The folklorist was not particularly satisfied with these sketchy notes. Never in his entire career had he encountered such an appalling custom. In the heat of the tavern stove, his thoughts began to race feverishly, and finally it occurred to him that the ideal way of recording this custom for posterity would be to recreate it. Turning to a white-haired old man, he asked, ‘Do you recall how the ceremony used to be performed?’
The old man replied, ‘I remember it very clearly. No way of forgetting.’
‘Well then, why don’t we cast lots for a ghost, just so I can get a sense of it?’ said the folklorist.
The old man laughed merrily. ‘You can’t cast lots for ghosts any more.’
But the folklorist bought more bottles of rice wine and meat dishes and placed them in front of the old people, saying, ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll do it just for fun. But I need you to help me a little, all right?’
From what I hear they were quick to consent, setting the winter solstice as the date and the elementary school as the location for the ceremony’s re-enactment. The arrangements were made in accordance with their recollections: they said that ghost-casting had always been conducted on the winter solstice, and that the school had been constructed on the grounds of what had once been the clan temple.
The weather preceding the solstice was chill but humid, and as the thin layer of snow melted into the black mud, the village recovered its former austere appearance. With the snow gone, barefoot farmers began to venture out into the paddies. They gathered the dried rice straw that had fallen throughout the autumn, and hurried home with it. Only the scarecrow stood still, watching over the frozen endless lands.
At the edge of the village, the folklorist saw the urn once again. It was listing slightly and an inch of water had accumulated in the base — melted snow, he presumed. He bent over to feel the moulded longfeng pattern of dragons and phoenixes, and then, giving it a few raps, said to himself, ‘This must have been the urn.’ The cracks had now all been filled by teeth-like tin clamps sunk solidly into the fissures. He nearly burnt his fingers on them, they were still scalding hot. He looked around and glimpsed the old pottery-mender with his kit bag, passing behind a grave mound and gradually disappearing from view.
‘Wulin,’ murmured the folklorist, remembering the ghost of sixty years ago. Then he couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. He walked around the urn once more; it was like walking into an older era in village life. It seemed as if the urn, which had once held corpses, was revolving on its base behind him. The fantastic customs of this village were provoking his imagination to greater and greater heights.
‘Wulin.’ Now he stretched his hand into the urn and felt the imaginary outline of Wulin’s wrecked skull. It was a mixture of blood and flesh, like jellyfish floating on the surface of the water. Removing his hand from the urn, he shook it to rid himself of the sensation, but nothing came off. Of course there was nothing in the urn but an inch of melted snow, and beneath that grey-brown moss. Nothing else. He hadn’t even really believed the illusion. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but wonder about the old man who had given him that useless, even malicious piece of advice to look for Wulin, a dead man, and ask him to tell stories.
The folklorist examined the fingers he had put in the urn, but there was nothing unusual about them except for their bloodless pallor; the result of the weather and his own anaemia.
At the winter solstice, the ghost-casting ceremony was re-enacted at Eight Pines. Some of the participants were old people who had come spontaneously, and through the help of the village council, the folklorist had managed to assemble even more of the local people. The folklorist wanted the ceremony to be as realistic as possible, saying that for him the best thing would have been to go back in time sixty years.
The altar was formed by pushing together school desks in a long line on the dirt floor. The villagers lit several candles and set these on the altar, along with offerings of meat, fish and dried fruits. More troublesome was the question of the foil ingots. Since there were approximately three hundred villagers, it was necessary to make that many ingots to put on the altar. The folklorist helped the old people as they rolled the foil into shape. Finally, on the paper lining of one of the sheets of foil, he sketched the outline of a ghost in red ink. This he gave to the venerable white-haired old man who rolled the foil into an ordinary-looking ingot and threw it on the pile. Next, four people standing with their backs to the table mixed up the shimmering pile of ingots. Numbering over three hundred by now, these were arranged in a single long line, which wound from one end of the altar to the other, ceremonially confronting the villagers.
The villagers waiting to draw ingots stood solemnly in a similar winding line and filed gradually towards the altar. One after another, each of the villagers took an ingot and gave it to the old man. He unfolded each in turn, spreading it out on his palm. It was a long and solemn procedure and the villagers kept their eyes fixed on the old man, waiting for him to raise one of the pieces of foil above his head and say, ‘The ghost. This one’s the ghost.’
The folklorist’s place was towards the end of the line, and while he proceeded towards the altar he paid close attention to the events unfolding ahead. The villagers were passing one by one through the old man’s hands; the ghost was proving slow to appear. A thought occurred to the folklorist, but he dismissed it as too improbable. Shaking his head, he continued shuffling slowly towards the altar. Reaching it, he took one of the ingots, just like all the villagers had: there weren’t many left, but he had to choose one of them. As he walked up to the old man, he saw that there were thin white streaks of light, like snow, shining in his long beard, and as the old man held out his hand to take the ingot, it too was streaked with grey-white rays of light. The eerie sight made the folklorist shudder. Giving the old man the ingot he had selected, he thought, That’s not possible. It would be too theatrical. But he saw that the same light was now shining from the old man’s eyes too. He opened the ingot and raised it slowly above his head. Then the folklorist clearly heard the old man’s voice, brimming with emotion.
‘The ghost. This one’s the ghost.’
The folklorist laughed. He felt light-headed, although he knew there was no good reason to be. He turned around to face the now restless crowd. Laughing, he said, ‘Isn’t that funny? I’m the ghost.’ At this point, four men rushed out from behind the old man, dragging a large sheet behind them. They wrapped the folklorist in it from head to foot and, lifting the bundle, ran outside. Initially the folklorist retained his composure at this turn of events, but when he heard their wild, earsplitting cries, he began to feel afraid. Summoning all his strength, he cried out, ‘Where are we going? Where are you taking me?’
The ghost-bearers answered, ‘To the longfeng urn! How could you forget? It was your idea!’ At this the folklorist calmed down again. Through the white sheet he could dimly see a dense crowd of villagers running along like madmen. Some of them were shouting, ‘The ghost! The ghost!’ He was being carried above Eight Pines now, soaring, flying over the village. Suddenly he remembered the old man at the urn who had mentioned Wulin’s name. The memory made his heart skip a beat. The ghost-bearers gradually picked up speed. They were heading to the urn so quickly that their feet barely touched the ground. The folklorist could dimly see the great urn, with its cracks and clamps, its inch of melted snow and moss. He suddenly called out sharply, ‘No! Put me down! Put me down right now!’