Chapter Thirty-Seven: Lost Soul

Yun Qi responded with a cheerful laugh, leaping down from the roof in a few agile bounds and landing near the bonfire. He sat beside the chieftain, for that was the only place available to him—he could not understand the language of the others.

As soon as he was seated, the old chieftain handed him a wooden stick, upon which was skewered the wild rabbit Yun Qi had hunted earlier that day. The chieftain himself held a similar stick, though his bore what looked like some sort of cured meat. Most of the others, however, were roasting an unfamiliar food on their sticks.

This food was a golden yellow, thick like a cudgel, some five or six inches long, others nearly a foot. Upon its surface were neatly arranged hundreds of kernels—perhaps three or four hundred in all. Yun Qi had no idea what it was.

“Maize,” said the old chieftain, noticing Yun Qi’s gaze lingering on the food. He passed one over to him. Yun Qi held it in his hand and set it to roast over the fire. A fresh aroma wafted up to him.

Now with a stick in each hand, Yun Qi watched as the chieftain rose and spoke a string of words in his native tongue, incomprehensible to Yun Qi. When he finished, there was a stir around the fire. A man wearing a headdress of rooster feathers stood up, carrying a clay bowl and a bull’s horn.

The chieftain told Yun Qi that this man was Zaohuo Nai, the village’s foremost warrior. The rooster feather crown was made from the longest tail feathers of a cockerel, and only the chief warrior was permitted to wear it—for if there was ever a need to venture out at night, it was he who would go.

Yun Qi stuck his sticks into the earth and stood as Zaohuo Nai approached. Only now did Yun Qi realize that “Nai” was actually the surname.

The warrior passed the clay bowl before Yun Qi, indicating it was full, and drained the last mouthful of wine. The crowd cheered.

Then, to Yun Qi’s surprise, he pressed the bull’s horn to Yun Qi’s mouth. Yun Qi was puzzled at first, until the sharp aroma of spirits hit his nose—so it was wine inside. The old chieftain gestured for Yun Qi to open his mouth. Amused, the youth complied.

With a sputter, the wine sprayed from Yun Qi’s mouth, landing on the bonfire and sending up a pillar of flame.

Coughing, feeling the burning in his mouth, Yun Qi couldn’t help but wonder whether he had drunk wine or some kind of liquid fire. He was used to the mild rice wine of Zhangxiang Town, or the sweet fruit liquor of Mount Sanqing—never had he tasted such a fierce spirit.

Laughter erupted, the old chieftain laughing loudest of all.

Yun Qi’s eyes watered from the intensity, and he thought to himself that this must be what “fire in water” meant—so this was the true union of fire and water, embodied in such potent liquor!

Determined, he opened his mouth again, signaling the warrior to pour it in directly.

He gulped it down, the fierce wine searing its way down his throat, making him wonder if the liquor had blasted through all twelve meridian gates.

A chorus of cheers rose from the crowd. After Zaohuo Nai, another warrior, Tanghuo Nai, approached and also drained a hornful in one go. Yun Qi understood now: those around the bonfire were taking turns, as in a relay.

After seven or eight rounds, the warriors saw that their guest’s face was flushed and decided to let him rest. Yun Qi, feeling dizzy, sat down. The liquor churned like a storm in his belly, and the Daoist who had long survived on dew and fasting now felt a gnawing hunger. By this time, the maize had grown golden and fragrant, making his fingers itch with anticipation.

He took up the stick with the maize and asked the chieftain how to eat it. The chieftain demonstrated—after blowing on it, he bit off a row of kernels, revealing the cob within.

Yun Qi understood and immediately tasted it for himself. Crisp on the outside, tender and juicy within, with a fresh sweetness that brightened his eyes—he quickly devoured several more bites.

He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, several children gazing longingly at the roast rabbit before him. Sweeping his gaze around, he saw that most of the meat was being eaten by the strong men, while the elderly, women, and children were left with only maize. Even the small piece of cured meat in the chieftain’s hand was divided among several older children.

Taking this in, Yun Qi immediately passed the rabbit to the chieftain, glancing toward the children. The old chieftain understood, though he seemed a little embarrassed. He rubbed his hands together, hesitant to accept.

Yun Qi pressed the stick into his hand. “Elder Nai, I have long abstained from meat; there is no need for me to eat flesh. From now on, just save a little maize for me.”

The chieftain gripped the stick, voicing many thanks, then rose to share the rabbit among the children.

Many others witnessed this, and soon another round of toasts began. After the second wave, Yun Qi broke out in a sweat. He asked the old chieftain, “Elder Nai, what is this wine? Why is it so strong?”

The chieftain explained that their wine was brewed from maize—specifically, a white variety, harvested in the last autumn. This made for an especially potent and spicy spirit, which they called “White Blade.” When someone fell ill or suffered a chill, they would drink this to warm themselves and sweat out the sickness. The wine served to Yun Qi in the bull’s horn was a specially aged “White Blade,” reserved for honored guests, and even fiercer in nature.

The revelry was suddenly interrupted when a man came running, his anxious cries shattering the festive mood. Yun Qi saw the chieftain’s expression change.

The old chieftain told Yun Qi to wait while he went to see what was wrong. Yun Qi insisted on accompanying him. Sensing the urgency, the chieftain simply nodded and set off, several men following. The rest of the villagers, worried, lost their appetite and sat quietly by the fire.

They followed the messenger into a house thick with the scent of medicine and the sound of muffled sobbing. Inside, a child lay on the bed, eyes closed, face ashen as gold leaf. Beside him sat his mother, clutching his hand, mouth tightly shut, tears soaking the sheets. The man who brought the news was likely the father, his face etched with grief.

The chieftain approached, feeling the child’s pulse and lifting his eyelids. He shook his head.

Several warriors in rooster-feather crowns gathered silently around the bed. At this, the child’s parents could no longer hold back and broke into wails of anguish.

Yun Qi whispered to the chieftain, asking what had happened. The chieftain explained softly: a few days earlier, the boy had been playing late and failed to return by nightfall. Villagers went searching for him, bringing a rooster as was their custom. They found him in the fields, soul lost. The rooster’s crow was used to call back his spirit, and though the boy revived, he fell into a fright and then into a coma. Now it was the fourth day.

There was little the village could do in such cases. Sometimes, if fortune favored, the soul lingered near the body and, once called back, the child would recover after a few days’ rest. But if fate was unkind, the soul wandered far, perhaps already gnawed by evil forces. Even if called back, it was uncertain whether the body could nurture it anew—if so, the child might grow up frail and prone to dreams, but would live. If not, death was inevitable.

This boy was among the unlucky. Since his soul’s return, he had remained unconscious, his breath growing ever fainter. The warriors stood guard to prevent his departing soul from being snatched away again, ensuring peace even after death. They would keep vigil until burial.

Yun Qi gazed at the child and said, “Elder Nai, since this is so, may I try?”