Chapter 4: Lighting the Lamp and Summoning Spirits (Part I)
Fortunately, my father, being the younger generation, had not truly transgressed any taboos. However, forcing a grown man to kneel before him—how could the elderly Zhou patriarch reconcile such an act in his heart?
Zhou Er had already begun pulling my father up, and even Zhou's wife, the old matron, raised herself on tiptoe and hurried over, grasping my father's arm as she gently chided, "Child, you must not do this."
"Uncle Zhou, my old man always said that a son should never kneel unless absolutely necessary, but I truly have no other choice," my father said, wiping his eyes. My mother followed suit, dabbing at her own tears. It was clear that she had made up her mind—this night, they would plead with Widow Zhou for help, no matter what.
"Ah, I can't make this decision. Let my eldest daughter-in-law decide," Zhou's patriarch sighed heavily, calling to his wife before the two of them turned and walked to their bedroom.
This was, in truth, the old man's way of helping my father. After all, Widow Zhou had already lost her husband, and the Zhou family had always treated her with care and compassion. How could they force her into doing something against her will? That would be akin to exploiting a widow and an orphan. At this point, Zhou's patriarch had done all he could.
Moreover, besides my father's kneeling, there was another crucial factor: my father had mentioned my late grandfather, a man with whom Zhou's patriarch had once shared a deep bond. The reason behind their friendship stemmed from an incident in which my grandfather had saved Zhou's patriarch.
In the mountains, venomous snakes were common. On one occasion, Zhou's patriarch was working in the fields when my grandfather, passing by, witnessed a golden-ringed snake preparing to strike him. Normally, snakes would not attack humans unless provoked—either stepped on or threatened. With no time to warn him, my grandfather, seeing the danger, swiftly struck the snake in half with his hoe. Zhou's patriarch turned around at the noise, and upon following my grandfather's gaze, he was struck with cold sweat as he saw the still-writhing snake on the ground.
People in the mountains never forgot acts of kindness. When my father brought up this story, Zhou's patriarch could no longer remain indifferent. His heart softened, and he decided to take the risk for my father's sake.
Seeing that the elder had relented, Zhou Er no longer opposed the decision. He simply said, "Old Chen, get up. Whatever happens now, my sister-in-law will decide. Kneeling here is not right. I'll step out for a while."
With that, Zhou Er left the room, leaving only our family of three and Widow Zhou.
At this point, any further kneeling would surely offend Widow Zhou. My mother, still holding me, rose to her feet and gently pulled at my father's arm. "Old Chen, get up. It's not proper to kneel any longer."
Following her guidance, my father rose, wiping his eyes as he did so. He dabbed at his sleeve, but my mother remained remarkably calm. She turned to Widow Zhou and spoke earnestly, "Yuehong, we are both mothers. Just look at my son—he's barely over a month old, and he's already suffering like this. As a mother, it feels like my heart is being ripped out, bit by bit."
There is a universal bond of motherhood, one that transcends all barriers. Upon hearing these words, Widow Zhou was immediately moved. She quickly waved her hand, hiccupping slightly as she spoke, "Ah… Xiuyun… please… don't… continue… I really… do want to help… I've just been worried… too much… but tonight… I will help you…"
At her words, my parents were overjoyed. They didn't fully understand what "passing through the Yin" entailed, but they were eager for Widow Zhou to immediately perform whatever ritual she needed. They thought that any form of assistance from her would involve "opening a ritual" of sorts.
A few minutes later, my mother, still holding me, was led into the western wing by Widow Zhou, while my father was left outside to wait.
There was a strict rule when it came to Widow Zhou's ritual: no man was allowed into the western wing. Any matters that arose could only be addressed by female relatives, and sometimes even when a woman was invited into the room, Widow Zhou would simply glance at her and send her back out.
This was quite different from other practitioners of such rituals.
Thus, my mother finally stepped into the mysterious, overblown western wing that Widow Zhou had so carefully cultivated.
