Chapter 332: Shen Lanzhi

The six lamps stood perfectly still, as if nailed into the darkness at the mountain pass.

Lu Yuan did not let the cart move forward.

First, he sent Zhou Heng to inspect the slopes on either side. Then he had Wang Cheng'an note the lamps’ positions, the distances between them, and the direction of the wind.

Song Qinghe carried the green lamp around to the mules. She checked their breathing and hooves, and only after confirming they weren’t hurt did she tell Xu Erxiao to unload half the heavy cargo.

The mules remained crouched, refusing to get up.

“They’re not lame.” Xu Erxiao rubbed their necks. “But there’s a smell here. Like the stuff they burn to drive bugs out of an herb shop.”

Lin Zhaoxuan bent to examine the snow beside the road. A broken clay pot was buried beneath it, its mouth stuffed with thick cloth stained by dark brown grease.

He didn’t touch it. Instead, he used a branch to pry it open.

A pungent smell wafted out. The mules snorted and backed away.

“Move the pot downwind,” Song Qinghe said. “Don’t have them pull the cart yet.”

Lu Yuan looked toward the lamps ahead.

“Who buried it here?”

The man leading them hugged his padded coat close and hesitated. “The mountain road is dangerous. Someone must have used it to drive away wild animals.”

“Would wild animals be afraid of mules?”

The man didn’t answer.

Zhou Heng circled the slope and returned to the group with a length of thin copper wire in his hand. It ran from behind the iron frame of one lamp into a crack in the rocks, then continued down beneath the mountain road.

“It wasn’t for wild animals,” he said. “Someone used the lamps to guide people, and the wire to send signals.”

Wang Cheng'an spread the transport ledger on the cart bed and compared the bell-shaped cargo mark with the markings on the lamp frames. Beneath the first lamp was a tiny “Yi,” matching the mark in the old Bai River ledger.

“These aren’t six offering sites,” he said. “They’re just six signposts.”

“But they’re arranged in a line, pointing straight at the temple,” Bai Pu said.

“Signposts can be arranged in a line too.” Wang Cheng'an tapped the map with his pen. “The important thing is where each one points.”

He marked the six locations on the paper. The first was at the mountain pass, the second at a fork, and the third at a bend in a steep slope. The last three were scattered across a ravine, a stone bridge, and the area in front of the temple.

The six points lined up exactly with the transport route recorded in the ledger.

“If the lamps are lit, that means the cart can go through,” Song Qinghe said.

“Or it means someone knows we’re here,” Lu Yuan replied.

Bai Pu looked at the blank spaces between the six points.

“Let’s not take the cart yet. Keep the original documents under guard. We’ll go forward in stages.”

“The crate can’t be left unattended,” Lu Yuan said.

“Then we’ll leave the cart at the pass. Zhou Heng and Erxiao can guard it. The four of us will check the first fork.”

Xu Erxiao wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t argue. He stacked the unloaded crates into a low windbreak, wiped the mules’ noses and mouths clean, then gripped his iron shovel and stood guard beside the cart.

Lu Yuan, Bai Pu, Wang Cheng'an, Song Qinghe, and Lin Zhaoxuan followed the lamplight.

After a few dozen steps, the first lamp suddenly dimmed.

Everyone stopped.

Right after it, the second lamp went out.

The mountain road remained silent.

A moment later, the third lamp went dark too.

Lin Zhaoxuan looked back. At the pass behind them, only the green glow beside the cart remained. The fourth lamp swayed faintly in the fog but hadn’t gone out completely.

“Someone’s triggered a mechanism at the other end,” he said.

Lu Yuan didn’t chase after the lamps. He lowered his eyes to the road. Two old sets of wheel ruts crossed the snow. They were about as wide as an herb cart, but much narrower than their own cart’s tracks. Beside them ran a string of small footprints, outside the ruts, as if someone had led a beast along the road.

At the fork ahead stood a crooked wooden sign.

