Chapter 12: Ullambana Ghost Part 2

Like the mortal world. Like the clouds themselves.

On Meng Po Bridge the wind whispered; Silver Bells chimed. All who passed wore Demon Ghost masks, most in white — some had neither feet nor shadows, drifting hollow at the bridgehead, some wailing funeral cries, some shouting their grievances, and among them no lack of bitter laments: “the poor cat’s cruel fate,” “rescue, O Heaven!”

Following a sound, Yan Rushi looked over curiously — but You Fusang carefully stopped her. “Young Sect Master Yan, none of the ghosts on Meng Po Bridge may be looked at. Those are all Chang Ghosts — their first seven days not yet passed, resentment not yet scattered, taking advantage of the Ghost Festival to wait for kind souls — ah, no, for empty-headed ones — to pass by and offer a hand, so they can swap souls, swap bodies, and merrily return to life.”

You Fusang lowered her voice. Yan Rushi gave a dull “oh,” but her curiosity pressed on: “What about ghosts that aren’t shouting grievances? Can those be looked at?”

As if in answer, a white-robed female ghost hurried past them, face hidden in her hands, weeping — hair hanging loose like waterweed, dank against her shoulders. She wept, but did not wail her grievances, did not jostle anyone; compared to the other ghosts she was positively demure.

You Fusang said, “Also forbidden. She has no taste for dragging others into the water, but if you look at her, she will pour out her sorrows — every torment of her half a life told to you. If you don’t console her, she’ll talk on and on, clinging to you, not letting you cross Meng Po Bridge. And if you do console her, talk her through it…”

“Even that’s not allowed?”

“Of course not. That would mean her suffering, the resentment she ought to carry, has been talked away by you. She’s freed — but the resentment remains, and the debt of grievance has found an owner. And that owner is now you.” You Fusang said, “You blocked her calamity, dissolved her hardship — so her suffering falls to you to repay.”

“Roughly the principle is this: whosoever’s pain you take to heart, their fate you must carry onward.”

Yan Rushi pondered this without quite understanding, and Geng Ying chirped in: “Venerable Lord, you’re odd today? Don’t you usually watch those kind souls — sorry, empty-headed souls — rushing to rescue Little Ghosts for entertainment?”

“I’m not entertainment!” Yan Rushi muttered. “I just don’t understand…”

You Fusang didn’t take the bait. From thin air she produced a white Fox Mask and set it over Yan Rushi’s hair. “Now then — head down, be silent, eyes straight ahead. Over the last few steps of Meng Po Bridge.”

Yan Rushi obediently set the mask right and followed carefully at her heel, stepping across the final stretch of the bridge.

In the instant of crossing, she distinctly felt herself pass through a barrier — the barrier that the many ghosts wandering Meng Po Bridge could not cross. But there were exceptions: a faceless female ghost hauling up her white skirts also stepped with them onto the Path of Rebirth.

“Venerable Lord,” Yan Rushi tugged carefully at You Fusang’s sleeve, “why can some ghosts cross the barrier and others can’t?”

You Fusang couldn’t say for certain. “Perhaps those without resentment in their hearts?” She eyed the faceless white-robed ghost. “To tread Meng Po Bridge so young, and without resentment — somewhat strange.”

Geng Ying was curious too, and she was not one to hold it in. In for a coin, in for a pound — she charged right up to the faceless ghost and asked bluntly, “Have you passed your first seven days?”

The question was utterly offensive to a ghost, but this one showed no anger. She nodded and answered, “Nope. Died three or four days ago. Why?”

Geng Ying said, “The resentment only scatters after the first seven days. You’re only three or four days gone — you should be at your most resentful, and yet you’ve stepped onto the Path of Rebirth? Doesn’t that mean your grudges are settled, that you no longer cling to the mortal world?”

She answered, “Why would I cling to it?”

So that was a no.

“Eh,” Geng Ying was curious. “How did you die?”

“Driven to death by a heartless man, you could say? He’d clearly taken a new lover, yet spread rumors that I’d been unfaithful. My parents loathed me, the neighbors spat at me, and passing the well one day, in a moment of weakness…”

They were well past Meng Po Bridge, but Geng Ying had no interest in these mortal love affairs, and meant to cut it short; so she feigned puzzlement: “But shouldn’t your resentment be enormous, then?”