The moment she entered, my mother's first reaction was the overwhelming darkness. It was so pitch black that she couldn't see her own hand before her. The coldness in the air was unlike the usual winter chill—it was a bone-deep cold, a chill that seemed to seep into her very soul, causing her skin to crawl.
"Yuehong, I… I don't feel right. It's like something is watching me," my mother murmured. The only comfort she could rely on was Widow Zhou, so she clung to the hem of her garment, standing at the doorway of the room, unwilling to step further inside.
Naturally, the main reason for her hesitation was the complete lack of visibility in the room—my mother couldn't see anything.
"Don't be afraid… I'll light a lamp…" Widow Zhou hiccupped, still speaking in her strange manner.
My mother, despite her unease, let go of Widow Zhou's garment and stood in the oppressive, pitch-black room. The stillness was unbearable, every second feeling like an eternity. The discomfort in the air was so palpable that, had this been any other time, my mother would have turned and fled. She was not a particularly courageous woman.
But for me, she was willing to endure. With my father unable to enter, my mother was determined that she was my only hope.
Fortunately, Widow Zhou was well-acquainted with the room. After a rustling sound, light finally appeared. It turned out that she had lit an oil lamp.
The light from the oil lamp was dim, but it was enough for my mother to make out the room's sparse furnishings. There were no windows, and the walls were draped in heavy black cloth, the purpose of which remained unclear.
The room's decor was simple, almost barren. The original furniture had likely been removed long ago, leaving only a bed, a table, and two stools. The table was set with food, though my mother couldn't discern for whom it was intended. Upon closer inspection, she noticed a brazier on the floor, its remnants of ashes unmistakable. She immediately recognized the signs—it was clear that paper money had been burned here.
Next to the food lay a withered radish, its limp form marked by several burnt incense traces.
The only item that seemed to offer any semblance of warmth was the bed, which was surprisingly neat and tidy, the white cloth with blue floral patterns clean and simple.
At that moment, Widow Zhou sat on one of the stools by the table, motioning for my mother to come closer.
Taking a deep breath, my mother mustered all her courage and walked over, holding me tightly in her arms. She sat down on the only remaining stool across from Widow Zhou.
"Xiuyun…" Widow Zhou hiccupped as she spoke, her voice serious despite the strange interruptions. "What you see here tonight… you must not speak of. The only thing you may say… is what I will tell you later... Do you understand?" Her tone was grave, and though the hiccups made her words sound almost comical, they did little to soften the severity of her message.
My mother, trembling, nodded obediently. In the village, promises were taken seriously, and if not for the events that followed, she would never have uttered a word about what happened in that room.
It was also Widow Zhou's request that she speak to no one else, but that is a matter for another time.
Once my mother agreed, Widow Zhou closed her eyes. My mother, uncertain of what to expect, could only wait in silence.
After a while, she noticed a change in Widow Zhou's expression. A smile appeared, a soft, feminine smile—yet in that eerie, dimly lit room, the sight of it sent shivers down my mother's spine.
Why was she smiling? My mother, unsettled, thought that even if she were given ten hens that could lay eggs, she would have no reason to smile in such a place.
Then, Widow Zhou's smile faded, and her brow furrowed with an expression of surprise. She began speaking in a strange, rapid mutter that my mother could barely follow. The words came so fast that my mother could hardly catch them.
What was most unsettling, though, was that throughout this strange incantation, Widow Zhou kept her eyes closed, her head twisted to the side as if she were looking at something far beyond my mother.
My mother, though just an ordinary village woman, was already on edge. The bizarre scene left her covered in goosebumps, and she couldn't fathom how she was still sitting there, watching it all unfold.
At last, Widow Zhou stopped her rapid mumbling. Her expression softened, and then, with a sudden jolt, she turned her head and opened her eyes.
The moment she opened her eyes, my mother froze. She had known Widow Zhou for many years, but in that instant, something felt different. The woman sitting across from her didn't feel quite like the Widow Zhou she knew.