It didn’t name the temple. It only said:

“Carts must stop. Present your papers.”

Behind the sign was a half-collapsed roadside hut.

An oil lamp burned inside. Beneath it sat an old man in a felt hat, a small booklet open in front of him. Six wooden tablets were tucked between its pages. When he saw them, he closed the booklet, his gaze settling on the copper bell in Bai Pu’s hand.

“Papers,” he said.

Lu Yuan held out the transport ledger.

The old man didn’t take it.

“I’m checking the cargo manifest, not you.”

“The cargo manifest is in the original-documents crate. Its seal is intact. This is the transport ledger.”

The old man still didn’t move.

“Anyone entering the mountain has to give their name.”

Wang Cheng'an took out the corrections register and turned to a blank page.

“If you want to record our names, first write down who’s conducting the check, what’s being checked, and what gives you the right to ask. If this is just a cargo inspection, we’ll record the cargo number, seal number, and item count. We won’t record unrelated names.”

The old man gave him a cold look.

“You don’t make the rules.”

“Rules don’t give you the right to write people down as cargo.”

The wrinkles on the old man’s face tightened.

Bai Pu stepped forward.

“What does this booklet record?”

She pointed to the closed booklet on the table.

The old man laid a hand over its cover.

“Travelers on the road.”

“Then why are there only six tablets?”

“Six inspection points.”

Wang Cheng'an said, “Six inspection points—for names, households, contracts, goods, routes, and kinship?”

The old man’s eyelid twitched. He said nothing.

“Who decided that people passing through had to hand over all six?”

“The Master of Offerings.”

“Who’s the Master of Offerings?”

“The person in charge at the temple.”

“What’s their name?”

The old man looked away.

Lu Yuan stopped asking and turned to the wooden tablets. The top one was carved with “Road,” though the characters beneath it had been worn away. The other five read, in order: “Name,” “Household,” “Contract,” “Goods,” and “Kinship.”

Bai Pu reached out. The old man started to stop her, but his raised hand halted halfway.

She didn’t take the tablet. She only looked at the back of the one marked “Kinship.”

Short lines covered it densely. One stroke for each person. Beside every five strokes was a circle, as if someone had been tallying the number of times people passed through.

“This isn’t a record of family ties,” she said. “It’s a count of people coming and going.”

The old man pulled the tablet against his chest.

“What would you know?”

“We know that a tally of passersby doesn’t prove they’re related,” Bai Pu replied.

Wang Cheng'an had already made a note in the register: “Roadside hut: six wooden tablets; repeated tally marks on reverse; purpose unverified.”

The old man watched him write. At last, he stood.

“If you go any farther, the temple gate won’t open.”

Lu Yuan took back the transport ledger.

“We’ve come to deliver a crate of stored records. If someone on the road is inspecting cargo, they should have proof from the recipient.”

“You’re not delivering cargo.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

The old man glanced toward the mountain road behind them and lowered his voice. “Then go ask for yourself.”

He took a wooden tablet from under the table and set it on the threshold.

“When you reach the bridge, turn this tablet over. If the back is white, go right. If it’s black, go left.”

Wang Cheng'an didn’t move.

“Why should we trust you?”

“If you don’t, you can take the main road.”

“Which one is the main road?”

The old man raised a hand and pointed to two mountain paths that looked exactly alike.

“Right now, they’re both the same.”

Song Qinghe lifted the green lamp higher.

Both paths were covered in smooth, unbroken snow, with no wheel ruts. The trees were hung with identical white cords. A small strip of paper was tied to each cord, black on one side and white on the other.

Lu Yuan didn’t touch the tablet on the table.

“Let’s go back first.”

They retraced their steps. Two of the lamps had lit again, but the other three remained dark.

When they returned to the cart, Xu Erxiao was crouched beside the mules, wiping the medicinal smell from their noses with a cloth. Zhou Heng stood by the axle, a severed length of copper wire pinned beneath his foot.

