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“No, no, out! We don’t want anymore of your nonsense.”
The raised voices carried throughout the small building, over the sound of the other guests who were going about drinking their wine or tea, over the rain that still poured down. At the table in the corner, Xiao Xingchen paused with his hand on the cup, a frown on his face as he looked towards the sound of the commotion.
An old woman wearing rough clothing in shades of muted browns was standing at the entrance, the owner attempting to shoo her away.
“Please, someone must be able to help,” she said, voice watery.
Xiao Xingchen was already on his feet, Song Lan following him only a fraction of a second later.
“As if someone wants to waste their time with your stories. Get out!”
The man reached out a hand to push the woman out of the open door way. Instead, his hand met the wooden handle of Song Lan’s fuchen, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough to make a point. Startled, the man pulled back.
“D-daozhang! I was only escorting her out! I would never hurt an old woman,” he stuttered.
Song Lan’s face was cold, unmoved, and his eyes flicked to Xiao Xingchen, already putting an arm around the woman’s shoulders to steady her. He looked back to the man.
“We will handle this. You may go attend to your other duties,” said Song Lan.
“Of course, of course.” The man bowed hurriedly, relief on his face as he disappeared back into the tea house.
As soon as he was gone, the old woman let out a shuddering sigh as she clung to Xiao Xingchen’s arm.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, Daozhang.”
“There’s no need for thanks,” Xiao Xingchen said, his smile soft as he led her out of the way, under the roof to keep out of the rain. “Please, you said you needed help. Tell us what’s wrong.”
Resting his fuchen on his arm, Song Lan leaned against the wall near them, occasionally glancing back into the tea house warily but no one else made a move to approach the trio.
“It’s horrible… Every night, a wailing that wakes my husband and I. All sorts of banging and tearing from outside. And when we go out in the morning, everything is destroyed! No matter how we try to appease the ghost, it comes back,” the woman said through her distressed tears.
“A ghost?” Xiao Xingchen looked towards Song Lan, mouth twitching in concern. “Have you seen this ghost, furen?”
She shook her head, grey hair coming loose slightly.
“No! But I’m certain. The wails—They sound like the voice of our neighbor who died!”
“I see.”
Song Lan shifted where he stood.
“When did your neighbor die?” he asked.
“Oh… It was… It was about a month ago,” she said.
Taking the thread that Song Lan had begun, Xiao Xingchen perked up and added his own question.
“And when did this ghost first appear?”
The woman’s face became thoughtful, one boney finger tapping at her chin.
“I suppose—Yes, it was around then!”
Xiao Xingchen took a step back and raised his arms in a slightly lopsided bow, smile still on his face.
“We can help, furen,” he said. “Show us to where your home is and we will take care of this.”
Though the woman’s farm was not far, the rain made the walk slower as Xiao Xingchen held the wax paper umbrella over the old woman and Song Lan carefully avoided puddles. By the time they had reached her home, it was late afternoon and the rain was finally beginning to let up but not before it had soaked through their outer robes.
As soon as the small house surrounded by a bamboo fence came into view, Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan tensed, ready for whatever they might find. The first thing they noticed was the smell; at first merely the scent of dirt and rain mixed together but then it was over powered by something rotten and sour.
Xiao Xingchen immediately covered his nose and mouth with his wide sleeve, fighting the urge to gag and fumbling to put away the umbrella.
“What in the world is that smell?” he asked, choking slightly on the words.
“I don’t know,” said Song Lan. His nose was wrinkled in disgust though he kept his hands down, one clutching the handle of Fuxue, knuckles white.
“It’s the garden,” the woman said, opening the gate and then gesturing with her hand. The small garden was in shambles, dug up in places as if something had taken large swipes at the earth. Vegetables of abnormal size were strewn about, discolored and decaying. “No matter how we try to fix it, this is what happens.”
“Do you see that, Xingchen?”
Pointing with sword, Song Lan took a step forward. To most people, they’d only notice the destruction and strange vegetables, but both cultivators could see the sickly, greenish-black energy radiating from the plants. They exchanged a glance; the old woman’s stories were not nonsense after all.
“Furen, your neighbor, was there bad blood between you and them?” Xiao Xingchen asked.
The woman bowed her head, hands shaking a bit.
“There was a quarrel…”
“Here.” Xiao Xingchen took her by the arm and led her over to the stool that was set outside the door of the home, directing her to sit. “Tell us what you can remember, it could help us to appease this ghost.”
She took a deep breath.
“It was just a trinket. A carved turtle. Lao-Huang swore he lost it when he helped till the field but we searched everywhere and found nothing! He was inconsolable, pestering us every day, until he fell ill a couple months ago,” she said, mouth trembling.
Bending down slightly, Xiao Xingchen patted her back comfortingly, the smile on his face now thoughtful and a little sad.
