by Peter Fang
“She could also be a spy working for the enemy,” the other man said. “She could be scouting this area before an attack. We need to alert our sentries back at the fort. The enemy army could be nearby, and we should return immediately.” Everyone nodded in agreement.
“Master Quo!” A skinny man came running from the nearby bush. He shouted at everyone as he stumbled past the rest of the men. “I found the lord's boy.” The look on his face said it all.
The group followed the skinny man back into the bush. When they saw the mutilated body, they all knelt. The whole forest was silent as they waited for the leader to check on the boy. As the waiting time grew, many of them wept and channeled their grief by chanting the boy’s name.
“Stop the chanting!” Master Quo yelled. “We will find the witch later to seek our revenge, but we have to bring the boy back to the lord for proper burial.”
Lord Yang was a burly man in his early fifties. He wore a long mustache and had a full head of white hair. Dark, narrow eyes were set in his chiseled face. His stare exuded confidence and determination. A long battle scar extended across his entire face, from his forehead down to his lips. He did not shed a single tear when he learned of his son’s death. He listened intently as the scout leader recounted the events that happened in the forest. He stood stolidly over the boy's body with his eyes fixated on the limp, lifeless form for a long time. His son’s beautiful, pale face reminded him of his late wife. Her last words were, “Please take care of our boy.”
Yang turned around to face his men and saw everyone was kneeling before him. A rush of dizziness washed over him, but he locked his knees and tightened his fists until his nails digging into his palms. The pain drew him out of a sense of numbness. He looked on and slowly took a full breath and let it out. He repeated the breathing until the dizziness subsided. Finally, he looked up at his men and announced, “There will be time to grieve for my son, but now, we must catch the witch.”
Yang decided that night to call upon the powerful Dao monk, Lao Zen, in the state. Hoping to catch the witch before she escaped, he ordered his troops to cut off all access to the area and sent out armies to guard the roads. However, the next morning, they found several dead soldiers and their horses missing. Yang sent out a hunting party to go after the witch, but there was no trace of her.
Lao Zen’s people were part of the Yellow Turban Rebellion4 army who rose up against the Han emperor. But after the defeat twenty years ago, Lao had semi-retired into a temple. The place was very hidden in the mountain, but not very far from the camp.
Yang was aware of the temple when his army settled into this village, but he never thought there was anyone there he would be interested to meet. Reluctantly, Yang paid a visit to the temple. He ordered Lao to track down the witch with his spell-casting ability. He reminded Lao that he had been good to his temple and had left it undisturbed ever since his army moved in. He warned Lao that the witch had a tiger, and the tiger had killed his only son. They suspected that the witch was working as an assassin for the Northern Wei.
Lao said, “The witch’s physical presence is not your concern, but her witchcraft cannot be underestimated. The temple here is a place for peace and we are humbled by your generosity. Life has a way of fulfilling its own destiny, and interfering with its purpose can do more harm than good. Exacting revenge will not bring back your son, and it may cost many more innocent lives. My humble opinion is to leave the witch alone and make peace with the reality.”
Yang clenched his fists and replied, “There will be no peace until I have the witch’s head. You and your pupils won’t have a temple left tonight if you don’t help me!”
Lao looked up gently at Yang and saw the yin chi surrounding the lord. Lao sighed. “Once you do this, there is no turning back. You will disturb your offspring’s lives for generations to come. I am but an angler on the river bank of your life’s journey. I will help you with your pursuit, but please leave the temple and my pupils alone.”
Yang smiled. “I know you are a practical monk. That’s what I like about you. Tell me what you need for this hunt and you shall get it.”
“Just your blessings and six of your best warriors with your fastest horses,” Lao replied and bowed.
Yang nodded back and said, “I will send fifty soldiers and my best guards with you to capture the witch, and none of you shall come back unless the witch is captured or killed. We will not only hunt down the witch; we are going to wipe out her family.” He fought his tears back and gazed beyond the forest tree lines. His voiced quivered with anger, “The witch must be brought back here to face justice. She and her family need to pay for my loss, one by one. I will burn them alive.”
