Chapter Thirty: The Mist over the Yellow River

Age brings no strength to the bones, and after these few days of hardship, I was thoroughly exhausted. The faces of Tong Xiaomeng and Jin Yitiao looked no better than mine. When the ritual of burning paper and paying respects was finished, I urged Chen Tao to hurry and get us aboard, cross the river swiftly, and find a place to rest.

A lone, forlorn boat waited by the riverbank. Chen Tao helped each of us onto the boat, untied the rope fastened at the river mouth, and then, holding the reins, with a splash, jumped straight into the river.

We were all stunned.

Jin Yitiao then exploded in curses, “Damn it, I knew this bastard was no good. No matter how fragrant dog shit is, it’s still dog shit.”

“Don’t speak!” I snapped.

Turning around, I saw Chen Tao's head emerge from the water. He tied the end of the rope from the bow into a “dead ox” knot on his shoulder, clearly intending to tow us across.

“You—you really mean to pull us across?” Jin Yitiao shouted in shock.

Chen Tao nodded. “Don’t speak while crossing. If you disturb the Lord of the Yellow River, you’ll be fish food.”

Jin Yitiao stared wide-eyed. “What about you? Swimming in the water, won’t you stir up the Lord’s house? Who’s going to protect you?”

“No need,” Chen Tao replied.

After tightening the rope across his shoulders, he lunged forward. The rope connecting the boat stretched taut, and as Tong Xiaomeng and I exchanged uneasy glances, the deck beneath our feet rocked gently. The boat, carrying us, began to slowly drift from the shore.

“What’s happening?” Tong Xiaomeng whispered to me.

I shook my head, but inwardly, Chen Tao’s identity was becoming clearer. I hadn’t expected to encounter a Yellow River water ghost in such a remote place.

The Yellow River water ghost is a peculiar profession, akin to the sky burial masters of Tibet or corpse bearers of Xiangxi—those who deal with the dead. Yet, unlike sky burial masters and corpse bearers who guard corpses, the water ghost interacts with a mysterious class of “walking dead” beneath the Yellow River.

These “walking dead” are not ordinary drowned corpses. Legend says that some who die violently in the Yellow River do not float to the surface as their bodies decompose and gas builds up. Instead, they remain upright underwater, maintaining a walking posture, drifting forward with the currents as if strolling along the riverbed.

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Many times, on dried riverbeds, one can find clear footprints in the mud, step by step leading deeper. At the end, the footprints turn and head in another direction. If you follow these prints, you’ll inevitably find bottomless holes in the riverbed, where the tracks vanish at the edge. When the river rises, the corpses emerge from these holes.

It is said that those who die violently in the Yellow River bear such deep resentment that they refuse to depart until they cause the death of another. The legend is chilling. Imagine sitting in a boat, crossing the river, idly glancing at your phone, then looking down to see someone walking beneath the water, grinning up at you—a sight never forgotten. If you encounter such a thing, without a water ghost’s aid, survival is unlikely.

“Water ghost” is a distinct title, not simply a corpse retriever. Each has a master or family lineage, with the unique skill called “water ghost summoning,” a secret art now lost. I once heard that young water ghosts must wash their eyes with a special concoction, then spend years practicing water observation by the Yellow River. Their eyes can pierce the murky depths, spotting walking corpses at a glance.

Watching Chen Tao’s silhouette in the water, I thought that even if he wasn't a true water ghost, he must know the trade well to possess such skills.

Even drifting with the current, it was clear he struggled. To tow a boat carrying three adults across the Yellow River is no small feat. I noticed the skin on his shoulders and nape was oddly colored, thickly calloused—likely trained deliberately to prevent wet rope from abrading the skin and bleeding into the river, which would attract unclean things.

Meeting such a person, I suddenly felt that reaching the other shore was less important than whether he’d help me—or take me to meet his master.

Seeing the sympathy on Tong Xiaomeng’s face, I mouthed to her that we’d pay him extra upon reaching shore. She nodded in relief.

By now, the sun had dipped behind the winding river, its blood-red glow spilling across the surface. Chen Tao’s figure, towing the boat, seemed heroic against the setting. I avoided looking directly at him and gazed toward the far bank, where, in the distance, a wisp of pale golden smoke rose from the ground into the air, flickered, and vanished without trace.

I rubbed my eyes. Another wisp of golden smoke rose, disappearing as the last rays of dusk faded behind the mountain, never to return.

“Golden spirit, green demon, red treasure, white extinction…”

I recalled ancient texts describing the art of observing qi. A golden hue signifies a celestial spirit cultivating here, and pale golden life force suggests at least sixty years of practice.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding.

The source of the life force was toward Shanjia Village. I first thought of the giant turtle shell in the photograph, but the ancient turtle had died many years ago. Yet, the life force still flowed, meaning a celestial spirit remained in cultivation. If not the turtle, then something else must dwell in Shanjia Village—what could it be?

My musings were abruptly interrupted by a loud sneeze. Tong Xiaomeng and I stared in terror at Jin Yitiao, who rubbed his nose awkwardly, mouth open, eyes wide with fear as he looked down at the river.

The boat had stopped.

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The whole boat seemed nailed to the river, the water roiling around us. Chen Tao, straining at the rope, his face red, shoulders bleeding, was unable to move the boat—it sat like an iron plate welded in place. The three of us exchanged grim looks.

“I—I…” Jin Yitiao stammered, pale as death, trying to explain—but Chen Tao had already turned, gesturing for silence. He scanned the river, took a deep breath, and plunged beneath the water.

Suddenly, the tumultuous river fell silent. The three of us stood on the boat, exchanging confused glances, unsure what had happened.

Fear grew in our hearts, and no one dared speak. We waited in uneasy silence. Before long, Jin Yitiao’s expression twisted as if he’d seen a ghost. He shouted, “What is that?!”

Looking down, we saw, in the darkening river, two lantern-like lights glowing beneath the boat, flickering slowly on either side.

Lanterns—underwater?

Panic seized me. I drew my short knife from my belt. Jin Yitiao pulled out a black pistol, aiming it at the lights.

I stared in surprise; I hadn’t expected him to carry a gun. But it made sense—smugglers often travel to desolate places where conflict can be fatal. I’d once considered buying a gun on the black market for protection, but circumstances had prevented it.

Jin Yitiao and I guarded Tong Xiaomeng between us, each ready to fight, eyes fixed on the lights.

The two lanterns floated beneath the surface, like monstrous eyes watching us. My palm sweated on the knife’s handle, the river breeze chilling me to the bone.

After a tense two or three minutes, the water suddenly splashed. Chen Tao burst from below, reached for me, and I grabbed his hand, pulling him aboard. He scrambled onto the boat, wiping water from his face, and said urgently:

“Go now! Tonight the Lady of the Yellow River weds—if we stay, we’ll be sacrificed to the river!”