Volume One: The Outcast Sets Forth, Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Two: The Fallen Coffin Rests, Chen San's Departed Soul

The entire town, a few hundred souls in all—at that thought, Daoist Wang dared not dwell further, yet he was certain this was the most ominous omen of all: the Death Hexagram, portending catastrophe of the gravest order. The moment it emerged, Daoist Wang was so shocked he lost his composure. In his more than twenty years as a priest, he had never seen such a portent from the three-coin divination; such omens were always auspicious, never dire. Each of the three ancient coins he used dated from the Qin Dynasty, imbued with the founding nation’s fortune.

For ordinary matters of yin and yang or feng shui, these three coins could bestow luck; for divinations, combined with Daoist Wang’s talismans, they usually turned misfortune into blessing. But how could one turn aside the fate of death? Though shaken, he understood the gravity of the matter; it might well concern the fate of the entire Chen Family Town. If so, it was far beyond his power to resolve. He thought to buy time, but with two deaths in three days, menace pressed in with no space for retreat.

Sweat beaded on his brow, his hair slightly askew, eyes weary, the villagers’ whispers swirling about him. Daoist Wang, anxious as an ant on a hot pan, twirled his beard and paced by Chen Wanfuk’s corpse, clutching his bronze bowl. The villagers, though ignorant of his purpose, could see from his face that calamity loomed, though its depths were hidden to them.

As disquiet began to ripple through the crowd, Daoist Wang finally spoke. “Mayor, I ask you to gather everyone. I must address this matter openly with all—better that everyone knows the truth than be consumed by suspicion and fear.”

“Good, good, let’s gather outside, along the eastern road,” the mayor replied readily. It was what he’d been thinking himself, to hear what Daoist Wang would say; that the priest took the initiative was all the better.

The eastern road was broad and long. Within moments, nearly two hundred people swarmed around. Daoist Wang, having regained his composure, stroked his beard, motioned for silence, and spoke in a raised voice.

“Listen, all of you. I am Daoist Wang, a priest from Xishan Village nearby. This is my third day here. In these three days, both Chen Wannian and Chen Wanfuk have died suddenly, without a word left behind. Frankly, I do not know the cause.

“But days ago, your village lost many chickens and ducks, and since I arrived, a chill wind has haunted the streets. With over twenty years as a Daoist, I know this cannot be mere coincidence.

“Just now, I cast a divination. The omen is dire—our town faces a great catastrophe. If you have kin or friends outside the town, move in with them for a while. Wait until I have uncovered the truth and found a way to resolve this. Then, you may return.”

He had hardly finished when the crowd erupted, voices overlapping—some discussing the events, others Daoist Wang, a few even blaming him. The din was a mix of doubt, complaint, and disbelief.

Some, being rough-hewn and practical, believed only what they saw. To them, talk of spirits was nonsense, and the idea of leaving their ancestral home for such superstitions was unthinkable.

Slowly, grumbling, some turned to leave. The mayor did not stop them, nor did Daoist Wang seem perturbed. Soon, less than a hundred remained.

Looking at those who stayed, Daoist Wang continued, “I am a Daoist, not a god. My master taught me some feng shui and divination, the arts of seeking fortune and avoiding disaster. I can foresee brief fortunes, drive away evil, but this calamity is far beyond my skill. Its danger exceeds anything I can handle.”

“Oh dear, what shall we do, Daoist Wang! You can’t turn your back on us!” cried the elderly mayor, leaping with anxiety. He was old enough to see things with a broad perspective; in such matters, better to believe than not.

“Rest assured, mayor, all of you. Whether you trust me or not, Maoshan has its principles. I will not ignore a threat to lives.”

“Then… is there any way to avert disaster?” someone called out.

“Please help us! Our ancestors have lived here for generations…”

“What can we do? Who knows if this is true or not… but with Wannian and Wanfuk dead… I’m scared. Let’s go hide elsewhere…” The voices tumbled over one another.

Daoist Wang smoothed his beard. “I can only try my luck. The elders say there’s a hermit Daoist versed in yin and yang on the back mountain. I’ve never seen him myself, nor know if he exists, but I mean to go and search. If I find him, perhaps we can yet turn misfortune into blessing.”

The mayor hesitated, the crowd murmured.

“No time, mayor. The living come first. Let’s go to Wannian’s home.”

Recognizing the seriousness, the mayor and remaining villagers followed Daoist Wang to Chen Wannian’s house.

Inside, Chen Xin and Aunt Nian sat by Wannian’s body, eyes swollen with tears.

Upon entering, Daoist Wang spoke bluntly to Aunt Nian. “My condolences, but this is no ordinary matter. We cannot risk keeping Wannian’s body here for seven days. The town grows colder, though it’s well past July. Even in broad daylight, a chilling wind blows. If we delay, disaster may strike.”

Already grief-stricken, Aunt Nian broke into wails. The mayor, helpless, wanted to comfort them, but seeing the heartbroken mother and daughter, could not find the words.

Chen Xin choked back her sobs and asked, “Daoist Wang, what should we do? With Father gone, it’s just Mother and me. We don’t know what to do.”

