Chapter one
Chapter Two
For a moment, I couldn’t process it. Uncle Zheng, who had just mailed us a huge box of food for the Moon Festival, some dried mushrooms still sitting in our kitchen cabinet, had drowned?
In a pothole, of all places? My heart sank, feeling unreal.
My uncle stood there silently, his right hand tapping rhythmically against his thigh, a habit he had when deep in thought. “We’ll go together for the Final Seven.” He said at last.
“The Final Seven, they still practice that?”
“Yes, those traditions hold strong in the remote areas.”
The last Final Seven I attended was for my parents. When I was six, they passed away suddenly. Too suddenly, I would later realize, leaving me in my uncle’s care.
He had been in the Northeast Territory when the news reached him. Cutting his trip short, he returned just in time for the funeral. I still remember the herbal scent permeating to his clothes when he picked me up.
The funeral was a blur of burning incense and white. White cloth draped the hall, and as their son, I had to wear white throughout. Every seventh day, a ceremony was held, culminating on the forty-ninth day with the Final Seven.
People told me that after this, my parents would reincarnate. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I knew one thing. After this, they would never come back for me, not even their souls. And I would be left behind.
After the Final Seven, the funeral was over, and my uncle prepared to resume his trip. He arranged for a neighbor to watch me for a few days.
“It’s a long way,” he said, crouching to my level, trying to persuade me. “And I don’t know if you can handle it.”
He promised to come back for me, but I refused to be left behind again. I cried for days, clinging to him wherever he went.
Finally, with a sigh, he packed my clothes alongside his and agreed to take me with him.
Leaving behind the flat, familiar plains, the Northeast rose before us. Jagged mountains stretched toward the sky, and dense forests filled the air with the sharp scent of pine. For the first time since my parents' passing, the breathtaking landscape offered a sliver of solace.
Our journey ended in Huangxian Town. Calling it a town was generous; it was more like a small village that had grown wild at the foot of the mountains.
Uncle Zheng and Aunt Shen’s home stood at its very edge, their backyard pressed against the dense woods.
It was late autumn, and the ground was a mosaic of red, gold, and brown. Fallen leaves released a deep, earthy fragrance with every step. The town had no hotels, so visitors relied on the hospitality of locals like Uncle Zheng. He often welcomed adventurous hikers and herb collectors drawn to the region’s prized wild herbs.
My uncle came to replenish his supplies, hides and bones from various animals, along with rare herbs, and he always stayed with Uncle Zheng. Their home carried the rich aroma of his cooking, mingling with his booming laughter. Aunt Shen’s cheerful energy made the space feel warm and alive. This time, we were the only guests.
Their son, Zheng Yu, two years older than me, greeted me like a long-lost brother. He quickly became my guide, teaching me to climb the gnarled old trees behind their house, mimic birdsongs so perfectly that even the sharpest-eyed birds were fooled, and navigate the safest paths along the forest’s edge. He filled my days with tales of mischievous mountain spirits, playful ghosts, and the strange habits of the creatures lurking in the woods, stories that soothed a restless part of me I hadn’t realized needed comfort.
My memories were interrupted by my uncle’s voice.
“The Final Seven will be a month from now.” He said,”I can finish the job I’m working on, and you prepare these items. They can all be found in the study room. Take your time, and don’t mess things up.” My uncle handed me a list: lightning-struck wood, cinnabar powder, several types of incense he had made himself, two shaman masks, a coil of red rope, and other supplies.
Reading the list, I was startled. "Why are you taking these?" The thought of my uncle wearing a shaman mask and performing a ritual at Uncle Zheng’s funeral made me cringe.
And two of them? The second one was for... I didn't even dare think about the answer.
"Aren’t we just going to pay our respects?" I asked cautiously.
“Don’t worry, we are,” he said, glancing at me as if he could read my thoughts. “Just in case. Hopefully, we won’t need them.”
Amid the preparations for our trip, my sixteenth birthday passed quietly, feeling no different from any other day. After school, I met up with Xu Jian and Chang Qi at the cramped internet café around the corner, where we lost ourselves in the glow of our screens, battling monsters until the sky outside turned dark.
When I got home, my uncle was waiting with a simple dinner: a bowl of longevity noodles. Every year, he made the noodles by hand, a single, unbroken strand symbolizing a long and healthy life. Looking at the wide, thick noodle, I couldn’t help but remember the first time he attempted it for my seventh birthday.