Days passed, and there were no words from the group. They all believed that Lao and the soldiers died at the witch’s hands. But on a rainy day, Lao and a depleted crew of remaining three soldiers returned to the village; their battered faces and haunting stares told the story of a harrowing battle. Lao led the three surviving soldiers by a rope. Their families came running to greet them but found out they were blind, deaf, and mute––-their eyes and tongues were gouged out, and caked blood covered their ears. Lao had a blood-stained fabric wrapped tightly around his head.
Yang was shocked by what remained of the hunting party. He recognized one of them as one of his best swordsmen. “The witch did all this?”
Lao nodded. “The witch’s name is Zi-Ling. I checked with your soldiers and she was indeed someone from here. She claimed innocence and was just helping the tiger; she claimed she had nothing to do with my lord’s kid’s death.”
“Zi-Ling––-” Yang recalled that name. “Yes, I think I remember her. She was very good with the animals and medicine. Did a great job for us healing our soldiers, but refused to join the army in the frontline.”
Lao continued, “She claimed that she was away to visit her family’s grave site, but we found artifacts she was carrying that belonged to Wei’s soldiers.” He handed over a small leather satchel to Yang.
Yang opened the satchel and looked through the contents inside; there were herbs and various medicinal items, but there were also left-over items from fallen soldiers: goose feathers used in an arrow’s shaft, scales from a soldier’s armor, dyed fabric, darts; wrapped in another leather string were dried human skins fashioned with different tattoos. The design of the tattoos were unmistakable: many belonged to the northern Wei’s army soldiers, but some belonged to Yang’s.
“Where’s the proof that she killed my son!” Yang asked in rage.
Lao reached into his pocket and took out a sheathed short sword. He offered it up to Yang with both of his hands. “Perhaps this deserves inspection by you.”
Yang took over the short sword and looked over the design. It was highly decorative, and the scabbard’s locket and chape had intricate dragon’s scales made of gold. The pommel was shaped into a dragon’s head. Each eye was made with jade. Yang had only seen this design once before.
Yang drew a short breath. “This looks like a sword that belonged to Cao Cao5, the Chancellor of Wei. Where did you find this?”
“One of your men found this in her clothes after we captured her. This certainly doesn’t belong to the hunting party.” Lao backed away with a bow.
Yang ran his hand over the sheath several times, then pulled the blade out carefully and inspected the tip and the edge. When he tilted the sword at a certain angle, he could see a film of sticky substance running along the blade and all the way to the tip.
Yang drew a short breath and carefully sheathed the sword.
“This is tipped with poison,” Yang said. “She is a spy and an assassin? But why did she take my son?”
Lao bowed and replied, “My humble belief is that she worked for the North as an assassin. The assassination job was somehow botched, so she decided to turn it into a ransom job by capturing your son, but her tiger must have accidentally killed your son, so she and her family ran. When we caught up with her and her family, she
stayed and fought to the end. We managed to kill most of her family, but she refused to go down even after we injured her. When she was the only one left, she blared an indecipherable…song. Soon after, many of your men went insane and mutilated each other. Even with my counterspell, that song still made me cut off my left ear. After that, she collapsed to the ground. I was lucky; if the song had lasted a bit longer, I might not be standing here.”
Zi-Ling was bound inside an iron cage; long arrows were still planted in her thighs. Her face was covered in dried blood, her mouth was gagged with an iron chain, and on her forehead was a piece of talisman paper.
Yang wanted to pay Lao for his service, but Lao kindly declined. “I’m but an angler on the river bank. I have what I need in life.” He turned and faced the witch. “Zi-Ling, I had no choice. The talisman you wear on your forehead has a curse on your soul. The more you fight, the more your family will suffer. You shall accept your faith and let chi6 takes its course.”