Daoist Wang replied urgently, “I advise immediate burial. Today is the third day—do it now, quickly, and dig the grave five feet deep. If you agree, we must prepare the body at once, without delay.”

Chen Xin hesitated, surprised by the urgency. She glanced at the mayor, who nodded helplessly.

Tears welled up in Chen Xin’s eyes. She wiped them away, bent to whisper to Aunt Nian, who, weeping bitterly, reluctantly nodded as she clung to Wannian’s hand.

Chen Xin rose. “So be it. Father is gone; we will visit him on the back mountain from now on.” Her trembling voice wrung the hearts of all who heard it, Chen San included.

Then Chen Xin knelt and bowed three times to her father—once for his raising her, once for tradition and ritual, and once for farewell, as this would be forever.

The mayor and Daoist Wang began arranging the burial. After a few words, the mayor turned to Daoist Wang, “What about Chen Wanfuk? No funeral rites—just bury him? I fear his widow won’t agree.”

Daoist Wang frowned. “She must agree. Both died under strange circumstances. Frankly, even I don’t know what’s happening, but based on my three-coin hexagram, Chen Wanfuk’s body cannot remain at home; it must be buried at once.

“Mayor, to be honest, the hexagram I cast was the Death Hexagram. Of all the possible omens, this one I’ve never seen in over twenty years as a Daoist, nor did my master ever encounter it. Divination reveals what is yet to come, so the one meant to die in this omen has not yet died.”

“What can we do, then? What evil have we committed, to bring this upon ourselves…” The mayor shook his head, face drawn with sorrow.

“This is not the time to dwell on such things. We must bury Wannian and Wanfuk at once. I fear there may be further changes. Mayor, please persuade Wanfuk’s wife. I must prepare the funeral; there’s not a moment to lose.

“And the forest behind the mountain is hundreds of acres. To find a hermit there may take days.” Daoist Wang shook his head and sighed.

Facing such urgency, the mayor had no choice but to act. Should disaster strike, how could he face his ancestors? He wore a bitter expression.

“There’s no other way. I’ll persuade Wanfuk’s widow, whatever it takes. As for you, Daoist Wang—knowing the danger, yet still helping our town—such kindness we can never repay. Please accept my humble bow.”

Seeing the mayor about to kneel, Daoist Wang quickly stopped him.

“Mayor, don’t. I am a Daoist; this is my duty. Though I know only simple arts of averting disaster, when such evil strikes a small town, I cannot stand by. As a Daoist, I cannot watch you all perish. Let us first bury Wannian. Though his body has lain here only three days, the funeral rites must not be neglected.”

Daoist Wang went outside and addressed the villagers, “Wannian died in the dead of night; this case is unusual. The pallbearers must be born at midday—at the hour of true noon. If you were born then, step forward. We need four to carry Wannian up the mountain.”

The crowd stirred. Soon, three stepped forward: Old Niu from next door, Chen Qing from the south of town, and Chen Fugui from the north. Except for the younger Chen Qing, aged twenty-six, Old Niu and Fugui were both over fifty, strong hunters. They’d carried coffins before, often for relatives, and did not hesitate now. Chen Qing, Wannian’s nephew, was pushed forward by his mother; perhaps everyone felt uneasy, and after a while, only three volunteers stood there.

Daoist Wang had them give their birth dates and times, calculated, and found no problems.

He called again, “We still need one more. Though midday births are rare, with two or three hundred in the village, four shouldn’t be hard. We’re all neighbors; everyone needs help sometimes. Time is short, one more person, and we can see Wannian off.”

At this, Chen Xin pleaded with the crowd, “Please, help my father. He was always kind. For this last journey, I beg you, help him.” She fell to her knees, sobbing.

Still, no one stepped forward. The mayor grew anxious.

“Daoist Wang, perhaps we really have only three born at midday. Is there another way?”

Before Daoist Wang could reply, Chen San emerged from the back of the crowd, brow furrowed, gently helping Chen Xin up, and stood before Daoist Wang.

“I was born an hour after noon. I’m not afraid. I live alone—let me carry Uncle Wannian.”

Chen Xin, seeing Chen San’s calm face for the first time, felt from her heart that he was a man of true responsibility.

Daoist Wang looked at Chen San, about to speak, checked the time, and sighed, “Time is tight. Let’s prepare Wannian for burial.”

He began ringing the triple-purity bells and chanting.

Old Niu and Fugui lifted Wannian into the coffin. As the lid closed, Chen Xin and Aunt Nian wailed; this was their final parting. Some relatives, too, wept in sorrow.

With ropes and coffin poles ready, Daoist Wang watched the sun climb to midday.

“The departed journeys on. Raise the coffin!”

The four men hefted the coffin, Daoist Wang leading, bells ringing, scattering yellow spirit papers. Relatives in white garments cast white paper, Chen Xin, holding the mourning rod, and Aunt Nian walked ahead, with the coffin carried by Chen San, Old Niu, Chen Qing, and Chen Fugui, and other villagers in white cloth following.

