Chapter Four: The Whispering Grove
Dusk settled like a shroud over the bamboo grove beyond the river. The tall stalks whispered in a wind colder than the evening air. Lantern light flickered at the grove's entrance—a makeshift altar draped in yellow silk and strewn with wilted chrysanthemums.
Master Yan paused at the threshold, his copper rod tapping the earth in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "The energy here is sharp," he said softly, eyes narrowed. "Listen."
I closed my eyes, inhaling the damp scent of earth and decaying leaf. At first, all I heard was the rustle of leaves. Then—a faint echo, like distant sobbing mixed with the murmur of recited sutras.
"Focus on the rod," he instructed, voice low. "It will hum when yin crosses yang."
The rod vibrated in my grasp, a gentle buzz at first, then an abrupt jolt that snaked through my arm. I stumbled, clutching the rod like a lifeline.
"Easy," Master Yan murmured. "Your aura is too scattered. Center yourself."
I took a deep breath and pressed my palm to the rod's handle, feeling its cool metal steady under my touch.
When I looked down, the ground beneath my feet was etched with faint runes carved into stone slabs—characters half-swallowed by moss.
Master Yan knelt and traced one with his finger: 鬼 (ghost). He tapped the rune three times. "Hidden marker. Someone sealed something here, hoping no one would uncover it."
I swallowed. "Sealed—like a coffin?"
He pressed a slip of yellow paper—a binding charm—against the stone. Its edges crackled with blue flame.
The earth trembled beneath us, and a section of the grove floor split open, revealing a narrow passage carved into the hillside. A musty breeze exhaled from the darkness below.
"Go," Master Yan whispered, voice threaded with caution.
…
I knelt at the tunnel's mouth, torch in hand. The air inside was cold—unnatural, almost rancid. My footsteps echoed against damp rock, torchlight dancing over more etched runes: offerings of blood, prayers to restless spirits.
At the end, the tunnel opened onto a moonlit clearing. Dozens of broken talismans lay scattered around a crumbling shrine: red-ink seals torn, their paper curled and blackened.
I stepped forward, heart hammering. "What happened here?"
Master Yan joined me, eyes scanning the shrine's moss-covered reliefs—twisted trees, cradling spirits.
"This grove was once a temple for spirit guardians," he explained. "Bamboo groves in feng shui are believed to channel shen qi—divine energy. But desecration invites disaster."
(Note: Bamboo symbolizes resilience and longevity in Chinese culture, while shen qi refers to spiritual energy that maintains cosmic balance.)
We lit incense at the shrine's base. The smoke curled skyward as Master Yan chanted an ancient purification mantra, his voice weaving through the trees. The torchlight flickered, and I felt pressure lift—an unseen burden released.
Suddenly, a soft knock rang out: knock… knock.
I froze.
Master Yan's jaw tightened. He drew a final talisman—gold paper stamped with vermilion characters—and pressed it to the shrine. It flared blue-white.
From the shadows beyond the shrine, a figure emerged—cloaked, silent. Its robe was stitched with tiny bone beads that chimed like distant bells with each step.
The figure stopped. I saw only a pale hand beneath the hood.
Then it spoke in a voice like dry leaves: "You should not be here."
My blood ran cold. "Who—what are you?"
The hooded figure lifted its head. Moonlight revealed a mask of cracked porcelain, painted with a serene face. Then it removed the mask, revealing hollow sockets where eyes should be.
Master Yan stepped forward, rod raised. "Guardian spirit," he said, tone respectful but firm. "I am Master Yan, geomancer of the living. I come to mend what was broken."
The spirit studied him. It spoke again: "Balance must be restored."
Wei Ling swallowed, voice barely audible. "How do we do that?"
The spirit pointed toward the heart of the grove. The broken talismans glowed faintly.
"Collect them," it said, "and bind them with soil from the original temple site. Only then will the grove find peace."
Master Yan nodded at me. "Your task. I'll guard the shrine."
I bent down and gathered the damp fragments, tucking them into my bag. Each piece felt heavy, like a fragment of a soul.
The spirit faded into the mist, leaving behind a single talisman—crimson ink on gold paper, unmarred.
Master Yan handed it to me. "Place this at your door tonight. It will anchor your hun—your wandering spirit."
I looked at the charm, heart pounding. "And tomorrow?"
He met my gaze, expression grave. "Tomorrow, we set the temple right."