“This wire runs under the wheel,” Zhou Heng said. “Someone tampered with the cart.”

Lu Yuan checked the crate. The seal was intact, and the knots in the ropes hadn’t been changed.

“Check the rest of the cart.”

Xu Erxiao felt beneath it and pulled out a thin piece of iron with worn edges, as if it had been used to jam a wheel. Beside it was a small receiving slip.

It read:

“Six people passing through. Stop the cart for one quarter-hour.”

Lu Yuan handed the slip to Wang Cheng'an.

“They counted us.”

“Not by name. By headcount,” Wang Cheng'an said. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

Xu Erxiao kicked the iron piece aside.

“What if we go around over the slope?”

“What about the crate?” Bai Pu asked.

Xu Erxiao pressed his lips together.

Zhou Heng checked the wheels again. Only after confirming nothing else was jammed beneath them did he let them lead the mules to shelter. The two animals rested for a while, their breathing gradually settling. Lin Zhaoxuan put the broken clay pot in a cloth bag, sealed it, and recorded its location and smell in the corrections register.

They didn’t take either of the two paths.

Song Qinghe went ahead along the ravine and found a stretch of old stone slabs at its bottom. Moss covered them, but the track was just wide enough for a narrow cart, and wheel ruts ran up along the cracks between the stones.

“This is the road to the temple.”

They slowly led the cart onto the stone path.

By the time they reached the halfway point, all six lamps had gone out.

But higher up the slope, a patch of dark red light had appeared.

As if someone in the temple were burning charcoal.

*

The Medicine King Temple on Crouching Ox Ridge was much smaller than it had looked from afar.

There was no censer in front of the main hall, only a long, rectangular trough carved from black stone. Six wooden boxes sat beside it, each labeled with one of the categories: Name, Household, Contract, Goods, Road, and Kinship.

As expected, the seated statue in the shrine had no head.

The lacquer had peeled from its body. Six square indentations marked its shoulders, as though something had once been mounted there. There were no offerings before the statue, only several open account books and an oil lamp with no wick.

No one came out to greet them.

Lu Yuan told Zhou Heng to guard the cart. Then he entered the hall with Bai Pu, Wang Cheng'an, and Song Qinghe. Lin Zhaoxuan stayed outside, laying down several ink lines along the pillars to check for other passages.

Wang Cheng'an saw the words “Master of Offerings” in the first ledger.

He turned two pages, his expression growing more and more serious.

“Here, the Master of Offerings isn’t a person’s name.”

“An account?” Lu Yuan asked.

“It looks like the title of a master account for offerings. Every so often, goods in these six categories are entered into it, then redistributed or deducted.”

Bai Pu walked to the wooden box marked “Kinship.”

A copper lock hung from it, with a length of red cord stuffed into the keyhole. She didn’t touch it, only looked at the ledger page peeking out from beneath the box.

It read:

“One unclaimed woman.”

“Two unclaimed children.”

“Three old names held in safekeeping.”

“Six awaiting recognition.”

Each entry was followed by amounts of grain, medicine, padded clothing, and wages.

“This looks like the expenses of a shelter,” she said.

“Or people receiving aid were being converted into categories and counted,” Wang Cheng'an said. “Some were recorded as unclaimed, others as awaiting recognition. If no one kept coming to claim them, they’d go from being people in the ledger to offerings owed by the ledger.”

Song Qinghe looked through the book beside the box marked “Household.”

“Not everyone listed here lived at the temple. Some only came for medicine. Some left their children here for a few days. Some delivered messages for other people. The books put everyone who came and went into the same system of categories.”

“Keep counting it this way, and anyone can be made to look like they owe something,” Lu Yuan said.

Footsteps sounded outside the hall.

A gray-haired man entered, wearing an old padded robe and carrying a ring of keys.

He didn’t look at the statue. He walked straight toward the six wooden boxes.

