Chapter Forty-Eight: Spreading the Faith Across the Prairie (Part Eight)

The great battle was over, but Liaochan dared not rest for a moment. Taking advantage of the lingering light within his spiritual sanctuary, he forced himself to endure the pain in his spirit. Seated atop the hill, he retrieved from his universe pouch a large-headed doll carved from ebony, placing it before him. Steeling his mind to unwavering focus, he began to chant the soul-calling incantation—again and again, tirelessly. Yet as the hour of the Tiger waned, the large-headed doll remained inert.

Liaochan could no longer sit composed in his ritual. Dawn was approaching; if he could not retrieve the dispersed souls of the stillborn infants he had inadvertently scattered before the first rays of sunlight, they would be obliterated as day broke, reduced to ash and dust. That would be yet another karmic debt upon his shoulders. With a blemished heart, how could he speak of achieving true enlightenment?

“Forget it—when you owe as much as I do, what’s one more debt?” Liaochan could delay no longer. He returned to the ritual platform, brought out seven star lanterns, and with a single gesture, the lanterns flared to life without flame.

“Honored Star Lords above, this disciple has, by accident, scattered the souls of many innocent infants. To atone for my past mistakes, I beg you to grant starry guidance, that I might find and return the lost spirits. I entreat you, Star Lords, to show mercy.” Liaochan had no choice but to offer incense to each celestial officer, bowing with utmost sincerity. The last time he had displeased the Star Lords; he hadn’t expected to come seeking their aid again so soon. Indeed, a debt in June must be repaid swiftly.

Whether it was the magnanimity of the Star Lords or Liaochan’s own merit, his prayer was answered. As he finished his devotions, a shower of starlight from the Northern Dipper broke through the night sky, shining directly upon the seven star lanterns. Overjoyed, Liaochan hurriedly knelt to give thanks for this divine favor.

Forty-nine soul-calling banners, seven guiding star lanterns, and a large-headed doll. Liaochan pondered, then drew forth a talisman to invite the Earth Mother’s blessing. The earth is the mother of all things, the epitome of mercy. He hoped the Earth Mother would help him gather the scattered souls and spirits of the stillborn infants.

Seated before the seven star lanterns, Liaochan took up his violet-gold ritual bell and gently rang it: “Star lanterns, show the way! Spirits, leave your seats!” With that, he closed his eyes and sat motionless.

Though his yin spirit was nearly perfected, his yang spirit was yet unformed. He feared not the celestial winds, but he still could not withstand the light of day. Thus, unless compelled, Liaochan would not send his yin spirit far from his body, for fear of falling prey to malicious ghosts. But now, with no alternative, he set off in his spirit form, following the guidance of the starlight, chanting the soul-calling incantation as he went.

On the night prairie, aside from the occasional distant howl of wolves, all was silent. But to Liaochan’s spirit eyes, the scene was bustling—ghosts everywhere, some weeping, some laughing, some fighting, some cursing, all searching for something.

“Babies laugh, mothers cry; mothers hit babies, babies cry, mothers laugh,” came a song not far ahead. A group of children, innocent and endearing, gathered in a circle, singing. Yet if you listened closely to their song, any sense of cuteness would vanish. “Mothers laugh, babies cry; babies eat their mothers’ heads. Fathers cry, babies laugh; babies eat their fathers’ heads.” Infants, with their unformed intelligence and blank-slate minds, are especially prone to becoming vengeful spirits. When they die unjustly, the resentment of their souls is even more terrifying than that of adults.

“Hello, little ones. Can you tell uncle if you’ve seen younger children—ones who seem dazed and lost?” Liaochan stopped to ask.

“We know. But why should we tell you? Can you help us eat our parents?” One little ghost piped up. This child, dripping wet with mud in her hair, had a face not the typical pale of a ghost, but a bluish-grey—a clear sign she had drowned, either by accident or by being thrown into water. Her resentment was thick; soon, she would become a true wraith. When that happened, her unprotected family would likely suffer.

“Why do you want to eat your parents?” Liaochan had barely finished the question before realizing how foolish it was.

“Why can’t I eat my parents? They only loved my younger brother, left me here alone. They stayed with him and my sister, but never came for me. If I eat them, they’ll be with me forever, won’t they, uncle?” Liaochan fell silent for a long time, then finally looked at the pitiable little wraith and said, “Suppose uncle builds you and the other children a house—bigger than your own—and finds many friends for you to play with. Every day, someone tells you stories, and there’s always delicious food and fun things. Would you like that?”

“Can I eat my parents first, then go?” the little ghost insisted, obsessed with her vengeance. Liaochan could only try to appear gentle. “But if you eat your parents, the gatekeeper won’t let you in, because then your siblings will have no one to care for them. If you still have parents, only your brothers and sisters can enter.”

