Chapter Thirty: The Zhang Family Heirloom

The number of Balatan venomous scorpions before them was increasing, the scent of liquor in the cellar growing stronger, and the eternal lamp above their heads flickered ceaselessly. Cheng Che, hiding behind Zhang Qinglin, was panic-stricken. “If we didn’t die in the fire, and didn’t get crushed by the earthquake, now we’re going to be stung to death by scorpions!”

“Are you really so helpless? You weren’t this cowardly in a fight before. When a person’s in danger, they must keep calm.” Zhang Qinglin, having regained his composure, was remarkably steady as he spoke, scanning their surroundings.

“Cheng Che, stand there and don’t move. I’ll draw them away,” he said, taking a thick coat from his bag and stuffing the bag and tobacco pipe into Cheng Che’s arms.

“Hey… hey, Old Zhang, be careful! Wait, you’re just leaving me here alone?” Cheng Che protested.

Zhang Qinglin gripped the coat tightly and swung it left and right in front of him. Several scorpions were swept aside, clearing a patch of ground. He made his way through areas with fewer scorpions, standing in the center to observe his surroundings, and soon darted over to the cluster of large round barrels.

This was where the cellar’s goods were stored—barrels so large they couldn’t possibly have been brought in through the iron window above. There must be an exit somewhere… but where?

Zhang Qinglin’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the space again. He recalled the books he’d read from Uncle Jiang—on feng shui, geology, and antiques.

He closed his eyes, tracing the layout in his mind: The upper mouth faces east, not west; the lower mouth opens south, not north; northeast and southwest cannot be opened. If the main position is east, then the door must be on the south side…

“Cheng Che, quick, take the compass from Yueyue’s bag and see which way is east!” Zhang Qinglin called out.

“That way!” Cheng Che pulled out the compass and, after a moment, pointed towards the iron window above his right side.

“Old Zhang, did you find it yet?” he asked, kicking at the Balatan scorpions climbing onto the iron bunk.

Zhang Qinglin swung the coat again, quickly moving to the wall, feeling around. “Over here! Cheng Che, come quickly!”

“Old Zhang, these scorpions are about to eat me alive, ah…” Numerous scorpions were crawling frantically up the bunk.

In desperation, Zhang Qinglin rushed to the bunk, sweeping the coat like a broom to clear a path. He grabbed the items from Cheng Che, shouting, “Go!”

Cheng Che hurried after Zhang Qinglin, stepping directly onto a Balatan scorpion with a crunch, making him shudder. Seeing Zhang Qinglin had reached the open space across, he quickly followed.

Zhang Qinglin tucked the two pieces of tobacco pipe into his backpack and had Cheng Che help him push against the wall.

“Bang, bang, bang…” The stone wall before them echoed…

It moved!

With a crash, the stone door was pushed open. At that moment, the swarm of Balatan scorpions surged towards them, several already climbing onto Zhang Qinglin’s backpack. Zhang Qinglin glanced, grabbing the coat and swinging it at the pack, surrounded by scorpions.

“Could it be the tobacco pipe?”

He didn’t dwell on it, first shoving Cheng Che out through the stone door, then rushing to the row of barrels, grabbing a lamp and tipping over a slanted barrel, letting the liquor spill out in torrents.

He returned to the stone door, took Uncle Jiang’s lighter, lit the lamp’s wick, and tossed it onto the scorpions soaking in the liquor. Instantly, flames erupted, yet more scorpions crawled towards the door. These couldn’t be allowed to escape—otherwise, the consequences would be unthinkable. The two forced the stone door shut and staggered into the darkness.

They didn’t know how far they ran; explosions echoed behind them. Eventually, the path ahead revealed an earthen staircase. They climbed up, then crawled further until, at last, sunlight greeted them.

The exit…

Breathless, the two leaned against the mouth of the cave, Zhang Qinglin gazing at the towering trees and scattered rays of morning sun. He inhaled the fresh air, listening to the lively chatter of birds in the forest. Raising his right hand, he found a charred scorpion dangling before his eyes.

