Chapter Eighty-One: A Letter

Uncle Jiang placed his hand on the document pouch, pondering for a moment before snapping out of his thoughts. He picked up the pouch, unwound the string closure, and took out its contents. He drew forth a piece of parchment envelope, upon which rested a peculiar, palm-sized object. It resembled a bronze artifact, its form reminiscent of a fish.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zhang Qinglin noticed that it was a bronze fish coin. He had seen various excavated fish coins at the museum before, but this one was unique. Both sides were covered with oval-shaped scales, the tail unbranched, all crafted with exquisite precision. Most striking of all, a bead was set into the fish's eye.

The fish coin immediately captured Zhang Qinglin’s attention; he lost all interest in tidying the tea tray, put down the teapot, and approached.

“Yueyue, go close the door!” Uncle Jiang’s tone sounded somewhat grave, though his face betrayed nothing.

Jiang Xinyue straightened up and obediently hurried to the entrance, turned off the shop’s overhead light, and closed the door.

Uncle Jiang picked up the object lying on the envelope, gave it a quick glance and a touch, then hurriedly put it down and opened the letter from the parchment envelope.

The letter contained only a few brief lines. Uncle Jiang read them, then, without a word, put everything back into the document pouch, got up, and made to leave.

“Dad, where are you going?” As Jiang Xinyue turned around, she saw Uncle Jiang heading for the door in a rush and quickly called out.

Zhang Qinglin followed closely behind. He hadn't caught what was written on the letter; he had only glanced at the bronze fish coin when suddenly a dark mist surged before his eyes, as if blocking his sight, and a wave of dizziness swept over him.

The dizziness vanished as quickly as it had come. When he regained his senses and looked again toward the tea table, Uncle Jiang had already stood up and crossed to the center of the room.

“Uncle Jiang, what did the letter say? Why are you leaving in such a hurry? Is something wrong?” Zhang Qinglin asked, his brow furrowed. At that moment, it felt as though a great weight pressed upon his head, his scalp stretched tight and uncomfortable.

Uncle Jiang glanced over and said to Zhang Qinglin and Jiang Xinyue, “It’s nothing much. This item is important, it’s for your Uncle Fu. I need to take it to him right away. You two should head home early. Xiaolin, you don’t look well—let Yueyue brew the medicine from before for you and get some rest.”

Jiang Xinyue glanced at Zhang Qinglin and nodded, “Alright, Dad, you come home early too.”

“Will do. You two tidy up and get home quickly,” Uncle Jiang replied before striding out of Shuiyun Lantian.

Dragging his weary body, Zhang Qinglin sat back down at the tea table, pressing his hands to his forehead. The image of the item from the pouch suddenly flashed in his mind, looping over and over.

A hand, a bronze fish coin, the coin flipping in the palm—this exquisitely wrought artifact seemed to come alive, writhing and leaping in the hand, its eye shining with a piercing light. The glow stung Zhang Qinglin’s mind like an electric current.

Jiang Xinyue was about to grab her bag when she noticed Zhang Qinglin clutching his head, trembling all over. She rushed to him in alarm, “Brother, are you alright? You don’t have a fever, do you? Let me check.”

But Zhang Qinglin could no longer hear a thing. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and managed a pale smile. “I’m fine, Yueyue. I just need to rest a moment. Go turn off the lights upstairs, then come down and we’ll leave together.”

Jiang Xinyue touched his forehead—he was indeed a bit hot. Still worried, she said, “Don’t move. I’ll grab another jacket from upstairs.”

As Jiang Xinyue went up, the pain in Zhang Qinglin’s head contorted his face. It felt as though something was tugging at every nerve in his brain. He instinctively looked around.

The furnishings of the teahouse remained unchanged, but Zhang Qinglin sensed the cause of his headache was not the bronze fish coin, but something else—something unusual nearby.

He glanced at the luggage beneath the storage rack, then at the rosewood tea table to the right. Atop it sat an object. Zhang Qinglin staggered over, steadying himself on the table, and saw that it was the bronze sunflower mirror. He remembered leaving this mirror in the desk drawer on the second floor before leaving Beijing.

How did it get here? Did Sister Zhou take it out? No, that was impossible—Sister Zhou was not the type to break the rules. Zhang Qinglin slowly picked up the bronze mirror, and at once the pain in his head began to fade, replaced by the sensation of countless ants crawling inside his abdomen.

Clutching the mirror tightly, Zhang Qinglin collapsed to the floor. The mirror slipped from his grasp, rolled twice, and came to rest on the ground. On its surface appeared a few blood-red characters: “The curse of ten thousand bones, no escape from fate.”

Startled by the noise, Jiang Xinyue raced downstairs and found Zhang Qinglin curled up on the floor, which frightened her even more. She rushed over and tried to help him up, “Brother, what’s wrong? Come on, let’s go to the hospital.”

Zhang Qinglin sat up, his color returning a little. After sitting for a while longer, he slowly stood and said, “No need for the hospital—I’m fine now. Let’s go home.”

“But you fainted just now! It’s been five or six years since that last happened. Let’s have you checked at the hospital anyway,” Jiang Xinyue insisted as she gathered the things off the floor and placed them on the tea table.

Zhang Qinglin rubbed his head, walked to the storage rack, picked up their luggage, and exhaled, “See, I’m really alright now. It’s late, you haven’t rested well lately either. Let’s go to the hospital tomorrow.”

Seeing him stumble toward the door, Jiang Xinyue didn’t argue further. She followed, locked the door, took half the luggage from Zhang Qinglin, and supported him as they crossed the street.

They hailed a taxi to the courtyard house. On the ride, Zhang Qinglin dozed for a while and felt much better. After unloading their luggage and watching the taxi leave, Jiang Xinyue went to unlock the front gate. As Zhang Qinglin bent to pick up the bags, he noticed ahead and to the right a person skulking in the shadows.

The street lamps were off, leaving the area dim, so at first Zhang Qinglin thought it was a neighbor. But as he carried the luggage toward the courtyard, the figure crept closer to the gate.

Setting down his bags, Zhang Qinglin stepped out warily and saw the person crouched by the wall, doing something suspicious. He called out, “Who’s there?”

Startled, the figure bolted away. Zhang Qinglin, exhausted, couldn’t give chase. He returned to where the person had been and found a letter lying on the ground. The envelope was plain, unmarked. Inside was a card.

The front of the card showed the Forbidden City in Beijing; on the back was written: “I know where your father is. Meet me at Duhuan Island in Pinggu District, six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Surprise flashed in Zhang Qinglin’s eyes. Who could have left this here? Was the news real or not? If the card mentioned his father, the sender must know him. But who could it be?