She was both familiar and unfamiliar at once. My mother couldn't explain why, but she could feel it—something was not right.
"You're here to find out what's wrong with your son, aren't you?" Widow Zhou's voice broke the silence. The strange thing was, there were no more hiccups, and her speech was slow, deliberate, but crystal clear. It was unmistakably her voice, but there was something off about it—like it belonged to someone else entirely.
The sensation was beyond my mother's ability to describe; if she had to put it into words, it was akin to holding someone's hand while swatting at a mosquito.
And wasn't it precisely the purpose of this ritual for the widow to inspect the condition of her son?
But how could my mother dare to question anything? To her, anyone versed in the art of sorcery was an awe-inspiring figure, deserving of utmost respect. Besides, the matter of her son's health was paramount. Upon hearing the widow's inquiry, my mother hastily nodded in response.
"Bring the child to me; I must take a look," the widow instructed in her strange, unsettling tone.
A wave of relief washed over my mother, who quickly stood and, clutching me in her arms, walked over to the widow, gently unwrapping my swaddling.
It was then that the most bizarre thing occurred. As the widow's gaze fell upon my face, she suddenly screamed, her eyes snapping shut, her voice rising in alarm, "Take the child away! Take the child away!"
My mother, struck by the sudden outburst, felt her heart lurch. What could be so terrifying about my son? What had he gotten entangled with?
Looking up at the widow, her face was now an ashen pale, her eyes clamped shut as if in horror.
In this moment, my mother dared not linger. She swiftly gathered me up once more and returned to her original seat.
"My dear, my child…" My mother's concern for me was evident as she settled back down and immediately asked in a whisper.
"Take the child outside first. Once you're outside, we'll talk," the widow commanded, not acknowledging my mother's questions. She urgently insisted that my mother take me out before she moved to the bed and crouched down, as though searching for something beneath it.
Filled with both concern and curiosity, my mother dared not delay. She nodded, clutching me to her chest as she exited the room.
The moment she stepped outside, she saw my father pacing in the courtyard, his face a picture of anxiety. As soon as he saw my mother, he hurried over. "Xiuyun, is our son going to be alright?"
"No, I can't explain it yet. Take the child to find Zhou Er and chat with him, don't stand out here and let the child catch a chill. I'll go back in," my mother replied, her voice trembling. She quickly issued the instructions to my father and hurried back toward the west wing.
Though my father longed to ask more, he ultimately remained silent, his lips parting but words failing him. With a reluctant sigh, he turned and made his way toward Zhou Er.
Inside the west wing, my mother saw the widow crouching by the stove, burning paper money while muttering something under her breath. Apparently, she had gone beneath the bed to retrieve the offerings.
My mother seated herself once more at the table. This time, the widow's voice no longer carried that strange, incomprehensible tone, allowing my mother to clearly hear what was being said.
Though she couldn't recall the exact words, the meaning was unmistakable.
"I offer you this paper money. Take it, and then go. Do not return here, and do not cause trouble. We are all on the same path; it's not easy for me either…" The widow repeated this over and over, sending a chill through my mother's spine.
My mother, though not foolish, recognized immediately that the widow wasn't speaking to her, but rather to something else—something unseen. But how was it that the widow and that thing were aligned?
What was even more terrifying was that, after finishing her incantations, the widow began to mutter again in a fast, unintelligible language. The moment the last word left her lips, a gust of wind began to whirl through the room, a force so intense that it rattled the air. The wind surged in seventeen or eighteen bursts before finally ceasing.
Never before had my mother witnessed such a spectacle. The room was shrouded in heavy curtains, not a single window in sight—so where had the wind come from?
Tears welled in my mother's eyes, but she forced herself to remain composed, swallowing her fear for my sake.
When the wind finally died down, the widow returned to her seat, her expression calm. She turned to my mother and uttered a single cryptic sentence: "Wait here."