, also ending at the mountain. The village was built against the mountains, and the river curved along them here. I walked on the stone-paved road into the village entrance, old ancestral halls and courtyards filling my view, all possessing a timeworn charm but showing no signs of decay.

It was hard to imagine that, in such a modern age, a place like this could still exist, slumbering quietly in the midst of civilization. Everything about it felt somewhat unreal.

Moreover, every household had decorated their entrances with lanterns and bright red banners hanging above doorways. Large red lanterns flanked each side, pasted with the character for “double happiness.” Newly affixed door gods stared from the gates, the glue still wet and sticky. The river breeze pushed all the lanterns in one direction, making it seem as if the entire village stirred alive.

I stood at the village entrance, gaping in surprise. The old ferryman who’d brought me ashore left without a word; he didn’t seem to belong to Hezi Village. Yet along the way, for dozens of miles, there wasn’t a soul in sight—not even a shadow. If the old man didn’t live here, where could he possibly go?

Above, the sun blazed, yet a chill crept up my neck from behind for no apparent reason.

It must be some custom of Hezi Village, I thought. After all, the old professor came here for his research; he traveled all the way from the capital, crossing mountains and rivers. If there weren’t anything unusual here, it wouldn’t be worth such an effort, would it?

But where was the professor?

Carrying my bundle, I walked deeper into the village. It wasn’t large, and there weren’t many crossroads. I walked straight for about ten minutes, but not only was there no sign of the professor, there was not a single villager to be seen.

“I must be seeing ghosts…”

I muttered, startling myself. I cursed my own lack of nerve—an artisan bows to no gods. I’d carved jade for years; if spirits truly existed, I should be immune to them, free from all taboos.

After another stretch, I finally heard footsteps from within a courtyard. Though fleeting, the sound brought some life to the silent village.

I followed the sound to the entrance. The wooden gate was a bit more worn than those I’d passed, and the red lantern hanging beneath the lintel had a hole in it. Clearly, poverty and class exist everywhere, unavoidable even here.

Looking around, I raised my hand and knocked, calling, “Excuse me, may I ask for directions?”

Perhaps the village was too quiet; even my gentle knock sounded harsh. The barking dogs I’d heard across the river were now silent, as if locked indoors. The whole place felt strange, unsettling to the bone.

“Excuse me, just a minute for directions?” I knocked again after a long silence.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Suddenly, a voice drifted from the crack in the door, startling me. An eye peered out, revealing that someone had been watching me from the other side all along.

I took a deep breath and asked, “Yes, is there a family named Ji in this village?”

“Ji?” The eye blinked. “No, everyone in Hezi Village is surnamed Wu. You must have the wrong place.”

“That can’t be,” I pressed. “There’s no outsider? The Ji family should be from Tianjin. Please think carefully.”

As I spoke, I took a cigarette from my pocket, intending to pass it through the crack, but just then, three crisp, piercing clangs of a copper gong rang out from the direction of the ancestral hall, startling me.

What was that?

I turned toward the sound, just as the gate creaked open. A hand reached out, grabbed my arm, and dragged me inside.

“Shh…”

Before I could speak, a rough face pressed close to mine, a finger raised in silence, spittle landing on my cheek.

Wiping my face, bewildered, I lowered my voice and asked, “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

As the rough face retreated, I saw it belonged to a middle-aged man in a gray short coat, his features honest and weathered, carved by years of wind and sun.

Seeing my confusion, he smiled apologetically. “The ancestral hall was calling just now. I was afraid others would notice you. Don’t take offense.”

I nodded uncertainly, glanced at the gate, and asked, “So, outsiders aren’t allowed in? Is that some custom?”

“It’s a rule,” he corrected me. “Today is the clan leader’s daughter’s wedding day. We avoid the gods on joyous occasions; everyone must stay indoors, or the river god will drag them into the water for questioning. If that happens, the clan leader’s daughter will suffer tonight!”

His earnest tone left me bewildered. I recalled a client from the Daliang Mountains, an Yi man, who told me that in some Yi villages, brides fast for ten days before marriage, eating nothing. If thirsty, they just hold water in their mouths and spit it out—not swallowing. This custom, called “empty fasting,” marks a bride’s virtue and earns her respect in her new home, depending on how long she endures.

At the time, I doubted it—who could survive ten days without food or water? But compared to today’s custom, that seemed almost mild.

But every place has its own traditions. In Africa, some tribes swap children to eat during weddings. I was just a courier; there was no need to worry about the experts’ concerns.

“So, I can’t go out until nightfall?” I asked.

He nodded solemnly, as if he’d tie me up himself if I tried.

“Is there really a Ji family?”

“There is,” he replied. “Now that you mention Tianjin, I remember. He’s not from Hezi Village, doesn’t live here, and rarely interacts with us. I didn’t think of him at first.”

“Where does he live?”

“In the hollow behind the mountain.”

I sighed inwardly—this was troublesome. Third Uncle and that woman had urged me to leave before dark, and now I was stuck. Not that I feared the river god dragging me into the water, but after five o’clock, the ferryman would go home, and I needed to figure out how to leave.

I checked the time—it was midday, but I knew well how mountains could deceive distance. A round trip would take at least an hour. Summer nights come late, there were no cars, and it seemed unlikely I’d finish my task in time.

But I couldn’t just wait here, so I asked, “Is there really a river god?”

The man sat beside me, lowered his voice, and said, “I only know what the elders say. Every winter, when the river dries up, people hear chains at night coming from the riverbed at the second crossing, and women singing opera, like a ritual. At dawn, they find footprints in the mud—big and small. Elders say those are the water ghosts’ prints. When the river dries, the river god holds a ritual and lets the water ghosts breathe on land.”

“Have you seen those prints yourself?” I asked, intrigued.

He nodded. “Not only have I seen them, I’ve felt for them in the mud myself.”

I handed him a cigarette, lit it, and quietly asked, “Did you ever go at night?”

He took a drag, squinting through the smoke. “I never dared, but some brave souls did. They said that once darkness fell, green lights floated at the second crossing. When you approach, the sounds vanish. Three went, but only two returned. After dark, one went into the river and disappeared. The old clan leader told us not to search, fearing we’d disturb the river god, so no one ever dared go at night again.”