Volume One, Chapter 14: Reading Between the Lines

Since childhood, I have lived by the charity of others. Being meticulous and perceptive has been my survival skill. Whatever Master Ma means, as long as I follow his footsteps, I’m sure I won’t go wrong.

In the heavy silence, we marched until nightfall. The old hunter found a rough stone hillock and built a makeshift shelter from dry branches and leaves. Master Ma and I gathered some twigs, cleared a firebreak, and lit a campfire.

The three of us sat around the fire, silently chewing on dried venison.

The atmosphere was strange. Firstly, Master Ma and the old hunter didn’t clash—no verbal dispute either—but they behaved as if bearing deep grudges, refusing to speak to each other. Just yesterday, they were sharing drinks and laughter; today, they were strangers. It was almost comical, like a married couple in a cold war, neither speaking, yet constantly watching each other’s every move.

I tried sparking conversations—asking about the big macaques in the mountains, or strange tales from the old forest—but both the old hunter and Master Ma responded with curt, one or two sentences before shutting down.

This wouldn’t do. I had to do something Master Ma wanted to do but couldn’t—probe the old hunter.

So I spoke up, “Grandpa, how long have you been in the old forest?”

Without lifting his head, the old hunter stared into the fire and replied flatly, “I’ve been in the forest since I can remember. I’ve forgotten when exactly.”

“Then how do you know the ghost opera?”

The old hunter’s body trembled suddenly. He slowly turned his head, eyes sharp as lightning, sending a chill down my spine.

Still, I feigned calm and confidence.

“Grandpa, wasn’t it you singing the ghost opera last night?”

Master Ma scolded, “You little brat, spouting nonsense. What do you know, kid?”

“It’s definitely ghost opera. I heard the village elders talk about it.”

“Brat, stop babbling.”

The old hunter glanced at me, then at Master Ma. Then abruptly raised his wine gourd and grinned, “Alright, you two stop your act. If you want to ask something, just ask.”

I looked at Master Ma. He wore a blank expression, like a wife caught in adultery, helpless and at a loss. After a moment of hesitation, he said, “Old brother, I don’t want to ask anything. This kid is just talking nonsense. I’ll deal with him when we get back.”

The old hunter gave a dry, humorless smile. “Ask if you want. We’re old now. What’s there to be taboo about?”

“Old brother, were you part of a ghost opera troupe?”

The old hunter’s eyelids drooped as he stared into the fire. “Yes, I was born into a ghost opera troupe.”

Master Ma was surprised. “I heard that those who sing ghost opera—boys are castrated, girls are made mute. The men and women in the troupe don’t have normal relations. How could there be children?”

The old hunter was silent for a few seconds, then slowly said, “What you heard is correct. I grew up in the troupe, but I wasn’t born to those who sing ghost opera.”

He gazed at the night sky, as if recalling memories, then continued, “I was probably born in the 1930s. I don’t know the exact year or who my parents were. Back then, the troupe passed through a mass grave. I was crying among the dead babies, and they picked me up.”

The old hunter’s words carried a sense of restrained pain. The firelight flickered on his graying beard, revealing only desolation.

Master Ma handed the old hunter a cigarette. “Alright, old brother, it’s all in the past now. Let it go.”

Only then did I notice the moisture at the corner of the old hunter’s eyes. As an orphan myself, I understood his feelings—being born but not raised is perhaps a lifelong wound.

Master Ma continued, “Some babies are born not crying, not making a sound. Back then, people didn’t know why and thought the baby was dead. Now medicine calls it ‘apparent death.’”

I nodded in agreement. “Luckily, someone found you.”

The old hunter chuckled softly, his expression inscrutable.

A sudden thought struck me—the tale of ghost opera performers eating human flesh.

Could it be that those people found the child in the mass grave?

The heavy topic made the atmosphere increasingly awkward. The old hunter rambled on but revealed no useful clues.

Seeing no progress, Master Ma was the first to lean against a tree, apparently to rest. The old hunter closed his eyes too, but his aged hand still gripped his rifle tightly.

After another day trekking through the old forest, by the third evening we arrived at an extraordinary place.

Why extraordinary? Because in my memory, these lands were all mountains and ridges linked together. Yet before us stretched a plain as flat as paper. Not endless, but at least ten miles around were level, with a low, solitary hill shrouded in white mist at its center.

Between the mountains and the plain stood a wooden house that looked entirely out of place. On its roof hung tattered banners, old enough that they had turned into rags, but the character for “wine” was still faintly visible.

The house was large, a perfect square of about a hundred square meters. Strangest of all, smoke still rose from its chimney.

Shielding his eyes from the last rays of sunset, the old hunter said, “Here we are. We’ll stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we enter Ghost-Slaying Ridge.”

When we were about ten meters from the house, an inexplicable unease gripped me. My heart pounded, and goosebumps rose all over.

The closer we got, the stronger the feeling became. Inside, the sound of a lively crowd was unmistakable.

In this deep forest, where would so many people come from?