Chapter Fourteen: Listening to Tales of the Past at the Xing Tavern

The kindly, gentle features of the old lady filled Zhang Qinglin’s gaze. The abrupt, grating tone from just moments before, and the transformation of her expression, left him in disbelief that the person before him was a woman in her seventies, slowed by age and frailty. The way Cheng Che had returned to normal only deepened Zhang Qinglin’s doubt in his own eyes. Just a moment ago, Cheng Che’s mouth had been twisted askew, but now he swept his gaze over the wild vegetable patch ahead with an easy composure, as if the strange events that had just befallen him were entirely unknown to him.

“Grandma, what was that thing?” Cheng Che turned aside, leaving the stone bench behind, his eyes alight with curiosity.

The old lady shuffled shakily toward the stone table, and Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che immediately gave up their seats for her.

“Oh, that?” she said, settling herself with effort. “Around here, we call that a Yellow Path Immortal. Looks just like a huge rat, and you hardly ever see them.”

“Do you mean…a weasel?” Zhang Qinglin asked.

“Enough, Old Zhang, let Grandma finish,” Cheng Che interjected.

The old lady explained that in their region, the weasel was called the Yellow Path Immortal, and at the mere mention of it, her voice became tight with resentment.

Siyue County had once been a place of soaring mountains and sparse population, each household keeping their own fowl, and this Yellow Path Immortal had a penchant for picking off newborn chicks. At first, people hadn’t paid much attention, but as more and more chicks went missing, they realized something was amiss.

That autumn, when the nights began to chill, Old Qian’s family at the village entrance caught a Yellow Path Immortal one evening. In a fit of anger, and in front of the entire village, they hacked it to pieces and tossed it to their dog. Everyone felt a sense of vengeance and declared that if another were caught, it would meet the same fate.

But the next day, every member of Old Qian’s family was mauled to death by that same dog who’d eaten the Yellow Path Immortal. The dog went mad, rampaging and biting villagers, until it was finally beaten to death at the village entrance and buried in the hills behind.

From that day on, every night, the villagers could hear the sound of a dog howling—an unnatural, anguished wailing, just like the dog’s cries as it was beaten to death. Some said it wasn’t a dog howling at all, but a Yellow Path Immortal. The villagers were terrified. A few brave souls managed to drive it away, but it kept coming back to stand at the same spot and howl. More and more Yellow Path Immortals began to appear, frightening everyone with their mimicry—they learned to cry like humans, laugh like humans, even speak like humans, as if possessed by spirits.

So the villagers organized themselves and tried every method to drive the Yellow Path Immortals away. Eventually, the creatures grew fearful and dared not trouble the villagers further, choosing instead to travel along the mountain paths. The elders, still afraid the Yellow Path Immortals might return to summon the spirits of the dead, began to affix round mirrors above their doors for protection.

By the time the old lady finished her tale, it was already past ten at night. As she got up, she reminded Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che to go to bed early and not to step outside, no matter what they heard. Then, she tottered inside.

Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che watched her enter the house, exchanged glances, and said nothing. Though both were young men who scoffed at superstition, a faint unease lingered in their hearts.

Back inside, Cheng Che fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, saying he was exhausted from chasing Da Zhuang all day. Zhang Qinglin understood— they really had spent all their strength in that pursuit. Yet he couldn’t sleep, his hand clutching the wolf-tooth pendant at his chest as he prayed silently: Yueyue, please be safe…

Zhang Qinglin didn’t wake until the sun was high. Opening his eyes, he saw Cheng Che was already gone. He scratched his head, annoyed at not being woken, then grabbed his clothes and jumped off the kang.

“Cheng Che, why didn’t you wake me? What time is it?” Zhang Qinglin called as he slung on his backpack and fastened his buttons, striding quickly out the door.

He found Cheng Che at the stone table, wolfing down a bowl of cold jelly noodles.