“Ugh… Old Zhang, isn’t it disgusting? You even brought one with you…” Cheng Che opened his eyes and slumped down.

“It’s just a scorpion. Nothing worth looking at… Just toss it away.” He shot Zhang Qinglin a bored glance.

“Wrong. It’s not just a scorpion—it can induce hallucinations. Some call it the ‘Hallucinogenic Poison Walker.’ Want to try?” Zhang Qinglin dangled the scorpion’s tail before Cheng Che’s face.

“No thanks. It’s terrifying just to look at—I’d rather avoid it!” Cheng Che pushed away Zhang Qinglin’s arm.

The forest, soaked by last night’s rain, was damp and the air was thick with the scent of earth. After a brief rest, the two surveyed their surroundings. Behind them, the mountaintop still billowed thick black smoke; ahead lay a stretch of green woods.

Zhang Qinglin took out the two segments of tobacco pipe from his backpack, staring at them as he slowly wiped the dust off.

“This is… a tobacco pipe? It looks ancient. Why break it in two and lock it in a wooden box? Could it really be an antique? Old Zhang, what are you thinking?” Cheng Che asked.

Zhang Qinglin didn’t respond for a long while. At last, he looked up at Cheng Che, eyes shimmering with tears. “It’s my grandfather’s tobacco pipe…”

“Grandfather? You mean your grandfather used this pipe?” Cheng Che looked at him in disbelief.

Yes, it was the pipe his grandfather had used all his life. When he was young, Zhang Qinglin had heard his grandfather tell the story of the pipe.

In the late Qing and early Republican era, his grandfather’s grandfather, Zhang Qifeng, was a renowned political official. Later, having traveled abroad, he was branded a national traitor and forced to leave Beijing. Passing through Jinan, he was recruited by the provincial governor of Shandong and once served as general manager of the Shandong Huade Railway and Mining Affairs.

Those few months as manager were likely the most unforgettable of his ancestor’s life. People often secretly brought precious items as offerings, but he refused them all.

On one occasion, a kiln owner surnamed Wu arrived at his ancestor’s home, carrying a long wooden box. His accent wasn’t local; he claimed to be from another province, asking for a written pass to lease half a mine. At the time, mining and railway construction were short on manpower, but leasing a mine was not trivial—it could easily cause trouble, and the responsibility would be great. In the end, his ancestor only agreed to let him assist with mining, providing labor at the usual wage.

Though the man wasn’t entirely satisfied, it seemed just being allowed into the mine was enough. Smiling, he pressed the wooden box into his ancestor’s hands and left hurriedly before a word could be said.

The next day, his ancestor sent someone to find the Wu family, but they were nowhere to be found—vanished as if into thin air.

A few days later, his ancestor opened the long wooden box, discovering a tobacco pipe. The mouthpiece was made of red agate, the bowl of fine brass, and most strikingly, the shaft was crafted from black ebony bamboo, intricately carved and elegant.

Though his ancestor didn’t smoke, he kept it for its beauty, taking it out daily to admire. Whenever he held it, he felt his stature elevated. From then on, his fortunes soared—not only did life improve, but he was promoted and given raises.

But good times didn’t last. When his ancestor’s son—Zhang Qinglin’s great-grandfather—grew up, he suddenly took up smoking, using the pipe. It was said his ancestor was furious, beating his son severely.

Yet from the moment the pipe was used by his great-grandfather, the Zhang family’s fortunes began to decline. They were squeezed out and suppressed, ultimately forced to leave Shandong and migrate west.

His great-grandfather claimed all the hardships were psychological, not caused by the pipe.

He inherited the pipe, and life became unremarkable—neither destitute nor prosperous. By the time the pipe reached Zhang Qinglin’s grandfather, life was tight. They say tobacco is poison; the more you smoke, the more addicted you become, and life follows suit—growing ever more constrained.

His grandfather said the pipe had another name. When his ancestor learned his son had used it, he smashed the long wooden box, and a slip of paper fell out of the lining.

It read: “This item is called ‘Falsewood.’ Truth and falsehood, illusion and reality. Useless for profit; best left unspoken. Remember, remember.”