Mute Words

The clothes Mochuan brought me were casual, carrying a strong, fragrant wood scent—like they’d just been pulled from a camphor chest.

He’s taller than me, so the pant legs were long—I folded them up a bit. The sweater, too, hung loose, collar gaping, but a jacket hid it well.

Beyond clothes, he handed me a towel and socks—both unopened, brand new.

Short of underwear, he’d covered everything—thoughtful as hell.

Dressed, I stuffed my filthy gear into a bag and stepped out of the bathroom into the chill.

Pinjia’s daily meals were fasting dishes prepped by villagers in rotation. With Li Yang back, we had an extra portion. Four people stretched the veggies thin; rice ran short. Yan Chuwen steamed more, mixed it with the two delivered bowls, and fried up a fragrant truffle-egg rice.

Usually, Mochuan ate alone in the main hall, Li Yang in the side building. Today, with company, we all ate there together.

The side building screamed Cenglu style—vibrant wool blankets draped a wide L-shaped sofa, a coffee table doubled as a heater, its chimney piercing the roof. Photos and plaques of past Yan Guan lined the stairwell wall, butter lamps flickering below, fresh flowers and fruit offered year-round.

“Eyes on your food, not me,” Mochuan said abruptly as we ate around the table.

Chopsticks paused; all heads turned. I arched a brow—who’s looking?—then Li Yang piped up beside me. “I’m just happy—Pinjia’s eating a lot today.”

Oh, the kid was sneaking peeks.

I nabbed some greens, casual. “Li Yang said your appetite’s off. Ate something bad?”

Most folks lose it in summer—winter, too? Daintier than Bai Qifeng’s pampered koi.

“After Bazhai Sea, Pinjia can’t eat for days,” Li Yang cut in before Mochuan could reply, his small face tightening, oddly mature. “I could help, but he never takes me.”

“Bazhai Sea?” Yan Chuwen nudged his glasses. “Someone passed?”

Mochuan’s expression didn’t shift. He swallowed, then said, “No talk of that at meals.” He dropped a potato in Li Yang’s bowl, tone flat. “When you’re ready, I’ll take you—not now.”

Li Yang pouted, unconvinced, but didn’t dare defy him outright—just a low “mm” before digging in quietly.

Post-meal, I helped Yan Chuwen with dishes. Alone in the kitchen, I voiced the question gnawing since earlier.

“What’s with Bazhai Sea? One trip, and he can’t eat?”

Yan Chuwen blinked, registering “he” meant Mochuan, then stowed a bowl. “For Cenglu, unless it’s grazing, Bazhai Sea’s only for funerals. Pinjia goes every time someone dies to lead the rites…”

Bazhai Sea’s their holy lake—water, the purest thing between heaven and earth. Death means dissolving into it, feeding nature—a merit, a transformation.

“Water burials aren’t just Cenglu—other cultures use them too,” Yan Chuwen went on, calm as if noting dinner was salty. “Some toss whole bodies to drift; others chop them up, toss chunks in. Cenglu do the latter.”

My brain conjured it before I could stop it—neck hairs prickling.

I’d thought Nie Peng’s “flesh and bones of the dead” was poetic fluff. Nope—literal flesh, bones, sinew, skin.

Yan Chuwen added: Picky families grind the bones. Blood sometimes seeps from bags, soaking the boat, staining Pinjia’s robes and boots. The stench lingers—unwashable. Winter’s bearable; summer’s hell.

He kept going. The horn’s blast farewells the soul and signals fish: Dinner’s up. They swarm the boat, chasing scraps. Red ripples spread in the lake’s heart, fading in minutes—shore folks none the wiser.

“Even knowing the dead get a better end, that bloody ritual’s not something you just get used to. Ugh, my stomach’s acting up—bathroom break. Head back, don’t wait.” He clutched his gut and bolted.

That grisly crash course hit hard. I didn’t return to the building—lit a smoke instead, drifting to the temple’s corner, that massive cedar.

Winter, sure, but noon sun warmed enough—open air felt fine.

No wonder he spared Li Yang. That mess wasn’t for kids.

Shielding Li Yang like a real father, guarding his innocence from that darkness—maybe it’s his way of mending his own lost childhood?

