Desolate Tomb Longshan Temple 20 Desolate Tomb

After five days wandering through the Chen family village, Li Xintian finally found a place suitable for rest. The surroundings were scattered with ancient tombs; the white poplars in the graveyard rustled in the wind, but Li Xintian was unafraid.

Drawing closer, he saw a signboard inscribed with blurred characters; the plaque had fallen to the ground, covered in cobwebs. The place had long since fallen into ruin, overgrown with wildflowers and grasses, and rats and cockroaches darted about. The cawing of crows echoed in the distance. The main gate was dilapidated, leaning to one side, a large section of the wall had collapsed, and the trees grew so tall as to reach a grown man's chest. He pushed the remaining door, which promptly fell, stirring up a cloud of dust.

"Who’s out so late?" called Yang Zhenye, a scholar barely out of his youth. He had been studying in a clean corner of his study, preparing for the provincial exam in Taiyuan, when he heard noises outside. Holding a candle aloft, he shouted boldly. After all, he was surrounded by ancient graves; last night, he’d heard a soft, lingering voice reciting poetry and had been too frightened to respond, hence his loud greeting now.

Yang Zhenye, much like Wang Chongwen, had failed several times to achieve the title of scholar.

"Greetings, brother," Li Xintian replied, surprised to find someone still living in such a place. He cupped his fists, saying, "My surname is Li, given name Xintian, courtesy name Zhixian."

"Oh, so it’s Li, the distinguished scholar," Yang Zhenye responded, returning the gesture. "I am Yang, given name Zhenye, courtesy name Zixin."

"Zixin, the honorifics are but empty titles. You may call me by my name or courtesy name," Li Xintian said, waving his hand.

"Very well, Zhixian, please come in," Yang Zhenye replied, pleasantly surprised by Li Xintian’s easy manner. He had met many scholars, most elevated and aloof, but Li Xintian seemed approachable.

"Thank you for your hospitality."

Li Xintian entered Yang Zhenye's house and settled nearby. "Tell me, Zixin, what brings you to such a remote place?"

"My family has fallen on hard times, and there are many mouths to feed. The rent here is cheap, so I live here with only a page for company. He’ll arrive tomorrow. Please forgive the humble circumstances," Yang Zhenye said, pouring tea, which he handed to Li Xintian. "Zhixian, where are you headed?"

"Thank you," Li Xintian replied, accepting the tea. "I was rather abrupt. These past days I've been lodging in the wilds, and now, thanks to you, I have shelter."

"I'm traveling to further my studies," Li Xintian said, careful not to reveal his true motives, which involved seeking tales of gods and ghosts.

"Zhixian, you are too modest," Yang Zhenye smiled, not suspecting anything amiss. "Your scholarly spirit is admirable, setting out alone to study."

"I see you preparing for your exams. Why not discuss them together?" Li Xintian deftly steered the conversation away from his solitary travels.

"Yes, to debate with you, the renowned scholar Li, would surely aid my chances in this year’s provincial exam," Yang Zhenye replied, delighted.

"Then let me congratulate you in advance," Li Xintian nodded.

As they discussed the exam topics, Li Xintian found Yang Zhenye somewhat pedantic. The times were chaotic, rife with corrupt officials; without tailoring one’s essays to their tastes, success was impossible. Li Xintian offered guidance, hoping Yang Zhenye would heed his advice.

Suddenly, a sorrowful, plaintive sound drifted to their ears. Listening closely, it was a soft, melodious voice, likely a woman, repeatedly reciting, "In the dark night, the bleak wind blows in reverse; fireflies stir the grass and stain the curtain."

The two halted their discussion, exchanging glances. Yang Zhenye had heard this voice all night the previous evening.

Li Xintian placed a hand on Yang Zhenye’s shoulder, signaling him to be silent. He opened the door and stepped outside, with Yang Zhenye following, emboldened by Li Xintian’s composure. As soon as they left the house, the voice ceased; no one was in sight, only the white poplars in the graveyard rustling in the wind.

A purple sash lay abandoned beneath the thorn bushes, unnoticed by either man.

Finding nothing, they returned indoors.

After the disturbance, the two retired early. Li Xintian lay on a chair, the room in darkness, not yet asleep, pondering the strange voice. Outside, only the poplars in the graveyard whispered in the wind. He could hear Yang Zhenye’s steady breathing—he had fallen asleep. Li Xintian resolved not to dwell further, and began preparing to clean the adjacent room, intent on staying a while.

The next morning.

Yang Zhenye’s youthful page brought breakfast. Li Xintian had risen early, eaten his provisions, and set about tidying another room.

"Master, who is the guest in the other room?" the page asked, setting down two white buns.

"Oh, that's Li, the distinguished scholar Zhixian, who arrived last night. Take him a bun later," Yang Zhenye replied, picking up one himself.

"No need, Zixin. I’ve already eaten," Li Xintian said, having finished cleaning the room. He drew five taels of silver from his sleeve and handed it to the page. "Please see to meals for both me and Zixin during my stay. If it’s not enough, let me know."