Zi-Ling lunged at Lao inside the cage with such ferocity that the cage tilted forward, almost running into Lao’s knees. Through her gagged mouth, she muttered, “I had nothing to do with your son’s death, nor do I own that sword. Someone in your troop planted that in my belongings. There is a mole in your rank that works for Cao Cao. If you don’t listen to me, you will suffer, and your pig children will suffer because I will hunt them down, slaughter them one by one, and eat their souls.”
Lao stepped back from the cage several paces and stared at Zi-Ling. Something in her eyes chilled his soul. He bowed to Yang and his army and quickly left the compound.
Yang walked over to Zi-Ling and picked up one of the spears from his men. He forced the tip into Zi-Ling’s rib cage and pushed it in with all of his force.
Zi-Ling just laughed at Yang; her high-pitched voice reverberated in the air.
Yang ground his teeth. “So, you think this is funny? Let’s see how long you can keep your smile.”
They first tied her to a chained post and released their hunting dogs, but the dogs refused to get close to her. They burned a bronze post until it was red-hot so that would melt human skin in seconds. Using horses, they pulled her out of the cage and tied her to the bronze post.
After they posted her, Zi-Ling stared down into the crowd and picked out faces that she recognized. “You! Ming Na, my family and I helped yours last year when your two-year-old boy was sick with a fever. The fever didn’t come down for days until I gave him the tonic. Here you are, helping them kill my family and sending me to hell.” She craned her neck and locked her sight on an old man: “Xu Wang, I recognize you even hiding behind that facet of cowardly armors. You got bitten by a cobra three summers ago, and you begged me to help you and prevented you from losing your leg. All of you––-I know all of you. I will track down all of your families, and I will release my revenge!”
That evening, war drums in the courtyard played at full blast to counter any of Zi-Ling’s spells. The guards wore stone ear plugs to block the fatal chants from Jiang-ling. The fire blazed for two full moons, and it licked in purple as she screamed in agony. The bronze post did not harm her body as he fought with her spells. It took Yang a straight shot to her heart with an arrow to subdue her. The raging fire consumed her body as her repellent spell dissipated. The fire licked the sky as she stretched her neck out in pain like a serpent being skinned alive. Her body boiled and charred into a black figure under the intense fire. The fire raged until a red sickle moon hung high the next night.
After they put out the fire, the embers glowed green. No one wanted to get close to the ashes until Yang ordered the lowest rank officers to pick through the remains. Lao extracted Zi-Ling’s spirit from her ashes and locked it inside a metal urn. He wrapped the urn with talisman paper, and then he tied a crow’s feet smeared with his own dried blood so Zi-Ling’s spirit could not escape.
The forest wind carried off a small collection of Zi-Ling’s ashes and landed on a longhorn beetle. The beetle twitched its legs and fell to the ground. Seconds later, it tipped over and took off. It circled the village until it flew over the boy’s grave and dropped onto the dirt. It dug into the grave with its powerful jaw and burrowed into the boy’s body. Moments later, the boy’s body flinched. He broke through the wooden casket, pushed through the dirt, and crawled out of his grave.
He lurked in the shadow to avoid the guards and went straight to his father’s quarter. It was just past midnight and Yang was still up studying the latest battle plan with his generals. The leading guard outside the room was alarmed that the boy was back. But when they saw the boy’s face, they realized that the boy was not actually alive. The guards alerted Yang and he came running out to see his boy.
“Daddy—I’m here.” The boy’s voice was raspy and weak.
One look and he knew that the thing in front of him was no longer his son. “You are not my son! I buried you myself.” Yang fought back tears as he denounced the creature.
“Mommy told you to take care of me, but you didn’t—” the boy’s voice cracked with pain. Dark lines of putrid liquid oozed from the corner of his sunken eye sockets.