“The cart’s here?”

Lu Yuan stepped in front of them.

“Are you in charge?”

“My surname’s Han. I run this temple.”

“Who’s receiving the cargo?”

The man didn’t answer. He reached for his keys to open a box.

Lu Yuan caught him by the wrist.

He didn’t use much force, but he didn’t let the man take another step.

“Check the papers first.”

Han stared at him.

“These things are none of your business.”

“The crate is marked for delivery from the Black Mountain Pass Benevolent Medicine Bureau to the Medicine King Temple on Crouching Ox Ridge. The transport ledger lists one packet of old birth registers. No one opens the crate until the recipient checks the seal.”

“You brought it all this way into the mountains. Didn’t you come to hand it over to me?”

“We came to find out why the old records were entered as offerings.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Exactly. So we check the original first.”

The man’s gaze fell on the copper bell in Bai Pu’s hand.

“Where did you get that bell?”

“White River Town.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“It was left with the old ledger.”

“You shouldn’t have brought it up the mountain.”

“Why not?”

The man didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned and took a small wooden box from the table. There were no keys inside, but six paper talismans of different colors.

Each one bore a person’s name.

The edge of one had been burned. The character “Lu” was still visible.

Lu Yuan didn’t move closer.

Wang Cheng'an took out the corrections register first.

“Who wrote these six slips?”

“The Master of Offerings recorded the names.”

“Are all six people here?”

“Some are. Some aren’t.”

“Do they know their names are written here?”

Han closed the box.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“If we don’t ask, their names become cargo numbers. If we do ask, you say we don’t need to know.” Wang Cheng'an said, “This system of accounts certainly makes things easy.”

Han stared at him.

“The old birth register you brought will give you your answer.”

“You’ve seen the original?”

The man didn’t respond.

“You looked at it and still found no answer?” Bai Pu asked.

His expression shifted.

“The birth register records what happened in the delivery room.”

“Then why was it counted as an offering?”

“Old papers have their uses.”

“What uses?”

“Proof of where someone came from.”

“Can this register prove who gave birth to every child?”

“At least it can give you a lead.”

“A lead isn’t a conclusion.”

The man looked at Bai Pu, as if he hadn’t expected her to say that.

Lu Yuan turned and signaled toward the hall entrance.

Zhou Heng and Xu Erxiao carried the crate to the doorway. It was still wrapped in oilcloth, and its seal was intact. Han’s gaze immediately fixed on it.

“Who checks the seal?” he asked.

“Everyone here checks it together,” Lu Yuan said.

Wang Cheng'an set the transport ledger on the table and checked the crate number, dispatch and receipt dates, and bell-shaped cargo mark one by one. Bai Pu examined the wax seal. Song Qinghe confirmed there was no second layer of paneling in the crate’s seams. Zhou Heng checked the knots, while Xu Erxiao kept his eyes on Han.

Lin Zhaoxuan reeled in the ink lines from outside and laid them beside the crate.

“No hidden doors, and no one came in from the back.”

“You’re certainly being thorough,” Han said.

“Someone altered the accounts for this crate once already,” Bai Pu replied. “We can’t just take someone’s word that they’ve seen it.”

The six of them each wrote their name and role on the inspection record.

When it was Han’s turn, he hesitated over the paper.

“Write your full name,” Wang Cheng'an said.

Han held the brush still for a moment.

“Han Shouyi.”

“Your position?”

“Recordkeeper at the Medicine King Temple on Crouching Ox Ridge.”

“Who do you represent for the inspection?”

“The temple.”

“A temple isn’t a person.”

Han looked at him as if he wanted to argue. In the end, he wrote only: “Han Shouyi, recordkeeper.”

As a small knife picked open the wax seal, a gust of wind swept past the hall.

The six indentations on the headless statue’s shoulders all sounded at once, like six wooden boxes knocking against one another in midair.

Xu Erxiao raised his iron shovel.