“Then I’ll eat them all—is that okay?” The little wraith would not let go. Tears welled in Liaochan’s eyes as he said, “If you hurt people, you won’t be a good child. The uncles and aunties won’t like you anymore. Do you still want to do that?”

“But I’m hungry,” the ghost replied pitifully.

“Sigh,” Liaochan breathed, relieved at last.

He crouched down and said, “If you help me gather all the little ones across this prairie, I’ll give you food.” As he spoke, he incanted softly and waved his hands. Suddenly, the grassland filled with exquisite food: beef soup, vegetables, fruit, wheat and rice. The ghost children were entranced, drooling, but none dared touch the feast. Even vengeful spirits can make judgments. Liaochan’s presence exuded awe, and the starlight protected him—none dared act rashly.

“Can I eat before I help look?” The little ghost pouted. Liaochan could not bear to be harsh. These innocent, untimely dead were pitiful enough—no family to mourn them, no incense to sustain them, unformed intelligence, dying unjustly, their resentment keeping them outside the cycle of reincarnation, forever wandering the border of the living and the dead.

“Go ahead—eat, but hurry and help uncle find the babies,” Liaochan agreed.

“Okay!” the little ghosts cheered, rushing in to gobble everything, stuffing their mouths as quickly as they could. Liaochan left them to it, focusing on sensing the vengeful spirits with the help of the starlight.

The children ate quickly, and in no time, the feast was gone. Liaochan clapped his hands and said, “Now, go help uncle find all the babies. When you do, I’ll take you to a place where there’s always food and shelter from the rain and wind. Sound good?”

“Yes!” the children cried in unison.

“Go, then,” Liaochan said, and the spirits scattered in all directions, while he followed the starlight in search of the lost souls.

When the hour of the Rabbit arrived, in the Central Plains the roosters would soon crow their first call. Returning to the meeting place, Liaochan was stunned—thousands of children’s spirits thronged together, noisy and lively. As his divine sense swept over them, he found the souls he had scattered—those of the stillborn infants—right among them. The little ghosts had told the truth; they really knew where the lost souls were! Liaochan summoned several large-headed dolls and clapped his hands. “One for each of you—choose your own.” Hearing this, the children surged forward, knowing uncle would take them to a good place. They jostled and squeezed, each diving into a doll and refusing to come out. Liaochan smiled; those whose souls were whole could enter the dolls on their own, but the stillborns with scattered souls could not. As the field cleared, only the dazed, incomplete spirits remained. To Liaochan’s surprise, the little wraith who had spoken with him had not entered either.

“Why haven’t you gone in? Didn’t you find a doll you liked?” Liaochan asked kindly.

“I want to stay with you. You have so many dolls, there’ll be more for me. If I stay with you, I’ll get even more dolls. I’m not as foolish as the others.” The little ghost’s words nearly floored Liaochan. “For someone so small, must you be so shrewd?” he thought.

He reflected—perhaps he did need a spirit assistant for matters between the living and the dead. With daily incense offerings and rites of deliverance, even a little wraith might one day achieve enlightenment. If not, he could personally send her on to a perfect next life.

“Very well, you may stay with me, but you must obey,” Liaochan replied solemnly.

“Okay, I’ll do as uncle says,” the little ghost agreed, surprisingly docile, which left Liaochan strangely saddened. What kind of parents could murder such an innocent child?

He took out an exquisite girl doll, a cherished possession of Yunhua’s, gifted by the Empress of the palace. Yunhua had too many treasures and no universe pouch, so she had left it in Liaochan’s care. Now he would borrow it, hoping Yunhua would not mind. She might be furious—“What kind of master pilfers his disciple’s things? Have you no shame?”

The moment the doll appeared, the little ghost’s eyes lit up. Clearly, she had never seen anything so beautiful on the prairie; she could not look away.

“Go inside, quickly—the sun is about to rise. You can’t stay out here any longer,” Liaochan urged.

The little ghost nodded. “Can I call you daddy? You’re much nicer than my daddy.” Liaochan nearly stumbled. “No, but you can call me Master. A master for a day is a father for a lifetime; it’s just like being a parent.” The little ghost nodded, sweetly called “Master,” then, blushing, slipped into the doll and fell silent.

With a sweep of his sleeve, Liaochan collected all the dolls and turned to the remaining dazed souls.

“One hundred and five, one hundred and six, one hundred and seven…” Sweat beaded on Liaochan’s brow—there were still three souls missing. The sun was about to rise; the Northern Dipper’s stars would soon vanish. He had to hurry!

“Seven stars, show the way!” He chanted and followed the starlight, flying swiftly northeast. Before long, he reached a solitary yurt, from which emanated a disturbing aura. Clearly, the three missing souls were inside.

Liaochan rushed in, only to witness a bizarre scene.