“Perhaps we can look again,” said Song Lan. “If we find it, we could put his soul to rest.”
“Yes. We should look.” Xiao Xingchen turned back to the woman as he straightened. “You should go inside, just in case we can’t appease it and stir up the anger instead.”
Walking back towards the garden, they waited until the woman had gone inside, the door rattling behind her.
“Do you think the trinket is still here, Zichen?”
Song Lan glanced over the garden. The smoke-like energy seemed to grow as if it sensed their presence, understood what they were talking about. Wind blew light rain on their faces, bringing with it that rotted smell.
“I believe so. Perhaps the ghost can sense its presence and that’s why it refuses to leave.”
“I agree.” There was a pause as Xiao Xingchen looked at the oversized vegetables, some broken open and oozing. He gave a slight shudder. “I suppose we’ll have to begin looking.”
“Mm. Yes.”
Song Lan didn’t move. His face was extremely pale, beads of water that could have been rain but were more likely sweat dotting his forehead. Xiao Xingchen touched his arm, rubbing his thumb across the black fabric.
“I’ll go look. You can keep watch. I know how much you hate the dirt and muck,” he said.
Blinking a little, Song Lan looked at him, a hint of a smile on his face before he shook his head.
“No, I can handle this. Otherwise it would take awhile to search.”
Xiao Xingchen nudged him gently.
“We’ll both smell.”
“Yes, Xingchen,” he said with a slight resigned sigh. “Lets get to work.”
Mud squelched under their boots and clung to the hem of their robes as soon as they stepped into the tilled ground of the garden. Both the smell and energy surged almost immediately. The blemished leaves of the radish plants began to curl and shake menacingly. A root near Xiao Xingchen twisted out of the ground, pulsing with the same greenish-black energy. It snaked towards him.
He drew Shuanghua. The sword flashed out and a soft white light followed, bringing with it a breeze that smelled of crisp night air. It cut through the root easily.
“We’ll have to look quickly,” he said.
Song Lan gave a short nod then continued to dig through the torn vegetable garden. More roots began to push from the dirt, extending towards them, and the vegetables themselves been to pulsate, some cracking open.
“I still haven’t found anything,” said Song Lan, grimacing, trying to push away the thought that dirt had worked its way under his nails.
“Neither have—Zichen, behind you.”
Xiao Xingchen’s voice carried a tension that Song Lan recognized and immediately moved to the side, spinning around. Behind him loamed a specter of an old man, mishappen and green. His mouth was open wider than it should’ve been and both tendrils of roots and a piercing wail poured out of it. The ghost reached for Song Lan once again as he pulled Fuxue from its sheath.
The glare from Fuxue was not as bright as that of Shuanghua but sharper somehow. It passed through the ghost and frost began to creep across the transparent form as the air around it became cold. Another shriek came as the ghost’s movements slowed.
“I’ll keep it occupied, Xingchen,” he said, sword held ready to defend against the next attack. “Hurry.”
Concern crossed Xiao Xingchen’s face, hesitating for just a moment, before renewing his search. Roots tried to wrap around his arms and legs and he cut them way. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Song Lan remove a talisman from his sleeve, an attempt to seal the spirit. Xiao Xingchen went to push a vegetable out of the way but his hand sunk into the rotten flesh and the smell caused him to gag into his sleeve. Inside was dirt and rocks coated in slime.
An idea came to him.
“It’s inside one of these strange radishes,” he called, a note of excitement in his voice.
Song Lan looked towards him, brows pulled together in confusion even as he carefully side-stepped the ghost’s next attack.
“It’s…? Okay,” he said, not sure what else to say in response to Xiao Xingchen’s declaration.
Xiao Xingchen began cutting open each of the radishes, poking the insides with the tip of his sword, one arm held over his nose to try to hold off the worst of the smell. Bits of rotten vegetable clung to his clothing and sword hand, eyes frantically looking for the next radish to search. One that was larger and more decayed than the others, still half-buried in the mud, caught his attention.
Falling to his knees in front of it, he began digging it out. Under his hands it pulsed the way a beating heart would and he shuddered in disgust before plunging the blade into it. The stench made his eyes water and the rotted insides felt warm to the touch.
“Xingchen, have you found it?”
“Ah—Oh, this is awful, Zichen,” came the reply.
The ghost of the old man lunged forward, hands that were entwined with roots almost brushing Song Lan’s chest. He slipped in the mud as he dodged and gritted his teeth as his knee hit the ground and was immediately soaked.
“It’s not pleasant, no.”
Beneath the decayed flesh of the radish, Xiao Xingchen’s fingers hit something hard and small. He grabbed it and bolted to his feet, turning to where Song Lan, still partially kneeling, blocked another blow. Xiao Xingchen thrust the small jade turtle into the spirit’s face.