He had aimed high, bragging that he would make the perfect longevity noodles, super long and super thin, the kind only royal chefs could master. He followed a recipe book carefully, trying again and again. By the time he gave up, he had wasted an entire bag of flour, turned the kitchen into a war zone, and was covered in dough from head to toe. In the end, he settled for what he proudly called his “special wide longevity noodles.”
“Life is not just about length,” he handed me a bowl. “It’s about breadth too.”
After dinner, he brought out a small birthday cake with candles and a neatly wrapped package. Inside was a shaman mask.
“I got my first one on my sixteenth birthday too,” my uncle said, a flicker of nostalgia crossing his face.
I buried my dread beneath the effort of a weak smile. “It’s...hmm...unique,” I managed to say, struggling to find the right word.
No way I was going to wear that! I silently vowed to have a serious talk with him someday about my future. When I grew up, I’d have a real job, a normal job in the modern world.
Two weeks later, my uncle arranged a leave of absence for me from school. The journey was long. Since there was no high-speed rail station in town, we had to transfer to a bus in a nearby city. For hours, the bus wound its way through the Northeastern mountains until, finally, I spotted the big red sign by the roadside: “Huangxian Town.”
“Huangxian means Yellow Spirits,” I suddenly remembered Zheng Yu telling me.
That was a sunny afternoon, we were sprawled out under a gnarled old tree, catching our breath. Zheng Yu leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “You ever heard of Yellow Spirits?”
I shook my head, curious about the serious look on his face.
“They’re powerful,” he said, his eyes sparkling.”They can trick people. Some folks say that’s why our town is called Huangxian, named after the Yellow Spirits that used to live here.”
“Wow! Do they still live here?” I asked, eager to see them.
"Nope, not anymore," he said, shaking his head, disappointed. “I’ve never seen one myself,” he confessed, but his tone was unwavering. “But they’re real. I just know it.”
“What do they look like?”
He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a near murmur. “Weasels,” he said.
”They’re… weasels?!”I blurted, unable to hide my disbelief.
"Shhh!" Zheng Yu clamped a hand over my mouth. "Don't say that! You'll offend them."
He glanced around nervously before lowering his voice again. Then, he told me a story he claimed everyone in the area knew.
Once, a boy spotted a weasel in his front yard. Excited, he called out, “Mom, there’s a weasel in our yard!” His mother tried to stop him, but it was too late. She urged him to apologize, but he laughed it off.
The next morning, on his way to school, the boy encountered one of his teachers. Smiling, the teacher told him that classes were canceled for the day. Delighted by the unexpected news, he spent the day running around the village, carefree and happy.
But when he returned to school the following day, he was called to the front of the class and scolded for skipping. His punishment? Copying a long passage by hand 100 times. Confused and frustrated, he insisted his teacher had told him to go home. To his shock, he learned that the teacher had been at the hospital all day, where his wife was giving birth.
When the boy's mother heard the story, she understood immediately: it was a Yellow Spirit playing with him. Realizing her son had offended the spirit, she prepared a meal as an offering and left it in the front yard. From that day forward, the boy experienced no further strange tricks.
The tale left me wide-eyed, and that evening, I found my uncle immersed in a book. I bombarded him with questions.
“Yellow Spirits?” he said, closing the book with a soft smile. Seeing my eager expression, he leaned forward. “They have spiritual powers and can slip between our world and the spirit realm. Be kind to them, and they'll bring good luck and keep you safe. But if you're rude or forget your manners, they might get mischievous and cause trouble.”
“But how come they get caught in zoos?” I asked.
He chuckled, ruffling my hair. “Those are just regular weasels, with no power. To become a Yellow Spirit, they must cultivate, a rare talent not all weasels have.”
“Have you ever seen one?” Learning how rare they were only made me more eager.
He smiled and patted my head but didn’t answer.
“Dinner’s ready!” Aunt Shen’s cheerful call broke the moment, and the scent of Uncle Zheng’s pot-baked pork quickly stole my attention. It was so delicious that, for a while at least, I forgot all about the Yellow Spirits.
Later that evening, as we sat around chatting, I couldn’t resist bringing them up again. “Uncle Zheng, Aunt Shen, have you ever met a Yellow Spirit?”
They both laughed, shaking their heads. “No,” they said, clearly amused.
Their response disappointed me, but as I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t shake the lingering wonder. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of eyes glinting gold in the darkness, playful and watchful.
By morning, sunlight chased away the mysteries of the night. New adventures with Zheng Yu awaited, his endless stories filling the day with fresh excitement. The tale of the Yellow Spirits faded into the background, blending into the countless others that color a child's imagination.
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