“Is it back?”

No one answered.

The crate was opened.

Inside was a single blue-covered book, wrapped in two layers of old cloth. It hadn’t been damaged by water. Three small characters had been sewn onto its spine with thin thread:

“Original Birth Register.”

Wang Cheng'an examined the cover, then the binding. The page count matched the shipping manifest, with no signs of trimming. An old seal marked the edge of every page, along with the date it had been stored and the name of the person who had handled it.

He set the book on a clean table. No one opened it right away.

“Check it against the transport ledger,” Lu Yuan said.

“The crate number matches.”

“The seals?”

“Every one matches.”

“Record it again.”

Wang Cheng'an did as he was told, drawing the position and shape of all three seals in the corrections register. Song Qinghe held the lamp for him. Bai Pu measured the cover with a wooden ruler. There was no hidden layer.

Only after all that had been recorded did Lu Yuan open the first page.

The paper had yellowed with age, but the writing was much clearer than in the other registers. The first few pages listed birth dates, delivery rooms, midwives, names given by the mothers, and the condition of the babies. Later pages had three separate columns: “Placed in Care,” “Claimed,” and “Transferred.” The handwriting in those columns was different from the earlier entries.

Wang Cheng'an turned the pages one by one.

When Bai Pu saw two entries, her breathing caught.

“Female infant, admitted on the seventh day of the eleventh month of winter; birth date unverified.”

“Male child, admitted on the twenty-first day of the second month of the following year; birth date unverified.”

Both entries named Shen Lanzhi as the “Person Entrusting the Child to Care.”

But in the “Mother’s Name” column, the female infant’s entry said “name not given.” The male child’s column was blank, with a note in the margin: “old paper not received.”

Wang Cheng'an copied the two entries onto a sheet, keeping them separate.

“We can’t assume they had the same mother just because Shen Lanzhi entrusted both of them to the temple.”

“The admission dates aren’t birth dates,” Song Qinghe said. “They’re more than three months apart. We can’t use that alone to tell whether they had the same mother.”

“Then we record the dates exactly as written and draw no further conclusions,” Bai Pu said.

Lu Yuan kept turning pages.

Shen Lanzhi’s name appeared six times in the “Placed in Care” column. Sometimes she collected children, sometimes she delivered medicine, and sometimes she only received clothing on someone’s behalf. Each time, a different person had handled the transaction, and each had a date beside it.

On the last page, one line of ink had been nearly scraped away:

“Shen Lanzhi entrusted this register, instructing that the records not be combined. Anyone whose kinship has not been verified must not be placed in the same household, and a person entrusted with a child must not be listed as its birth mother.”

Beside the signature was no seal of hers, only a blurred palm impression.

Han Shouyi suddenly reached out and pressed his hand against the page.

“This page can’t be copied.”

Lu Yuan moved his hand away.

“Why not?”

“That was an old rule.”

“If it’s written in the original, it should be preserved exactly as it is.”

“You don’t know what will happen.”

“Do you?”

Han Shouyi stared at the line of scraped-away writing.

After a long while, he said, “I know someone waited decades because of that sentence.”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer.

The wind outside died.

Before the headless statue, the oil lamp without a wick suddenly kindled with a faint flame.

Its light fell across the birth register on the table—and revealed a tiny character beneath the palm impression, almost too faint to see.

Wang Cheng'an brought out a magnifying glass.

“This is the character for ‘uncle.’”

Bai Pu looked at Han Shouyi.

The color drained from his face.

Lu Yuan didn’t press him. He only had Wang Cheng'an make a separate rubbing of the page, noting that the character was incomplete and the handwriting unverified. As soon as the rubbing had been set aside, someone knocked three times on the hall door.

No one entered.

At the fourth knock, a letter slid through the gap beneath the door.

The envelope was addressed:

“To be given to Shen Lanzhi herself.”

But the seal on it bore Shen Bonian’s mark.