Gazing up at the thick branches, my mind slid to age eleven.

That winter break, I tagged along with Yan Chuwen and his dad to Pengge. Witnessing the temple’s brutality, I fled back to the group, spooked. Later, I learned Professor Yan found Pengge’s folklore worth a deeper dig—stayed an extra day.

Night came; I tossed in bed, sleepless, replaying it—the furious man, the beaten boy, that defiant glare he shot me.

What eleven-year-old me thought, adult me can’t always decode. Anyway, dawn broke, and while others slept, I dressed quietly, sneaking back to the temple alone.

The gate gaped open, the hall too—no sound, dead still. I skirted the hall, heading straight for that cedar.

The boy was gone, no traces on ground or tree—like yesterday was a mirage.

I kicked a pebble—“whoosh”—it smacked the woodshed door nearby.

The shed was a wreck—mossy walls, a rickety door half-caved at the bottom.

I bent to grab the stone. As my fingers grazed it, a hand shot from inside, seizing my wrist.

Pale as death, almost unreal in the shadows—ice-cold, too.

Terror choked my scream. Eyes wide, I yanked free, tumbling back silent.

Eleven, not yet a staunch materialist—I thought I’d met a ghost in broad daylight. Swallowing hard, I scrambled to flee.

“Don’t go!”

Half-crawling, I froze.

A ghost… speaking Mandarin?

Wary, I glanced back. The hand was gone. “Human or ghost?”

The door rattled; a hem peeked out—someone sat against it.

“Human,” came the boy’s voice.

Relief hit—I slumped, boneless, griping, “Why hide in there to scare me?”

“I’m locked in—can’t get out. Not hiding to scare you.”

Then I saw it: a fat lock on the door.

What kind of place was this—beating, locking people up? Where’s the law?

Scanning around, I spotted a fist-sized rock nearby.

“Hang on, I’ll get you out.” I hefted it to smash the lock—barely raised it when he stopped me.

“No need—I don’t need saving. My… father locked me in.”

I clutched the rock, frowning. “Why’d your dad lock you up?”

A pause, then, “He thinks I did wrong.”

I ditched the rock, squatting by the door. “What’d you do?”

This time, silence stretched longer.

About to drop it, his low, rough voice broke through. “My sister… a bad man hurt her. I wanted to find him, make him pay, help her. But I was given to this father as a kid. He says I should cut ties with my past—stop seeing her as family.”

Twisted as hell. I mulled it, piecing it together.

“Your dad’s your dad—you’re you. What right’s he got meddling in your life? If a random girl got hurt and you saw it, you’d step up—why’s helping your sister off-limits?”

By then, Bai Qifeng had ditched my mom, his second wife’s kid already toddling. I loathed him—“father” ranked below Yan Chuwen’s dog in my book.

“Forget your dad—do what makes you happy. Scum deserve everyone’s wrath—you’re not wrong,” I said, dead certain.

“…You’re the first to tell me that,” he murmured—half awe, half relief.

The door shifted. Soon, a hand slipped out, clutching something gold and glinting.

“Can you do me a favor? Take this necklace to my sister. Tell her to sell it for cash. Tell her not to worry—even if no one else helps, I will.” No hesitation in his tone.

Helping’s a virtue—plus, I’d clocked it: he was the boy beaten under the tree yesterday.

I took the necklace. Pure gold chain, a hexagonal pendant—half-palm-sized—studded with turquoise and coral.

My grandma hoarded jewelry since youth—necklaces, earrings, two months of daily swaps without repeats. She had one like this—hollow gold box, opening to a silk scrap with scriptures. A charm, she’d said, cost her a fortune.

I weighed this one—heavier than hers, pricier too, probably.

“Where’s your sister?” I asked.

He chose simple words, mapping her place clear and quick.

I memorized it, pocketing the chain.

“You trust me just like that? What if I bolt with it?” The door’s splintered planks had gaps—I squinted through, seeing only dark.

“The Mountain Lord led you here—there’s a reason,” he said.

I smirked, muttering inwardly: Mountain Lord? I walked here myself!

“Fine—I’m off. Wait for good news.” I stood, dusted my pants, and slipped away the way I’d come.