Seeing Zhang Qinglin rush out, Cheng Che quickly put down his bowl and chopsticks and hurried after him. “Old Zhang, it’s still early. Eat something first.”

“It’s already past noon! Let’s get going,” Zhang Qinglin said, his eyes fixed on Cheng Che’s wristwatch as he grabbed his arm and brought it up to check the time.

“Grandma, Grandma…” Zhang Qinglin called into the cottage.

“Don’t bother; Grandma’s gone out with Da Zhuang…Hey, Old Zhang, wait up!” Cheng Che dashed inside to grab his clothes and bag, shut the door, and hurried after Zhang Qinglin.

…

Changhai Restaurant stood on the southwest side of Siyue County’s main street. From afar, one could see its roof rising above the street.

The two walked up to the restaurant. Zhang Qinglin looked up—it was a six-story building, lavishly decorated in a retro style, its imposing facade outshining any other hotel or inn in Siyue County.

Above the entrance, a golden plaque with the words “Changhai Restaurant” gleamed, flanked by two rows of four-story, white-painted guest rooms.

Cheng Che swept his eyes over the place and couldn’t help but exclaim, “Old Zhang, this restaurant is absolutely grand! It could rival the Peninsula in Beijing.”

“Let’s go inside,” Zhang Qinglin said.

They walked straight in. As soon as they entered the lobby, hostesses in red cheongsams on either side greeted them with smiles.

The lobby was a visual feast—sumptuous and resplendent, with elegant classical music playing. There was no reception desk; instead, elevators stood on either side, and a magnificent painting titled “Blue Sky and Rosy Clouds” hung on the wall opposite. Staircases on both sides led to the second floor, and a cheongsam-clad hostess, ever-smiling, asked whether they were here to stay or to dine.

“Hello, we’d like to go to Fengyue Pavilion, thank you!” Zhang Qinglin replied politely.

“This way, please,” the hostess said, leading them up the right-hand staircase. At the top, they noticed that this side was not connected to the left. Ahead was a solid wood bench and table, atop which sat a porcelain basin painted with landscapes. To the right were vermilion, vintage-style doors and windows. The hostess stopped, turned to the two of them, and said, “Please wait a moment.”

She knocked twice on the door and slipped inside.

Standing at the top of the stairs, Zhang Qinglin caught sight of a wooden plaque on the wall, inscribed with the words “Fengyue Pavilion.”

Cheng Che sidled up beside him, and the two exchanged glances. Zhang Qinglin lowered his voice. “Cheng Che, once we’re inside, say as little as possible. Let’s figure out who these people are, and whether Yueyue is with them.”

Cheng Che nodded and was about to reply when the hostess opened the door and invited them in. Zhang Qinglin glanced inside, then entered with Cheng Che. The hostess closed the door behind them.

Zhang Qinglin had expected a simple private dining room, but after a few steps, they found themselves separated by a traditional Chinese screen. Rounding the screen, they saw that the room was dimly lit and utterly silent.

If not for the half-drawn, intricately carved window to the left, which let in a sliver of light, stepping inside would have felt like entering a gloomy basement.

Their eyes adjusting, they saw an eight-seater round wooden table behind the screen. Through the faint light, they could make out a gauzy curtain dividing the room, with two people standing on either side inside the curtain. Zhang Qinglin noticed an Eight Immortals table between them, with another person seated nearby. No lights were on.

As he watched, the two tall, burly men behind the curtain stepped out from either side.

They came up behind Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che, pressing them firmly down into the chairs in front of them.

Cheng Che glanced up at the two men—each wore black sunglasses, had close-cropped hair, and held their hands behind their backs, their faces severe.

“Old Zhang, this time we’re in deep. Who the hell are you people, looking like some kind of gangsters? If we were in Beijing, I wouldn’t be afraid of you!” Cheng Che turned, bristling with bravado, his voice not loud but clear enough for everyone in the room to hear.

He had barely started to stand when one of the burly men behind him grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back down.