Heavenly Secret

Ye Xiao had a dream. … When he awoke, all he saw was a vast sea of green—bamboo trees pierced his pupils like arrows, and a massive flower burst into bloom, its crimson petals dazzling. Towering mountains undulated overhead, and beyond them, layer upon layer of dark clouds loomed, threatening to unleash a torrential downpour at any moment. Where… was this? Sweat from the nightmare slid down his forehead. Beneath him was a trembling bus seat; to his right, a clear pane of glass; to his left, a familiar face. His brain felt like it was being torn in half. Sun Zichu grinned at him. “Hey, you’re finally awake!” “You—” Ye Xiao opened his eyes wide, propped himself up with effort, and asked in confusion, “What are you doing here?” “Still not fully awake? But I remember you didn’t drink much last night.” Drink? Ye Xiao breathed into his cupped hand, but there was no scent of alcohol. He looked around—this was a small tourist bus, with a dozen or so passengers. Outside the window, dense tropical or subtropical forest dotted with bright flowers unfolded, a mountain road winding its way deeper into unknowable fate. But among all the people on board, Ye Xiao only recognized Sun Zichu beside him. They have grown close over the past couple of years. Sun Zichu, a history lecturer at S University, had helped him more than once. “Where are we going now?” “To the Lanna Royal Tomb—we just left Chiang Mai.” “Chiang Mai?” The name rang a faint bell. Ye Xiao racked his brain. “Which province is that? Yunnan? Or Guizhou?” Sun Zichu gave a helpless laugh. “Come on, are you kidding me? We’re in Thailand!” “We’re not in China?” “Of course not! "Chiang Mai is one of the most famous cities in northern Thailand—did you forget the breakfast we had at the hotel there just a few hours ago?” Ye Xiao felt his heart sink into a bathtub of ice. He rubbed his temples hard, cold sweat soaking through his back. His memory was shattered like broken glass, even his own face seemed to fragment with it—no one could piece it back together. At least he had found the horizontal axis: northern Thailand—Chiang Mai—Lanna Royal Tomb. Now, the vertical? “What day is it today?” “September 24th! Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You were totally normal when we left, and now it’s like you’ve just landed on another planet.” Then Ye Xiao asked something even more foolish: “What year?” “841 BC!” Sun Zichu looked exasperated. “You messing with me? Don’t tell me you don’t even know it’s 2006?” “September 24th, 2006. Northern Thailand. Chiang Mai. Heading to the Lanna Royal Tomb.” Time and space—vertical and horizontal—finally intersected. That precise coordinate… Might just be fatal. The moment the spatiotemporal coordinate crystallized in his mind, a hazy image surfaced before Ye Xiao’s eyes: a mountain basin, like an ancient ink painting unearthed from a dusty box, still crawling with tiny bugs. No, not bugs—curling wisps of smoke, like white mist threading through the emerald-green mountains. The blend of green and white resembled a specially treated movie scene, slowly revealing dozens of stilted bamboo huts. Could this be a southern variant of a haunted village? At 11:30, the bus pulled over by the roadside. Their guide, Xiao Fang, a young man in his twenties, called for everyone to disembark. Ye Xiao stepped off the bus with Sun Zichu. So this was northern Thailand? A faint, tingling current ran through the soles of his feet. Toads croaked from the undergrowth, and perhaps a few green pit vipers lay in wait nearby. In a mechanical tone, the guide explained: this minority village had migrated here from Yunnan, China, two hundred years ago, and retained customs starkly different from native Thais. The mountainous inland was poor, nothing like the fertile Chao Phraya River plain. The locals grew only corn and sweet potatoes—and the beautiful yet deadly poppy. The tour group was scheduled to have lunch here, sampling “authentic mountain fare.” Some were thrilled—sick of Thai food by now and ready to dig in. A few women, however, frowned, recalling the civet cat scandal during the SARS outbreak years ago. Before they reached the village entrance, a deep, resonant drumbeat echoed through the hills. Sun Zichu frowned. “Bronze drums?” Indeed, at the village entrance stood two massive bronze drums, struck forcefully by elderly men in traditional garb wielding bone mallets. The sound was metallic, at times crisp and at others somber, as if resonating straight into one’s heart. Behind the drums stood dozens of monsters. Each was hideously disfigured, like acid-burn victims, brandishing swords and knives with menacing postures. The sight startled everyone. One creature, bull-headed and ferocious, charged at them with a gleaming blade, like a bandit out of ancient folklore. Several female tourists screamed and turned to flee back to the bus. “Don’t be scared!” Xiao Fang shouted. “It’s the Nuo Dance!” Yes, these were “Nuo gods” from Chinese southwestern tradition—fierce masks of ghosts or beasts painted on wood, believed to ward off evil. As the drumming quickened, the “Nuo gods” sang and danced, blades flashing like warriors returning victorious from war. Ye Xiao’s vision blurred. All he saw were those grotesque masks, those sharp blades and arrows. The drumming battered his ears, nearly deafening him. One masked figure—an underworld general in gleaming armor—suddenly rushed toward him, his sword aimed straight at his chest. At that critical moment, Ye Xiao’s limbs froze. Though his brain screamed to dodge, his body refused to move! Just as the sword was about to pierce him, it swerved at the last second, grazing past his head. He caught a whiff of blood. Has the blade killed something—or someone—recently? Was this a test of his