There was a snarl and then a flicker of recognition. The transparent features of the man softened, the roots of the plants slowly retreating back into the mud. For a moment he lingered. Then the wind picked up and he disappeared into the rain.
“Zichen, here.” Xiao Xingchen sheathed his sword and began pulling Song Lan to his feet. Too late he realized that his hands were still covered in rotted radish. His expression was sheepish as he tried to wipe away the bits of vegetable. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I don't mind,” said Song Lan, placing his hand over Xiao Xingchen’s. His mouth twitched slightly but he kept his hand there and squeezed; when it was Xiao Xingchen, he truly didn’t mind. He looked down. “There’s still some resentful energy lingering.”
While the roots had stilled and the garden was silent, smell dissipating in the rain, there was still smoke like energy rising up from the ground.
“Then what are we missing?” Xiao Xingchen asked, voice soft. In his hand, he turned the turtle pendant over in his hand, cleaning it with his sleeve. On the back were characters clearly carved afterwards: 吴 彦. “Wu Cheng? That’s the name on the back.”
“The woman said her neighbor’s name was Huang.” Song Lan’s face was thoughtful. “A partner?”
“Yes,” said Xiao Xingchen, brightening. “We should ask. Perhaps that’s the missing piece needed to appease Huang-qianbei.”
Nodding, Song Lan turned towards the house and Xiao Xingchen followed after, waiting patiently for her to answer the knock. The door slide open and out of respect, both stepped back; the rancid smell still clung to their clothing.
“I heard that horrible wailing again…” Peering around them, the old woman squinted towards the vegetable garden. “Daozhang, is it gone?”
“I think it might be, furen, don’t worry,” Xiao Xingchen said, instinctively reaching out to set a hand on her shoulder. “At least we’ve lessened the resentful energy but we need to know, your neighbor, did he have a spouse or partner?”
Her wrinkled face pulled into a thoughtful expression.
“Yes!” She lifted a finger. “Yes, but they died awhile ago. Lao-Huang was buried with them, on the land near his home.”
Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen shared a look.
“This must be the place,” said Xiao Xingchen. The gate to the home stood open and creaking slightly in the wind. He tilted his head, mouth moving slightly as he listened. “I don’t sense any resentful energy.”
“No. It’s only…”
Song Lan trailed off, eyes soft, as he looked over the small house. Next to him, Xiao Xingchen leaned into his side lightly.
“Bittersweet,” he finished for Song Lan.
“Yes, that’s it.”
There was still grime clinging to his hand but Xiao Xingchen slipped his into Song Lan’s, their fingers laced together. Song Lan gave a small sigh, content this time. He rubbed his thumb over Xiao Xingchen’s knuckles before letting Xiao Xingchen pull him along.
“Come, she said they were buried near the maple tree.”
Hand in hand, they walked across the small yard to the back of the home. The star-shaped leaves of the tree were tinged with red even though fall was still a month away. A few feet from the tree, there were two mounds, one fresher than the other, not covered with grass. Like the graves themselves, the plain stone markers were worn down differently.
“Where do you think we should leave it, Zichen?”
Song Lan’s answer was immediate.
“With Huang-qianbei. He was searching for it. It will put his spirit to rest, to have a part of his love with him,” he said, voice low.
Xiao Xingchen tightened his grip for a moment.
“Alright.”
He slipped his hand from Song Lan’s and knelt. Next to him, Song Lan did the same. Carefully, they moved back some of the dirt, deep enough for the pendant to be safe but not deep enough to disturb the body. They sat in silent prayer. After a moment, Xiao Xingchen shifted and opened his eyes. The rain, before a light mist, had finally stopped.
“Zichen, look,” said Xiao Xingchen, pointing at the place where the dirt upon the grave had been disturb.
A small plant had begun to sprout. Song Lan leaned forward, squinting a little. Disbelief crossed his face.
“Is that—”
“A radish,” Xiao Xingchen confirmed, something between delight and disgust in his voice.
“Huang-qianbei certainly has a sense of human.” Standing, Song Lan offered his hand to Xiao Xingchen and helped pull him to his feet. “I believe this means it’s over.”
“Yes, I think so. I’m sure you want to find a place to bathe,” he said as they walked back to the road.
“I do.” Song Lan closed the gate. “You smell as well, Xingchen.”
Lifting his arm to sniff it, Xiao Xingchen made a face.
“Don’t remind me, please, Zichen.”
Song Lan’s shoulders shook in a quiet laugh.
“I’ll try not to,” he said, letting Xiao Xingchen take his arm, walking side by side along the muddy road.
The sun was out now and the earth would dry out soon. Around them, the only sounds were that of birds and insects, appearing when the rain left, the occasional dripping of water off the trees that lined their trail.
Then Xiao Xingchen sighed deeply.
“Truthfully, Zichen, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat a radish again.”