There was no funeral music, but a solemn procession of dozens followed Daoist Wang into the mountains. Though Wannian’s body had lain at home only three days, every step of the burial was observed.

The mayor did not join. He told Aunt Nian that as they buried Wannian, he’d persuade Wanfuk’s widow to allow her husband’s burial. But Wanfuk had died only that morning, and tradition held the body should rest at home for seven days. Remembering Daoist Wang’s warning, and pitying Wanfuk’s widow, the mayor shook his head, not sure how to begin.

Yet this was no ordinary time; Wanfuk had to be buried.

While Daoist Wang’s party was in the mountains, the mayor, leaning on his cane, hurried to Chen Wanfuk’s home and explained everything to his widow. She, an outsider with no children and only her husband for company, was bereft and refused to break tradition. In the end, the mayor had to offer the burial plot Daoist Wang had chosen for himself; only then did she reluctantly agree.

An hour later, Daoist Wang and his party returned to bury Wanfuk, following the same steps, with Chen San and the others carrying the coffin. By the time all was done, evening had fallen. Two deaths in three days left the whole town busy, but someone arranged dinner, and after a day’s labor, the villagers finally ate a proper meal.

Daoist Wang rested a night, planning to search the mountain for the hermit at dawn. But before he could set out, disaster struck again that night.

This time it was Chen San. Living alone, it should have been hard for anyone to notice if something happened, but Chen Xin was a sharp-minded girl. She remembered that Daoist Wang had chosen midday-born pallbearers for her father’s coffin—clearly, he thought it dangerous. So, from the moment the coffin was lifted, she’d watched Chen San closely, fearing something might happen.

Though Chen San had always been a bit unruly, sometimes teasing Chen Xin, his calm face and resolute eyes that day left an impression she would never forget.

At dawn, as the villagers gathered to see Daoist Wang off up the mountain, Chen Xin looked for Chen San in the crowd. He was always up early, often seen idling in the streets as she walked to the river to wash clothes. Not seeing him, her heart filled with dread, and she ran straight to his home.

Daoist Wang, noticing her anxious dash, asked the mayor, who knew nothing—only that Chen San’s house was in that direction. Learning Chen Xin had gone there, Daoist Wang’s heart lurched, and he hurried after her.

Soon, they reached Chen San’s door. Chen Xin called out, but there was no answer. Her foreboding grew, tears already brimming in her eyes.

Daoist Wang kicked the door open. Inside, Chen San lay motionless on the bed. Daoist Wang felt for his breath—steady, yet his body was cold as death, with a deep chill about him, and he could not be roused. Chen Xin shook him, tears dropping onto his still form.

Unbeknownst to them, as they shook Chen San, his soul stood nearby, watching. He’d already discovered, upon waking, that his spirit was separated from his body. Rising to get ready to see off Daoist Wang, he’d felt weightless; looking back, he saw his body still lying there. He tried several times to return to it, but could not.

Daoist Wang, though versed only in feng shui and divination, was a true Maoshan disciple. To avoid the five evils and three lacks, his master had taught him only those arts. He had not crossed into the deeper yin-yang mysteries. Still, he’d heard enough from his master and brothers to judge that Chen San had “lost his soul.”

Though his diagnosis might not be precise, for a Daoist with no yin-yang training, it was remarkably accurate. But Daoist Wang knew no soul-summoning; his spiritual sight had never opened, nor had he learned such spells. He could not call back Chen San’s soul.

A soul can only be summoned by a direct relative. Chen San lived alone; his family was long gone. Daoist Wang, helpless, could only try to preserve Chen San’s body. Though icy cold, it still breathed—there was a sliver of hope. All hope now rested on the mountain hermit, that he might descend to save Chen San, and the whole town.

Chen Xin, weeping uncontrollably, heard Daoist Wang say, “Girl, he ended up this way for carrying your father’s coffin. He is not dead yet—perhaps he can still be saved.”

Upon hearing there was hope, Chen Xin fell to her knees, grasped Daoist Wang’s hand, and begged him through tears to save Chen San.

Daoist Wang helped her up and said, “A man will die in four days without food or water. In these four days, he cannot eat or drink, but you can wet a towel every two hours and press it to his lips. Do this without fail, changing the towel as needed. Though he is unconscious, the water will slowly seep into his mouth. Do not pour water directly, or the ancient coin’s luck will be lost.

“I will place a Qin coin in his mouth—its founding fortune may protect his soul. As long as his other souls remain, he can survive four days.”

Daoist Wang took out the last two ancient coins, placing one in Chen San’s mouth and giving the other to Chen Xin as a protective charm.

Chen Xin nodded through her tears, gazing at Chen San’s still form. All this, Chen San’s soul saw, but his cries could not reach them. Seeing Chen Xin weep for him, he reached out to touch her face, but his vision blurred and he slipped into unconsciousness.

By then, more villagers had arrived. Daoist Wang said little, bid farewell, urged Chen Xin to care for Chen San, and, taking the provisions given by the mayor, set off alone up the mountain.