Chapter Thirteen: Hezi Village (Part Five)

Those green lights lurking beneath the river vanished in the blink of an eye, like some enormous creature darting through the waters at the Second Crossing. I saw no shadow in the water, but as the lights faded, a wisp of blue smoke rose from the river's surface—graceful, swirling, whistling upward into the dusk, pausing for a moment before disappearing in the last glow of sunset.

Perched atop the tree, I was transfixed, wondering if there truly were water spirits in this river. Yet the sun had not fully set; half its golden disk still clung to the western mountains, reluctant to descend. Even ghosts fear the daylight and should not appear at such an hour.

It must be phosphorescent fire, then.

In riverbeds that often dry up, fish are left stranded and perish over time, year after year, their corpses accumulating in the mud. When decay reaches a certain point, phosphorescent fires emerge.

I’d heard this explanation from a Yellow River laborer who sold jade pieces, but how could phosphorescent fire burn underwater? And that blue smoke—no matter how I looked at it, it seemed far from ordinary. The more I pondered, the less sense it made. I climbed higher, half-hanging from the treetop, squinting toward the river.

After waiting less than five minutes, the green glow reappeared.

This time I saw it clearly: the light rose from the riverbed, racing upward along bubbles through the current, and at the instant it touched air, it transformed into wisps of blue smoke, soaring into the sky. There, it condensed into a faint azure mist, drifting briefly before vanishing.

Seeing this uncanny blue smoke, I was struck by a sudden realization—swearing on Mao’s name, I recalled where I’d seen it before. When thumbing through the “Ancient Register of Treasure Guardians” a few nights ago, I’d read:

Mountains and rivers, earth and sky, life force flows—each region bears its own, shaping the land’s character. The energy of heaven and earth halts at physical forms, lingering without dispersing. All things change and exist by its presence; thus, form and energy are one. Just as the sun, moon, and stars’ vigorous energy ascends, so the gentle energy of mountains and vegetation gathers below, and so the flow of life force differs from place to place, manifesting unique landforms.

“Watching the Qi,” is the exclusive skill of treasure guardians for locating and judging sites, akin to the grave-robbing “Mountain Survey,” both stemming from the feng shui practice of “observing form and situation,” though differing in their finer details. Yin-yang masters observe Qi before sunrise, while treasure guardians do so at sunset, as daylight fades and shadow rises.

The technique requires the watcher to half-open their eyes, observing the Qi of mountains and waters from the corner of their gaze. That is, to observe directly ahead, one must tilt the head slightly.

The register also records the colors of Qi: Yellow for spirits, blue for demons, red for treasures, and white for emptiness.

If the Qi is golden yellow, a celestial spirit is cultivating there; blue means a beast or demon has gained power; white signals nothingness.

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The riverbank here, shaped by countless centuries, must have existed for hundreds or nearly a thousand years. It captures the essence of earth and sky, absorbs the vitality of sun and moon, and the living water ensures the life force never ceases. If what the ancient register claims is true, then surely this river harbors a great demon!

I drew a deep breath, clinging to the treetop for a long while, but by now the sun had set and the moment for observing Qi was gone. Climbing back down to straddle a branch, I stared at the now tranquil river, suspecting the battered old book was not mere nonsense. If its records proved true and I survived this ordeal, I must study it again.

But my most pressing concern was Tong Xiaomeng.

That girl believed she could deceive the villagers, posing as the sacrificial bride and planning to escape. Yet if a great demon truly lurked in these waters, even with a submachine gun she might not make it back alive.

With this thought, the waiting grew torturous. I couldn’t return to the village like her; the sun was already set, and even from my perch, I could hear distant music rising from within—the ceremony in the ancestral hall must have concluded. All that remained was to wait for darkness, when the bride would be brought to the riverbank and cast into the water, completing the final ritual.

Most crucially, the girl from that courtyard hadn’t come as promised. Could Tong Xiaomeng have failed?

The more I considered, the more uneasy I felt. Perhaps she’d been caught and sent out of the village with Professor Gu. A sinking ship still has three thousand nails; now I was left alone, as helpless as rowing a boat in a well.

After a while, I glanced at the darkening sky and shivered. The music from the village grew louder, and turning, I saw countless flames converging there—the sacrificial procession must be approaching. With nowhere to run, I could only hide in the branches and pray to make it through. Even if I had to swim, tonight I’d escape across the river, but not from this spot.

Clear wine, red faces—wealth and beauty stir the heart. Had Jin Yitiao not been greedy for that hundred thousand yuan, I, a jade merchant, would never have been cornered so desperately.

The night wind at the river’s mouth was chilly. Hugging my shoulders, I calculated the chance of swimming across at a narrow spot. Suddenly, a loud whoosh erupted behind me, and from the corner of my eye, I saw a huge flame leap skyward, lighting up the night.

Startled, I turned to see a crowd of villagers bearing torches, clustered around a red bridal sedan, leaving the village and heading my way. The sounds of suona, gongs, and drums filled the air. All wore identical black, shoulder-baring robes. Though the drums thundered, their faces, illuminated by torchlight, were lifeless, grim, at odds with the festive music. Four men carried the red sedan, but their expressions didn’t match the task—one would think they bore a coffin.

I then noticed, leading the procession, a figure with an enormous mask, clad in a robe of vibrant reds and greens, the mask painted with a fierce, blue-faced demon, the robe festooned with bells that jingled wildly in the river wind. His movements were half dance, half ritual. As the group drew near, he suddenly raised both hands to the sky, his body trembling violently.

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“River god rises, all blessings flow, the year is in the Rooster and Rabbit, great joy and fortune!”

Like a shaman invoking the heavens, his voice was not loud, but piercing, reciting incantations with a peculiar hum—a sound that instantly reminded me of the old man I’d seen in the village earlier.

I’d assumed he was the village chief or clan leader, but I hadn’t expected him to be tonight’s officiant.

I took the DV camera hanging from my neck, found a comfortable position on the branch, aimed at the wedding procession, and pressed record.

The grand procession halted. From behind the old man, four others emerged, dressed in similar robes of red and green, faces masked, though their garments lacked bells, suggesting lesser status.

These four began to dance around the old man, their movements stiff and twisted, eerie beneath the shroud of night.

The more I watched, the more unsettled I became, wondering if the timing of the river sacrifice was as important as the ritual itself. Then I remembered what Tong Xiaomeng had mentioned earlier—that in the “Ninghai County Gazetteer,” it was recorded that the river god would appear before the villagers cast the girl into the water.

Suddenly, someone in the procession shouted, “River god takes a bride, all evil retreats!” The dancing priests halted, and all eyes, young and old, fixed intently in my direction.

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle...

My whole body trembled as I heard the rushing river behind me fall abruptly silent. The bubbling beneath the water, at this moment, was piercingly loud.