Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lost Soul

Next, Li Jianguo, unhurried and composed, took a small handful of glutinous rice from another bowl and sprinkled it evenly around Cui Yue as he murmured an obscure incantation. If one listened closely, the syllables rose and fell, as if it were some song of virtue or righteousness.

He chanted for a while, and by then the glutinous rice in his hand was nearly gone. Suddenly, Li Jianguo flung the remaining rice at the upright chopstick standing in the center of the bowl.

According to old sayings, if the glutinous rice could knock down the standing chopstick, all would be well—the restless spirit troubling the living would be pacified, and the resentment dispelled. If, however, the chopstick remained standing, another method would have to be found, lest delay bring harm to the afflicted.

Fortunately, with the Buddha’s blessing, all went smoothly. The rice struck the chopstick, and down it fell, clattering to the floor.

Li Jianguo let out a long breath, handed the bowl of water to Cui Yuanjun, and instructed him, “Brother-in-law, quickly take this bowl of water outside and pour it in the far corner under the stairs. Be sure to pour it all at once—no dribbling or hesitation. Afterward, invert the bowl on the wall’s edge and don’t put it anywhere else.”

Cui Yuanjun took a deep breath, more nervous now than he had ever been. Carefully, he carried the bowl out into the corridor, and with a swift motion, emptied it completely. He placed the bowl upside-down against the wall, left the door slightly ajar, and, anxious, glanced back into the inner room.

Li Jianguo then took out a bundle of cotton-linen, spread it out, and used scissors to cut three strips, each two feet square. He lit an incense stick, used its tip to trace symbols across the cloth, and then ignited each strip in turn. The ash from the burned cloths was poured into an empty bowl and mixed with water.

He stirred the mixture with his finger until it was even, drank half the bowl himself, and poured the rest into Cui Yue’s mouth, causing him to cough violently.

After a moment’s thought, Li Jianguo took up some cinnabar, mixed it with a bit of alcohol, and, once it was dissolved, drew a bright red mark on the center of Cui Yue’s forehead—a tadpole-shaped streak, vivid and striking.

“Second Sister, quickly bring me a piece of clothing Cui Yue wears often—preferably unwashed,” he called to Aunt Li.

“Alright, alright.” Aunt Li, though unsure what Li Jianguo intended, hurried to fetch Cui Yue’s green jacket and handed it to him.

With cinnabar, Li Jianguo drew a similar mark inside the collar, then picked up a length of bamboo from behind the door, used it to prop the jacket at its tip, pushed open the door, and carried it outside.

Cui Yuanjun and Aunt Li exchanged uneasy glances. Receiving no instructions, they dared not follow, and could only watch from the window as Li Jianguo, holding the bamboo pole, walked toward the small playground.

As he walked, Li Jianguo called out, “Cui Yue, oh Cui Yue! Come home now, Cui Yue, it’s time to come home!”

“Cui Yue, your mother’s calling you home for dinner!”—that line, forgive me, would probably make Cui Yue wonder if his mother would next urge him to sneak vegetables home.

The schoolyard was deserted at night, Li Jianguo’s voice echoing across the empty space.

After a while, he returned to the Cui home, still holding the bamboo pole. He laid the green jacket over Cui Yue, straightened things up, and left the inner room, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Second Sister, it’s done,” he said with relief.

Aunt Li hurried in to care for Cui Yue, while Cui Yuanjun remained skeptical.

By the second half of the night, Cui Yue’s fever had broken, his delirium subsided, and he slept peacefully.

Only then did Cui Yuanjun truly believe. He had always looked down on his brother-in-law, seeing him as idle and good-for-nothing, but tonight’s events had changed his view.

Not that everything was thanks to Li Jianguo, but Cui Yue’s recovery was evident, and everyone’s worries were finally eased.

The next morning, the first rays of sunlight slipped through the curtain and fell across Cui Yue’s face.

“Ouch,” Cui Yue muttered as he rolled over, feeling much lighter all over. He’d sweated through the night, soaking the bedding.

He remembered only a long, muddled dream: a woman with long hair entwined and bound him tightly, growing ever more constricting. Just as he was about to suffocate, a wisp of blue smoke drifted by, the grip around his neck loosened, the pressure eased, and the hair uncoiled and disappeared. In the final moments, the woman wept, but Cui Yue couldn’t recall exactly why. Everything was hazy, as if shrouded in mist—indistinct and hard to grasp.

Seeing Cui Yue awake, Cui Yuanjun and Aunt Li finally relaxed. Aunt Li brought over the thin porridge she’d been preparing, and as she fed him, she grumbled softly, “Yue’er, you really frightened your parents this time. Stay away from such places in the future—they’re no good, understand?”

“Yes, Mom, I understand. I probably fell ill from staying up all night and catching a cold wind.”

“And this time, you owe a lot to your uncle—or else…”

“What are you saying?” Cui Yuanjun interrupted. “Don’t fill the boy’s head with nonsense. Just rest at home today. Zhang Hu came by this morning and said the factory granted you two days’ sick leave.”

“Alright, Dad, I understand,” Cui Yue replied as he devoured his porridge.

Two days later, Cui Yue felt fully recovered, his energy returned, and the aches vanished. His appetite doubled—where one bowl of rice once sufficed, now he needed two.

Aunt Li, relieved to see her son’s spirits and appetite restored, finally set her worries aside.

Another two months passed, and Cui Yue found himself thoroughly adapted to his new role and well integrated with his colleagues. Life at the factory was monotonous yet not without its charms: after making rounds with Zhang Hu and keeping the place secure, he had plenty of free time, which he spent reading. Gradually, he was drawn into the camaraderie of his coworkers—joking, drinking, and playing cards. Even Zhang Hu joked that yet another promising young man had been led astray, holding back the progress of socialist construction.

Cui Yuanjun, however, was exasperated. His son hadn’t learned many good habits but had picked up plenty of bad ones. Now grown, there was little more to say—best to let him be. Out of sight, out of mind; at least raising a pet bird brought him some solace and refined his mood.

Cui Yue, for his part, found his life fulfilling and content. Though he had no clear direction, he enjoyed his days and was happy to continue as he was.

County Public Security Bureau, Criminal Investigation Office.

Zhao Weiping drummed his right fingers rhythmically on the desk, gazing thoughtfully at the thick stack of case files before him.