Chapter Eleven: Uncle Pillar

I wanted to ask more, but my elder brother was unwilling to elaborate. He kept his composure, sipping his eight-treasure porridge spoonful by spoonful. Watching him, I suddenly wondered what was hidden behind that calm face. He had been adopted out of town when he was three and had only been back for a couple of months, yet he seemed to know more about the affairs of Fudigou than I, who had lived here all my life.

Take this matter, for example: Uncle Zhuzi was known as the corpse fisherman for fools—that much I had heard before. But the fact that the fool’s body was fished out from the Twelfth Ghost Cave was something I was hearing for the first time. Not even the villagers knew about it. My elder brother was never one for wild tales; if he said so, it must be the truth. The question was, how did he know all this?

He offered me no explanation. It was only after I walked out of his house that I came to terms with it. My brother, who had returned so suddenly, was a mystery in himself. From his ability to determine life and death, to his entering the Twelfth Ghost Cave, and now his insight into matters unknown to others—all pointed to that fact.

I was not someone overly curious by nature, yet now I found that my brother could stir my curiosity to the point where it gnawed at me like a thousand ants. And he simply refused to give me answers, leaving me both frustrated and helpless.

After leaving his house, I prepared to seek out Uncle Zhuzi. To be honest, if I had a little selfishness, there would be no need to hurry; this way, I could rightfully spend another night with Han Xue. But if I really did that, it would be too callous. Most importantly, I couldn’t truly protect Han Xue from harm; if anything happened, I’d regret it forever.

I knew Uncle Zhuzi very well—so well that it couldn’t be any more familiar. There’s an old saying: trouble brews at a widow’s door. After my father was flayed to death, my mother was still young and, more importantly, had been a well-known beauty in her youth. Even now, one could see traces of that charm. I’d heard from the uncles in the village that when my father brought my mother home on an ox cart, she wore a cheongsam that nearly made their eyes pop out. Once they came to their senses, they all marveled at my father’s luck in marrying such a woman. So after my father passed, many offered to look after my mother, but she was proud and declined every proposal.

Uncle Zhuzi was the village’s old bachelor. As far back as I could remember, he would help out during busy farming seasons, coming over whenever there was heavy work the women couldn’t handle. He kept this up for more than ten years. The villagers said he had something going on with my mother, joked that he was my stepfather. As a child, my pride made me feel this was humiliating, so I disliked him for a time. But as I grew up, I gradually realized that if a man like Uncle Zhuzi really did take care of my mother, she wouldn’t have had to suffer so much. Yet I discovered that neither he nor my mother had such intentions; despite all the gossip, their relationship was simply one of friendship. His persistence in helping us over nearly twenty years was purely out of sympathy for our orphaned family, and my mother accepted his help perhaps because he lacked the ulterior motives others had.

Lost in these thoughts, I arrived at Uncle Zhuzi’s house. The gate was open; it was already past seven, and he was up. He glanced at me, and his expression struck me as odd. Usually, he greeted me with a simple, honest smile, but today it was awkward. He stood up and said, “Come inside, let’s talk.”

Once inside, he brought me a stool and perched on a small one himself, cigarette dangling from his lips, his face clouded with concern. I asked, “Uncle, are you feeling unwell today?”

He gave a bitter smile. “No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” I pressed.

He looked at me, smiled wryly again, and said, “Your brother sent you to find me, didn’t he?”

I froze. I’d been a little skeptical of what my brother said, but hearing Uncle Zhuzi’s words, I looked at him and asked, “So my brother was right—you really did fish the fool’s body out of the Twelfth Ghost Cave?”

Uncle Zhuzi took a deep drag on his cigarette, then sighed. “Yes.”

“What happened?” Now that Uncle Zhuzi had admitted it, I found it hard to accept. My brother could enter the ghost cave; though it astonished me, I attributed it to skills he’d acquired over his twenty years away. But this simple, honest farmer I’d known for so many years—could he also harbor secrets I never imagined?

Uncle Zhuzi stood up, went outside to shut the gate, then returned and closed the door to the room. He seemed quite tense, and I felt my own nerves tighten. He tossed me a cigarette, lit one for himself, and said, “Yezi, if you get the chance, tell your brother what I say: your father’s death had nothing to do with me.”

At this, I quickly waved my hand to stop him, saying, “Wait, wait, what do you mean by that? Why are you bringing up my father’s death?”

Uncle Zhuzi looked at me, his face full of helplessness. “Yezi, don’t you understand? Your brother could have settled this himself, but he sent you to me to test me—to see if I was your father’s killer.”

I stared at Uncle Zhuzi, feeling as though I were grasping at something, yet unable to catch it. I stopped him again. “I still don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“Your father was killed by someone in the trade—a practitioner of occult arts. He wasn’t flayed by a butcher, but by someone using secret methods! It was black magic!” Uncle Zhuzi said.

It felt as if a lightning bolt struck my mind. I narrowed my eyes, recalling a mysterious post I’d seen on Tianya Forum during university. The words of that netizen matched Uncle Zhuzi’s statement exactly!

“You know magical arts?” I asked Uncle Zhuzi.

“No,” he replied.

“Then how did you get into the Twelfth Ghost Cave? Uncle, at this point, are you still lying?” I said.

“I entered because someone gave me a talisman. Without that talisman, I would have died in there,” Uncle Zhuzi said.

“Who gave it to you?” I asked immediately.

Uncle Zhuzi shook his head. “Yezi, don’t ask. I won’t tell. I promised that person to keep their secret, and that person absolutely wasn’t your father’s killer, absolutely not.”

I looked at Uncle Zhuzi, realizing my brother had been right about everything. The man I’d known for years, whom I’d even seen as a stepfather, was someone I knew nothing about. What shocked me even more was that my brother was actually investigating my father’s murderer!

After Uncle Zhuzi finished speaking, I said nothing more, and the atmosphere fell silent. He lit another cigarette, his chain smoking betraying his agitation. After a while, he sighed. “It’s been so many years. I thought things should be left in the past, but since your brother returned, and with his abilities, I knew it wouldn’t end. He’ll definitely investigate your father’s case.”

I sneered, “Shouldn’t he?”

Uncle Zhuzi glanced at me, a trace of resignation in his eyes. He managed a small smile. “He should, he should. Before, I worried you’d investigate, afraid you’d get hurt. Now your brother’s back, with his skills, he can protect you both.”

With that, Uncle Zhuzi stood and said, “Yezi, come with me.”

He led me into his bedroom. Honestly, I’d been to his house many times, but his bedroom had always been locked, and I’d never entered. Many knew about the lock, and joked that Uncle Zhuzi kept his savings from years of work inside.

Upon entering, the room was thick with sandalwood scent. A bed, a nightstand, and a long table stood there, and on the table were two black-and-white photos, offerings.

They were photos of women—memorial portraits, to be precise.

In front of each photo was an incense burner, with incense still burning.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“I married twice. Both my wives died,” Uncle Zhuzi said quietly.