very pale and his upper lip
clean-shaven; this, along with his beige anorak and the
rucksack, made a deep impression on all the locals.
Before long, some of the older villagers of Eight Pines
were relating what they knew of the area’s remaining
customs while the folklorist took notes. They would
sit in front of the village tavern’s stove, eating meat
and drinking rice wine. By paying for everything, the
folklorist was able to reap a new harvest every day. Once,
remembering what the old man on the edge of the village
had told him about Wulin, he asked the old people,
‘Which one of you is Wulin?’ The strange thing was that
none of them could recall any such person, but then one
of the old men, looking startled, called out, ‘I remember!
Wulin . . . Wulin the ghost! But he’s been dead almost
sixty years. He’s the one who drew the ghost, back when
they used to cast lots for them.’
That was how the folklorist discovered that Eight Pines
had once had a custom of casting ingot-shaped lots to
designate a ‘man-ghost’. Immediately he sensed that this
was likely to be the most valuable find of his research.
He told the old people to take their time and give him a
complete account of the practice, but they were all over
eighty and expressed themselves so vaguely that he was
only able to note down these brief impressions:
Notes
The custom of ghost-casting in Eight Pines was passed
down from ancient times until the thirteenth year of the
Republic 5 . The ceremony, held once every three years,
consisted of choosing a human sacrifice from among the
living in deference to the dead ancestors of the clan. All
the people of the village gathered for the ceremony at the
clan hall. Small ingots made of tinfoil were placed on the
altar and unwrapped, one by one, by an elder. A single
ingot was marked with the outline of a ghost, and the
villager who drew this became the man-ghost. The man-ghost
was then wrapped in white cloth, thrown into the
large longfeng urn and beaten to death with sticks.
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
clean-shaven; this, along with his beige anorak and the
rucksack, made a deep impression on all the locals.
Before long, some of the older villagers of Eight Pines
were relating what they knew of the area’s remaining
customs while the folklorist took notes. They would
sit in front of the village tavern’s stove, eating meat
and drinking rice wine. By paying for everything, the
folklorist was able to reap a new harvest every day. Once,
remembering what the old man on the edge of the village
had told him about Wulin, he asked the old people,
‘Which one of you is Wulin?’ The strange thing was that
none of them could recall any such person, but then one
of the old men, looking startled, called out, ‘I remember!
Wulin . . . Wulin the ghost! But he’s been dead almost
sixty years. He’s the one who drew the ghost, back when
they used to cast lots for them.’
That was how the folklorist discovered that Eight Pines
had once had a custom of casting ingot-shaped lots to
designate a ‘man-ghost’. Immediately he sensed that this
was likely to be the most valuable find of his research.
He told the old people to take their time and give him a
complete account of the practice, but they were all over
eighty and expressed themselves so vaguely that he was
only able to note down these brief impressions:
Notes
The custom of ghost-casting in Eight Pines was passed
down from ancient times until the thirteenth year of the
Republic 5 . The ceremony, held once every three years,
consisted of choosing a human sacrifice from among the
living in deference to the dead ancestors of the clan. All
the people of the village gathered for the ceremony at the
clan hall. Small ingots made of tinfoil were placed on the
altar and unwrapped, one by one, by an elder. A single
ingot was marked with the outline of a ghost, and the
villager who drew this became the man-ghost. The man-ghost
was then wrapped in white cloth, thrown into the
large longfeng urn and beaten to death with sticks.
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
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