“Please hug me one more time.” The boy’s clawed hands angled for Yang, and then he leaped forward like a feral cat.
Yang’s principal guard stepped in and swung his halberd at the boy, but the boy deflected the blow with his left hand and reached for Yang’s throat with his right.
Yang leaned back and fell to the ground.
The boy’s hand swung back, barely missing Yang’s jugular. He landed quietly ten feet away.
Two guards with war swords came running to assist. One of them took off his head armor, knelt and cried at the boy, “Prince, you and I were close before you were taken by the tiger. I am in shame for not guarding you that night and protecting you from the tiger. But you are no longer a human, my Prince. I am afraid you will have to kill me first! Please let your dad go!”
“Stop!” Yang yelled. “I will take care of this.”
He slowly unsheathed his sword. “Son, I’m right here. You have suffered long enough.”
“Sir, please don’t!” The guards tried to dissuade Yang.
Yang waved them off. “He was my boy, so no one but me shall set him free!”
The boy unhinged his jaws, shrieking and leaping as a ghoul with his forked tongue trailing along the ground.
Yang waited until the last second to draw an arch with his sword. The boy fell to the ground and struggled to get up. Yang was already on top with his boot over the boy’s back.
“My son, I have always loved you, and I always will. Forgive me, but it’s time for you to be in God’s care.” He swung his sword, and the boy’s body twitched to a stop. Yang picked up his boy and walked into the courtyard. His men followed him from a distance behind. He then picked up an axe and began to dig, but the field was full of rocks. Several men came to help, and soon a dozen were digging the grave. They spent the whole night making a deep grave about five feet deep and five feet in length. They rested the boy’s body inside and covered it with three layers of heavy rocks.
To thank Lao, Yang offered him gifts and the opportunity to serve him, but Lao graciously turned it down. Instead, he wanted to restore balance around the province and only sought permission to secure the witch’s ashes and lock them up back at the temple. Yang was relieved to get rid of the ashes, so he ordered his men to collect up the ashes from the fire and allow Lao to take them away.
Lao brought with him six boxes: one of the boxes was crafted in gold and with intricate designs. There was an iron cast mold of Bagua7 on the outside and the exterior was covered with scriptures of inscrutable patterns. He carefully collected ashes from different parts of the witch's remains into each box. He sealed each box with a talisman and sermonized a spell. The ashes from the head went into a golden box, and the other torso's ashes went into separate wooden boxes. The monk gave each one a name with a separate spell, ensnaring the witch’s ability to escape.
Th
e golden box was named the Gu (古8), while the other five wooden boxes were named after five ancestral monks’ noble names: the Elder, the Weep, the Weave, the Sonnet, and the Angel.
The villagers were forbidden to refer to her story or mention her real name; those that did were cursed to die.
Almost a month passed and the people’s lives around town were healing, but Yang still grieved over his son’s death. Frequent nightmares consumed him and he was losing touch with reality. He delegated key decisions to his advisers and ignored his generals. At the battlefront, his men were losing to the northern armies.
Things changed when one day a group of Miao women fighters joined Yang’s army. Their leader was a young, beautiful woman. She had a slim but physical build, and her skin was almost perfect and showed no signs of wear. Underneath an intricately woven hair bun, the contour of her face appeared to have been traced out with a perfectly shaped melon seed. But the most striking feature was her eyes—light hazel with hints of blue. Her small army group infiltrated the enemy’s camp during the night and took the lives of two hundred men. Yang heard about the courageous girl and summoned her to meet him.
As the girl entered the tent, Yang saw an exquisitely shaped young woman being led in by two armed guards. In contrast to the guards next to her, she looked pale and innocent, hardly matching the image of a notably ferocious warrior. Yang was not sure if there had been a mistake, but he kept his patience and waited for the girl to speak.
“My Lord, if I may speak freely. My name is Maylan. I lead the small Miao army squad behind enemy lines to fight for your cause.”