The page hesitated, looking to Yang Zhenye.

"Zhixian, what is this for?" Yang Zhenye asked, puzzled.

"Zixin, I plan to stay here for a while. After our discussion last night, I feel I’ve learned much, so I hope you’ll tolerate my presence," Li Xintian explained, careful not to reveal his true purpose, knowing scholars shun talk of the supernatural.

"In that case, you are welcome, Zhixian. We can keep each other company," Yang Zhenye said, nodding to the page to accept the money.

With Yang Zhenye’s approval, the page accepted the silver.

Li Xintian knew his request had been granted.

"Be sure to buy decent meals for us both, no hoarding," Yang Zhenye instructed sternly.

"Understood, master," the page replied emphatically.

"You should eat well too. If you’re short, tell me," Li Xintian added, unconcerned about the expense.

"Thank you, Scholar Li," the page bowed slightly, then turned to Yang Zhenye. "Master, I won’t disturb your studies further," he said, taking his food container and leaving.

Yang Zhenye brought Li Xintian a quilt.

The two discussed the exam topics, and during a break when Yang Zhenye stepped outside, he returned with a purple sash. Li Xintian saw it was a woman’s girdle, or perhaps a ribbon for tying her socks—ancient women’s socks had to be tied.

The day soon passed. At midnight, as Li Xintian slept, Yang Zhenye remained awake, still reviewing the topics they’d discussed. Suddenly, the same mournful voice returned, reciting, "In the dark night, the bleak wind blows in reverse; fireflies stir the grass and stain the curtain."

The woman’s voice startled Li Xintian awake. He did not get up to investigate, glancing at Yang Zhenye’s room, where the lights were still bright and the door stood open. He thought nothing more of it, as no harm had yet come to anyone, and the advantage lay with them.

Yang Zhenye opened his windows, peering outside. No one was in sight. When the woman finished reciting, she continued, "Who will see my bitter feelings? My green sleeves shiver in the cold as the moon rises." After a long silence, all was still outside the study.

Only the poplars in the graveyard continued to roar in the wind, their sound like surging waves.

Seeing nothing, Yang Zhenye blew out his candle and retired.

Meanwhile, outside among the ancient tombs, just before dawn.

One tomb revealed a hole, from which clothing was thrown out, followed by a burlap sack. After a while, a grave robber emerged, his fingers nearly a centimeter long, hands bloodied from digging, his face aged and weary. He climbed from the hole, arranged his sack, and slung it over his shoulder, walking off without a backward glance. In the darkness behind him, only the chirping of crickets and the cawing of crows could be heard.

At daybreak, Yang Zhenye went outside and found many animal traps, most holding small creatures. He pried open the traps, releasing the animals, who fled without looking back, leaving behind tufts of fur and bloodstains as proof the traps had been successful.

Li Xintian also rose, noticing Yang Zhenye had gone out but did not disturb him.

Yang Zhenye searched for a long time, seeing only ancient tombs. As he turned to go back, he heard a fox’s desperate cry and released it as well before returning to his study, where the page had already arrived.

As Yang Zhenye departed, the fox he’d freed glanced back toward his retreating figure before running off.

"Master, where did you go so early?" the page asked, picking up the food.

"Just out for some fresh air," Yang Zhenye replied.

"Zixin, you’re back—come eat," Li Xintian said, pretending not to know Yang Zhenye had gone out.

Yang Zhenye nodded.

Outside the study, a hunter examined the traps he’d set the day before. Many traps contained only tufts of fur and blood, and he grew angry, wondering who had released his prey. He searched the area for suspicious individuals.

After a while, he spotted an old man with white hair carrying a burlap sack ahead of him and shouted, "Hey, stop!"

The grave robber heard the call and quickened his pace, acting as if he hadn’t heard.

The hunter caught up, grabbing him. "I called you to stop—why didn’t you? Did you release my fox?"

A single fox could fetch ten taels from a rich merchant, enough to eat well for a year with thrift.

"No, no, no," the grave robber protested, shaking his head and pointing skyward. "If I did, may lightning strike me."

Unconvinced, the hunter pointed at the sack. "Let me see what’s inside."

The grave robber, seeing the hunter strong and robust, and himself exhausted after a night’s toil, reluctantly dropped the sack.

The hunter opened it, pouring out its contents: a shroud, a fur coat. "So these are things from the dead," he said, seeing no fox. Then a funeral procession approached, the sound of flutes and weeping echoing in their ears.

The procession marched slowly, mourners crying. The grave robber, seeing the hunter distracted by the funeral, began gathering the stolen items.

The hunter turned, saw him collecting the goods, and warned sternly, "If you dare rob a fresh grave, I’ll make you pay."

"No, no, I wouldn’t dare," the grave robber replied, waving his hand.

"Hmph," the hunter snorted as he left.

The grave robber, seeing the hunter gone, quickly shouldered his sack and hurried away.