courage? Or had his defiant composure scared the Nuo god off? Sun Zichu yanked him back several steps, pale with shock. “Hey, are you crazy? Another half-second and you’d be dead in this godforsaken place!” Ye Xiao had no answer. It felt like invisible ropes had bound him. His brain had issued the command to flee, but his body disobeyed. Cold sweat now drenched his back. The masked general had rejoined the dance. His mask seemed to smile at Ye Xiao in a twisted way, brandishing his sword in provocation. Masks… gods… blades… blood… All of it spun wildly in Ye Xiao’s mind—was it what he’d seen now, or memories from last night—or longer ago? His body felt torn in two, the drumming turning into a saw, grinding through his scalp. Two warriors wearing Nuo masks laughed maniacally as they sawed. Their brows glistened with sweat as the blade sliced through his head, spraying blood like a fountain. When the saw reached his neck, his skull split cleanly in half. His eyes drifted apart—his left eye saw heaven; his right saw hell. Finally, the saw exited through his groin, cleaving him completely in two. A memory surfaced—Italo Calvino’s The Cloven Viscount. When the drums finally ceased, he realized his body was intact. The masked dancers had vanished, replaced by the gaunt, ordinary faces of villagers. Ye Xiao trembled as he touched his head, unsure whether he was bleeding. “Oh my God!” exclaimed a young foreign woman in the tour group. She had fair skin and long brown hair framing a delicate face. Her English was heavily American-accented, but then she switched smoothly to Mandarin: “Excuse me, is this part of the tour?” The young guide hesitated. “Y-Yes, it’s a special… welcome ceremony.” Sun Zichu examined the bronze drums. They were ancient relics from over two thousand years ago, once widespread across Southwest China and the Indochinese Peninsula, now exceedingly rare. Strange patterns lined the rims—perhaps depictions of some giant beast. But just as he pulled out a magnifying glass, two wiry villagers glared at him menacingly. He had to retreat, embarrassed. Ye Xiao followed the group into the village, which was shockingly poor. Except for the wild grass growing unchecked, it felt utterly lifeless, like a burial site from antiquity. What little wealth the villagers had was worn on the women’s heads—heavy silver jewelry bloomed like metallic flowers. Their clothing was all black, and their faces were sallow with malnutrition. One tourist, a young man with a camcorder, suddenly called out, “Smells amazing!” (Huh? Do camcorders have a sense of smell now?) In the village center, they saw a steaming cauldron, flames crackling underneath, surrounded by low tables and stools. That mouthwatering scent wafted from the bubbling soup inside. “What kind of wild meat is that?” asked a man in cartoonish sunglasses, dressed like a trendy urbanite. The villagers watched them blankly. Xiao Fang whispered something to the driver. Ye Xiao noticed their expressions were odd. The driver, a man in his forties with a typical Thai face, exchanged a few words with the villagers, then invited everyone to sit down. “This is a special holiday,” Xiao Fang announced. It’s the Exorcism Festival! Guests who arrive today are honored guests. The villagers are treating us to a feast to help them drive out evil.” Exorcism Festival? It reminded Ye Xiao of the classic horror movie The Exorcist. Talk about bad timing. He sat down nervously. Each person received a large earthenware pot, like a Chinese clay pot. But inside wasn’t any exotic wild game—just plain old sweet potatoes. The so-called “clay pot sweet potato” was a disappointment, though in this remote place, it had a certain rustic charm. The rest of the dishes were pickled meat and fermented glutinous rice—not exactly a gourmet spread. Someone snapped, “Are they going to charge us after this?” Just then, the final dish arrived. A goosebump-covered old woman murmured something to the driver, who announced in broken Mandarin: “Golden meat!” Golden meat? Even before he processed the name, a small bowl was placed before Ye Xiao. An enticing aroma drifted up. His mind hadn’t caught up, but his mouth had already started watering. Inside the bowl was a small piece of tofu-like meat floating in golden broth—golden tofu? He scooped up a bite with his wooden spoon and placed it in his mouth. It didn’t dissolve like tofu—instead, it was smooth and rich, with a faint savory note. His tongue trembled in delight. Delicious. Unbelievably delicious. This wasn’t tofu—it was meat. He hurried to finish it—this was the best meat he had tasted in twenty-nine years. Too bad there was only a tiny piece. He savored each bite like fine tea. Within seconds, it was gone. He drank the remaining golden broth, licking his lips to capture the aftertaste. Others were just as delighted. Everyone praised the dish, practically ready to eat the bowl. They clamored for seconds. The driver shook his head. “Only one bowl per person. That’s the rule.” Fair enough. A delicacy this rare had to be rationed. The man in sunglasses stood and asked, “So, what exactly is golden meat?” After a series of translations, Xiao Fang relayed the villagers’ answer: “It’s a heavenly secret… that must not be revealed.” “Tch. At least it’s not meat made of real gold.” As everyone braced for an extra meal, Xiao Fang surprised them. “This meal is free—a gift from the villagers. Because you arrived during the Exorcism Festival, you are honored guests… chosen to help them banish the demons.” “What the hell?” muttered a young woman in a Taiwanese accent. The group rose and followed the guide out of the village. The man in sunglasses glanced back longingly at the big pot—only to notice a pile of white bones beside it. What kind of bones… were those?