Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Dragon Turtle Calms the Huai River

This female corpse, though dressed in a cheongsam, was not the one I encountered on the street last night. At the corner of her eye was a faint scar, as if her skin had cracked from dryness. The moment she raised her head, I realized how much she resembled the corpse lying at the bottom of the river in Hezi Village that night. Yet her face bore far fewer wounds. Remembering the eerie smile she showed before she left, I felt a profound sense of unease welling from within me.

Jin Yitiao’s reply came swiftly: “9:30, East Gate of the North Square at the West Ring Passenger Station. I’ll wait for you there.”

I checked the time—just after midnight. The situation was much like the night before. I tucked my book into a hidden compartment, crept up the stairs, and pressed my ear against Tong Xiaomeng’s door. Only when I heard her steady breathing did my heart settle.

It seemed she still dared not simply barge in, yet she left one with the illusion that she could enter whenever she pleased. I wondered what method the Jade Corpse had used to almost drown Tong Xiaomeng in her own bed. At first, I believed it to be a psychosomatic response, but it was evidently not the case. The corpse’s actions tonight reminded me of a master thief staking out his target. The dozens of female corpses in coffins beneath the riverbed at Hezi Village hung over me like a bomb, robbing me of all peace.

A little after three in the morning, I locked up and slipped out, heading to West Market Street. I picked up some items I might need for the journey ahead, since I would have to leave for the passenger station at dawn and worried I would not have enough time. If before I was merely meddling, now the situation was a matter of survival.

At first light, I set out, still not telling Tong Xiaomeng what had happened in the shop the night before. I simply told her that there was finally a lead on the corpse-retrievers of the Yellow River, that they were in Kaifeng, and that we needed to go see for ourselves.

Tong Xiaomeng was delighted. She went upstairs to change and came down with her long hair tied in a ponytail, a black baseball cap, a black short-sleeved top, outdoor shorts, and hiking shoes just above the ankle. Her large eyes sparkled with youthful vitality and a touch of spirited confidence.

She was a striking Xinjiang beauty, with Han heritage as well, and an exceptional student. She was nothing like the seasoned rogues like us who scraped by in the East Gate alleys. It was as if a fairy had descended from the clouds to mingle with fools.

We found Jin Yitiao at the East Gate of the bus terminal’s square. He had slicked his hair back with pomade, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, slacks, and leather shoes—done up to look like a North Korean official. He was easy to spot amid the crowd.

He took the backpack from Tong Xiaomeng, and the three of us boarded the bus bound for Henan.

On the road, I took a careful look at the photo in Jin Yitiao’s hand: a massive urn shaped like a turtle shell, dark green and carved all over with tortoiseshell patterns. I asked him what exactly it was and whether it had anything to do with the corpse-retrievers of the Yellow River.

Grinning, Jin Yitiao explained that the thing had been dug up the previous year during riverbed works, three meters deep in silt. The locals called it the “Dragon Palanquin”—the seat of the Yellow River King during his patrols. It was covered in runes, and as it was unearthed at noon, the sky abruptly darkened, a heavy rain fell, and the riverbed flooded within moments. If not for a few men risking dislocated shoulders to carry it out, the thing would likely have been claimed by the river, never to be seen again.

Though Jin Yitiao’s tale was eerie, to my eyes it was just a gigantic turtle shell. Yet anything that defies natural law becomes a rarity. In the photo, a man stood beside the shell, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. If one were to put a person inside with the lid on, they’d be hidden from view.

I’d never seen such a massive turtle shell before. I wondered if it might have been a giant sea turtle that had swum upriver from the ocean. Tong Xiaomeng adjusted her cap, craned her neck, and examined the photo too.

Given her background in folklore studies, I thought she might spot something I missed. But after a look, she simply said, “A turtle shell.”

The photo sparked a sudden thought. According to the ancient “Manual of Treasure Suppression,” a turtle that grew to such size would be classified as a “lower spirit” or even a “mid-level spirit,” given its age. Turtle shell is used in Chinese medicine—the herbal shop across from the old temple sells it as “tortoiseshell,” a prized remedy listed in the “Shennong Materia Medica,” effective for ailments like yin deficiency fever, kidney weakness, and menstrual disorders. If I sold such a huge shell and converted the profits into coins, I might be crushed under their weight.

I figured Jin Yitiao had stumbled upon a fortune and could not help but feel a twinge of envy. I casually steered the conversation back to the corpse-retrievers.

Jin Yitiao admitted that luck played a part in the story, and that it was connected to the turtle shell. In recent years, the state had invested heavily in infrastructure along the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers, constructing bridge after bridge. The old river boatmen of the Yellow River were out of work or had switched trades, but few chose corpse retrieval.

Why? The Yellow River is swift and fierce; few dare venture near. If someone falls in, it’s not like the city rivers where you might find a body forty or fifty kilometers downstream if you’re lucky. Most corpses are never claimed. Even scavenging for scrap pays better than retrieving bodies, so the trade has withered. Plus, during the campaigns to stamp out superstition, the true corpse-retrievers became pariahs, almost impossible to find.

By chance, when the giant turtle shell was discovered, the villagers tried to haul it home. Out of nowhere, an old man in tattered clothes appeared, wielding a tobacco pipe and driving people away, claiming the shell was a bad omen. He composed a poem: “From the heavens the Yellow River winds, below a dragon turtle guards the Huai.”

The “Huai” refers to our destination this trip—a riverside village called Shanxia, fifty kilometers south of Shangyu County in Kaifeng. It sits five kilometers upstream from the Yellow River Grand Canyon, nestled against the Huai Mountains. Here, the river bends and twists, one meander after another. In the rainy season, the Yellow River surges like a yellow dragon, roaring day and night. Waves at the canyon can reach tens of meters high—a sight to behold.

Yet, for all its fury, the river has never flooded the local villages. The reason, the old man said, was the dragon turtle.

Legend has it that during the time of Yu the Great, when he passed through, he found the area prone to floods but the terrain unchangeable. He caught a giant turtle from the depths of the Yellow Sea, severed its limbs to anchor the four corners, removed its flesh and bone, and buried the shell in the winding riverbed, creating a geomantic formation called “Dragon Spitting Pearl.” Since then, the river’s flow, guided by the land’s curves, never strayed ashore.

But nature is never constant. The shell, buried underwater for centuries, had absorbed much malice from rotting carcasses and river silt, held in check only by its own spiritual power. Removing the “treasure” would bring calamity to the surrounding villages.

Some recognized the meddling old man as Liu Deshui, known as Old Ghost Liu. Formerly a river worker, he turned to corpse retrieval after the ferry business died. During the campaigns against old customs, he was publicly denounced and vanished. People thought he’d just gone off to die somewhere.

Some elders still revered Old Ghost Liu, but the lure of easy money was stronger than his warnings. Their haste to remove the shell and get it ashore, however, ironically saved their lives from the rising river—so in a way, Old Ghost Liu saved them.

Tong Xiaomeng asked, “So, can we still find Liu Deshui?”

Jin Yitiao grinned. “Of course. He curses outside the yard where the shell is stored every day. We’ll see him as soon as we get there.”