Chapter 1: The Returning One

Mr. Clark told me he’s someone who can’t quite die. Every time he closes his eyes, after a few years, on some day, he’ll crawl out from the Gate of Formlessness again.

Qingming Festival, 1921, in Tianjin. I remember it rained heavily. The 11th time he came out of the Gate of Formlessness, he was covered in blood. I rushed to pick him up and couldn’t help but ask a question.

I said, why bother? Since you’ve already gone, why keep coming back to life? Is there someone you can’t let go of?

He was just as difficult as the rumors said, completely ignored me, turned around and left. After a while, he finally turned back and asked if I had anything to eat.

Later, I flipped through some old books and learned that the Judge lineage is all about clarity and impartiality, cultivating detachment and freedom from attachments. The question I asked that day was really just daydreaming, too many storybooks read.

This year at Grain Rain, I was the one to send him off again. Burned two basins of paper, lit seven sticks of incense. He looked the same, just like when I picked him up years ago.

Three white plum blossoms bloomed on the back hill. I wonder how many years he’ll be able to sleep well this time.

April 25, 1995, torrential rain

Charles Sullivan in Xi’an

***

“Twenty-five years.”

“What?” The driver instinctively raised his voice.

This year at Qingming, it was pouring in Ningzhou too. By the time the taxi came out from General’s Mountain, it was already dark. The traffic radio was reminding for the Nth time, “Roads are slippery in the rain, drive carefully,” but the driver couldn’t help glancing at the people in the back seat.

He’d picked up two strange passengers, one old and one young.

The little boy was very thin, at most six or seven years old, but wearing an oversized T-shirt. He seemed to have fallen—soaked from head to toe, half rainwater, half mud. Before getting in, the driver had handed him a big towel, but he didn’t even say thank you.

To be precise, he hadn’t said a word at all, until just now when he suddenly blurted something out. The voice was low and cold, with no childishness at all—really didn’t sound like a kid.

The driver wondered if he’d misheard, so he couldn’t help but ask again, “Little guy, was that you talking?”

The boy said nothing, just looked at him. His eyes reflected in the rearview mirror, pupils large and black.

The driver added, “The radio was too loud just now, uncle didn’t catch it, just heard something about twenty-five or five years.”

Still no response from the boy.

The driver gave a couple of awkward laughs. “Little guy?”

It was like someone had pulled the valve core out of the boy.

The old man beside him finally couldn’t stand it, smiled and said, “He was answering me.”

The driver was even more confused. “You were talking just now too? I feel like after going into the mountains, my ears aren’t working right.”

“No.” The old man turned the old ring on his finger, the withered fingertip rubbing the characters “Charles Sullivan” on the ring’s surface, and said, “I didn’t say anything just now, I asked earlier.”

The driver gave an “oh.”

He didn’t know how long ago that “earlier” was—otherwise, he might not have been able to just “oh” it away.

There are lots of rumors about General’s Mountain, and usually no one wants to come here. Business had been slow lately, so when he got a ride request, he just took it, and regretted it immediately.

There were no streetlights in this area, only the faint glow of reflective strips on the guardrails. The rain was really heavy, the shadows of trees on both sides swaying and twisted, like drooping, tangled hair.

Sometimes, glancing at the rearview mirror, he felt the two faces in the back seat were as pale as paper.

He kept telling himself it was just his imagination, but couldn’t help feeling creeped out, so he tried to make small talk to ease the tension—only to make himself more nervous...

He asked the old man in the back, “What brings you out to the mountains in this lousy weather? It’s hard to get a cab out here.”

The old man looked kindly at the boy beside him and said, “It is hard, but I had to come pick him up.”

The driver: “…Oh.”

He didn’t dare ask why a child was waiting in the mountains for someone to pick him up, so he just said, “This rain is really something, and it’s gotten colder lately. Isn’t the kid cold, wearing so little? Should I turn on the heat?”

The old man just smiled and shook his head. “He doesn’t get cold.”

The driver: “…Oh.”

“He doesn’t get cold” and “not cold” must mean the same thing, he thought, but he was already sweating.

Awkwardly wiping his hands on his pants, he glanced at the rearview mirror again and tried to sound cheerful: “Your kid’s really good-looking, you can tell he’ll be a handsome guy, such fair skin—”

So fair it was almost blue.

“—How old is he? Shouldn’t he be in school?”

The little boy, who’d been keeping his head down in the back seat, finally couldn’t take it anymore. He lifted his face, stared at the driver in the rearview mirror for a few seconds, and his stomach growled.