Chapter Five: The Sound of the Flute

On the official road, a black horse galloped swiftly through the grass. The night before, it had just rained here, leaving puddles scattered along the road. The horse’s hooves splashed water in all directions, and in the ripples, one could see the reflection of two riders.

Both were clad in black, with black scarves covering their faces, chatting and laughing as if on a carefree journey, marveling at everything they saw. After riding another long stretch, the young man behind said something, and the one in front reined the horse to a halt.

“Li Hu, are you sure this is the place?”

After a full day’s ride, Li Hu and Li Pingyang decided to stop and rest, arriving at a village marked with a triangle on their map.

As they entered the village, desolation greeted them on all sides. The fields, left untended for too long, were parched and cracked with countless fissures. The well, dried up, revealed stones at its bottom. The houses, all built of wood and lined up in neat succession, had their doors tightly shut. After wandering for half the day, they had not seen a single soul. Nor was there any sound of human voices.

“The fog is so thick!” Li Hu, leading the horse, followed behind Li Pingyang and glanced at the sky. Visibility was minimal; nothing beyond the path at their feet and the faint outlines of houses could be seen.

Since entering the village, Li Hu noticed they were enveloped in a shroud of white mist, growing ever thicker and denser. The sudden appearance of this fog was uncanny, as if it had known they would come and arrived just in time.

Within the mist, they faintly heard the sound of a blade being sharpened. The noise drifted closer and farther, unsettling them. To avoid trouble, they decided to find shelter in one of the houses and wait for the fog to lift.

They tried several doors, but each was locked. Moving onward, they reached a house in the village’s center, and Li Pingyang tried the door again.

With a creak, the door opened.

As the door swung halfway, Li Hu surged ahead, drawing the broadsword at his waist and motioning for Li Pingyang to stay behind him. Together, they entered the house, which was pitch-black inside; the windows were covered with black paper.

Li Hu, gripping his sword in one hand, fished out a fire striker with the other. He flicked off the lid, brought it to his lips, and blew gently—the room was instantly illuminated by a faint glow.

When their eyes adjusted to the layout within, Li Hu recoiled in fright, stumbling back into Li Pingyang. Li Pingyang, too, was startled, goosebumps rising as he beheld the scene.

At the center of the room stood a large coffin.

But that was not the most terrifying sight. Li Hu raised the fire striker, and there, seated atop the coffin, was an old woman, grinning at them with a sinister air.

Her eyes glinted in the firelight; her withered, bark-like face, in the cold gloom of the room, was a jarring sight.

No matter how bold Li Pingyang was, he had never encountered such a scene. Besides, what kind of person would keep a coffin at home?

“Are you human or ghost?” Li Hu demanded, sword raised at the old woman atop the coffin, signaling to Li Pingyang with his eyes—a clear message: run.

Understanding, Li Pingyang edged closer to the door with Li Hu. But just then, a sudden gust snuffed out the fire striker.

Darkness engulfed the room.

In the instant before the light died, Li Pingyang noticed the old woman on the coffin had vanished.

Silence fell.

Li Pingyang could hear Li Hu’s heavy breathing. Both hearts pounded, as if ready to leap from their chests.

In the darkness, Li Hu felt an icy hand seize him. Even sightless, he sensed those old, staring eyes upon him.

“Don’t be afraid. I am no ghost, only an old woman,” came a voice.

The old woman took the fire striker from Li Hu, lit two white candles, and the room was illuminated again. Hearing she was human, Li Hu let out a long sigh of relief.

“Keep your voices down, don’t wake Yingying! Have you eaten? I’ll find you something—wait here,” the old woman said softly, her voice mechanical and emotionless. As she spoke, she pointed to the coffin in the center of the room.

Both Li Hu and Li Pingyang looked over and saw that, at some point, the lid had been removed.

Inside lay a little girl, perhaps three or four years old. Her hair was neatly combed, and she rested peacefully, as if merely asleep.

Li Hu sighed. Though not her parent, he felt a surge of sorrow. Li Pingyang closed his eyes in silent mourning and placed a stick of incense on the nearby altar.

Moments later, the old woman approached, carrying a bowl of wild greens—her best offering, for the village had seen no rain in three years, and the fields yielded no grain.

Even these wild greens had been dug up at the foot of a distant hill, intended for her granddaughter when she woke.

Li Pingyang nudged Li Hu, signaling him to accept the food. In return, he took some rations from his pack and handed them to the old woman.

She shook her head vehemently, refusing to take any. At that moment, the door swung open from outside.

A little boy, drawn by the smell of food, stood at the threshold, skin and bone, his eyes fixed hungrily on a piece of cake in the old woman’s hand.

The boy licked his lips, but a woman rushed forward, pulled him into her arms, and told him not to look, having noticed the blade in Li Hu’s hand.

Seeing this, Li Hu approached. The woman clutched the boy, shutting her eyes as if resigned to fate. But what came was not harm, but the offer of a pastry.

“Don’t be afraid. Eat,” Li Hu said with a gentle smile, placing the cake in the boy’s hand. The boy looked up at his mother; though he longed to eat, he offered it to her first.

The missing villagers, seeing this, shed their fear. Now they stood clustered at the doorway, swallowing hungrily as they eyed the rations in Li Pingyang’s sack.

They had not tasted proper food in a long time. Every living creature in the village, bark, roots, even unborn mice, had been devoured.

Li Pingyang took pity and began reaching into his pack to share what he could. But as he did, the villagers swarmed forward, scrambling madly for the food.

Li Hu quickly pulled Li Pingyang aside to prevent him from being injured. He had not expected to find so many refugees even within the borders of Songdu.

Yet, when Lan Prefecture reported the disaster, Sun Dewu, who oversaw the granaries, had been ordered to distribute over a hundred thousand bushels of rice. There should not have been such suffering.

Lost in thought, he was suddenly startled by a faint, eerie flute.

At the sound, all the villagers acted as if they had seen a ghost, dropping the food and fleeing to their homes, locking doors and windows, huddling on the floor, shivering in terror.