Chapter 008: Wearing New Clothes to Visit the Grave

On my third birthday, Zhao the Madman arrived early at the gate of my family’s courtyard, waiting. My grandfather came at dawn, carrying numerous red parcels of all sizes on his back. My father followed behind, holding a red wooden tray. On it were various offerings—fruits, incense, paper money, ingots—all meant for the dead, not for the living.

I was dragged along by Zhao the Madman, staggering every few steps. Normally, children walk by one, run by two, but I was already three and couldn’t say a word—just the one word “eat.” My walking was unsteady, swaying and unpredictable; no one could guess where my next step would land. I wore a brightly colored Tang suit and a small Tang hat. Rather than a suit for a marriage proposal, it looked more like a miniature burial shroud.

The women of the house were not allowed to join. My mother and grandmother waited at home, busy boiling eggs—double-yolked ones that must not crack. The four of us proceeded solemnly toward the Qingqiu Cemetery on the back mountain.

The path up the back mountain was rugged and uneven, strewn with stones and dust. The road itself had been pressed down by a tractor. There were no vehicles in the village; the usual way up was by donkey cart, and the most advanced was a tractor. Already unsteady on my feet, weighed down by the cumbersome clothes, I stumbled and fell every few steps, yet I did not cry. My knees were scraped and bleeding.

Grandfather wanted to carry me, but Zhao the Madman refused, saying, “Without sincerity, you won’t marry her!” He insisted I take each step myself, slow as it was, and he patiently supervised me. When tired, Zhao the Madman and grandfather took smoking breaks while I continued wiping my runny nose.

The entire morning passed before we finally reached Qingqiu Mountain at noon. The mountain was overgrown with wild grass and dense trees. Among the trees were countless small earthen mounds, each topped with a tombstone of various materials. Fresh graves bore wreaths of flowers.

The wind was strong on the mountain, and despite the midday sun, the vast graveyard instilled a lingering unease. The entire hillside was a sea of the dead, and the trees echoed with the caws of crows—omens of mourning. The scene was grim and foreboding.

My father shuddered and said, “Uncle Zhao, I’ve been to the back mountain before, but it never felt this eerie. Do you think something will happen?”

Because Zhao the Madman had helped the Han family, my father no longer called him “Zhao the Madman,” but respectfully addressed him as Uncle Zhao. Zhao led the way.

Hearing my father’s words, Zhao replied, “If this doesn’t succeed today, then that would be a real problem. Three years ago, those big troubles were far harder to deal with than these.”

The Qingqiu Cemetery wasn’t a random burial ground. Long ago, a part of the land had been used for burials, but who was buried there was a mystery—even the villagers didn’t know. At the mountain’s summit, the villagers believed the dead were ancestors or deities, so none dared bury family members there. Graves were chosen in the foothills or, if bold, on the mid-mountain slopes.

Zhao paid no attention to the graves below as he steadily led my grandfather and the others toward the summit. We climbed higher and higher.

My father nervously said, “Uncle Zhao, you’re not really going to the summit, are you? That’s sacred ground for the gods—no one dares go up there!”

Being a native, he had heard all kinds of rumors. Changbai Mountain was famed as a sacred mountain nearby, and our village lay close to it, connected to Qingqiu Mountain. No one dared act recklessly.

Years before, some daring men had ventured up there. Of four, only one returned—mad and living among chickens in a coop, crowing at night without cause. The elders said he had offended the great deity on the mountain, who loved to eat chickens, and so cursed him to become a crowing rooster.

Such ominous tales were common, so my father had no desire to ascend.

My grandfather remained silent but looked serious and tense, filled with anticipation. Zhao cursed as he climbed, “Cowards! We’re going for a marriage alliance—a joyous occasion—not to cause trouble. What’s there to fear?”

At two in the afternoon, we stood at the summit. The scene was unlike the lower graveyards. Here, graves were marked only by piles of stones—no headstones, none at all. The stones were weathered and many were broken or had holes gnawed by unknown creatures.

We stood beneath a crooked-necked tree. My father and grandfather, burdened by their loads, were panting. My father was sturdy, sweat beading his forehead.

Zhao said, “From left to right, from top to bottom, don’t miss a single one. Bow to each!”

He leaned against the crooked tree, lighting a cigarette, showing no intention of helping.

Next came me—the child who couldn’t even walk straight—dressed as a groom, approaching the first grave. Behind me, my father and grandfather carried incense and offerings. The grave was a stone mound, without a headstone.

Grandfather placed an incense burner and lit three sticks of incense, as Zhao had instructed on the way. When the incense was lit, my father whispered urgently, “Kneel down.”

I stared blankly, eyes vacant, chewing on my fingers, looking at the stone mound, utterly clueless.

My father urged, “Kid, this is to save you—kneel now!”

I just looked at the grave.

“If you don’t kneel today, those big troublemakers from three years ago will come and take your life!”

I remained silent.

Grandfather scolded, “He’s a fool, how can you make him understand? Help him yourself!”

Suddenly, my father kicked me in the knee. I was already unsteady, and his kick made my leg go weak, and I dropped to my knees.

Grandfather winced, scolding my father, “Why did you kick my grandson?”

My father scratched his head. “Dad, didn’t you tell me to help him?”

“I meant help him kneel down, not kick him—”

Before grandfather could finish, the three incense sticks began to burn erratically, the smoke twisting wildly.

Then—

With a sharp crack—

The three incense sticks snapped cleanly in half at an angle, as if sliced by an invisible blade, forming a pattern of peaks and valleys.

The sudden noise silenced my father and grandfather, who exchanged panicked glances at the broken incense.

A gust of wind rose from nowhere, as if something unseen stirred nearby...