“Do you know why people carry resentment? Mostly because feeling remains, or business unfinished.” The ghost said, “What did I do wrong? One: I chose badly, eyes blinded. Two: I didn’t dare fight back — I killed myself instead, and in doing so let that filth off easy. The first can’t be undone; as for the second… I never understood it living, but after death it came clear. Hang all that rotten propriety. I’m a ghost now — naturally, whatever’s easiest goes…” She paused. “These three days, I hid in the village’s biggest well, watching for those who’d once cursed me. If it was one of them, I’d reach up and grab their bucket, and peel back my face to scare them! I remember it all — some had servants to fetch water and rarely came themselves, but those few most hateful, I couldn’t let go… So on the fourth day, in the quarter hour past midnight, when yin energy runs heaviest, I went to that turtle spawn’s bedside and brought a few hanged Little Ghosts to dangle at the head of his bed… Mm. And then he went mad,” the ghost laughed, spitting a few curses in some regional dialect. “He’s an ugly grandson of a dog, ugly as sin — mad suits him fine!”

Geng Ying cheered: “It’d be even better if he died — then I could watch you two brawl on Meng Po Bridge!”

The chat had drifted a little far; Qingluan carefully tugged at Geng Ying to stop her — but Geng Ying only grew more enthusiastic, telling the female ghost: “You know, I’ve died once myself, but I was saved.” She mimed a Silver Needle, poking at the back of her own skull. “Some wretches stuck needles into me when I was still in swaddling clothes. Those people abandoned me at the roadside; my fever never broke, and half-delirious, I’d already made a trip before the Hall of King Yama…”

The ghost said, full of sympathy, “How miserable.”

“Not really, not miserable at all! Because I met someone very, very good!” Geng Ying giggled. “Later, for my sake, she made an enemy of the whole world—”

She, being You Fusang.

Those massacres that later ages would sneer at — probably only Geng Ying could speak of them with such unbridled joy.

Do you know of the Venerable Lord’s famous battle? That was for me! For my sake, the Venerable Lord made an enemy of the whole world — whenever it came up, Geng Ying’s pride swelled beyond containing.

“Can you think of anyone who would, for your sake, make an enemy of the whole world? Or — is there anyone for whom you would make an enemy of all the world?” It was Geng Ying’s favorite refrain, a question she asked everyone she met.

Tonight, she asked the female ghost too. The ghost was only sixteen or seventeen; her horizons ended at that one village; she had heard too few great tales to answer. After a bit more chat, as the market on the Path of Rebirth grew lively, she drifted away.

Behind them, Yan Rushi had been listening too.

Though it went in one ear and out the other, her eyes not on them, a seed lodged in her heart: would there be anyone for whom she’d make an enemy of all the world? Or anyone who would do so for her?

There was no answer.

To either, she could give no answer.

The Righteous Path. The world. All the people under heaven… such words always weighed heavy in Yan Rushi’s heart, heavy enough to crush the breath from her — yet her Senior Sister, as a Devil Cultivator, indeed the most infamous of Devil Cultivators, made an enemy of the world as casually as eating breakfast. They truly were different kinds of beings.

Mid-thought, light flashed before her — You Fusang had pulled her along. “Stay close. In the Ghost Market, keep the Ghost Market’s rules,” You Fusang said. “We enter and leave the Ghost Market in the state of Soul Departure; most of our cultivation scattered, we all fall under the Ghost Emissaries’ jurisdiction — one careless step, and we are detained here forever.”

Even as she said it, You Fusang, like the ghosts around her, wore plain, unadorned white. She stood where the lantern light thinned, small bright lamps scattered all around, vast pale mist — dreamlike, like Immortal Qi. Yan Rushi thought, dazed, of a hundred years ago at the Yan Sect: Senior Sister’s high ponytail, her white robes, fluttering and full of life.

On the Yan Sect’s Back Mountain, the wind shook blossoms down like snow. Young Fusang cupped a handful of early-spring petals and blew them gently forward.

The petals scattered — but none could compare to the smile behind them. Her Senior Sister…

“What are you thinking about?”

A snap of fingers yanked Yan Rushi back to reality. Before her, You Fusang regarded her with some helplessness — still in white, but black hair unbound, golden pupils ablaze, a dot of cinnabar between her brows. Clearly no longer the person of before.

White robes, early spring, a youth’s dimpled smile…

All of it, past things now.

“Nothing. My mind wandered.” Yan Rushi smiled self-mockingly and quickened her pace to catch up.

Before the words had settled, her expression clearly froze. You Fusang caught that freeze and followed her gaze toward some spot.

Her look passed over chattering Geng Ying and Qingluan with her green lantern, passed over the pale mist, passed layer upon layer of ghosts and festival lanterns—

At its end stood a person she had never expected.

Fang Miaocheng.