Chapter 12

October 26th, the mourning ended with the final rites.

Three siblings, Gao Nuan and her brothers, had prepared offerings two days in advance. At dawn, as the sun barely peaked above the horizon, they carried baskets and walked toward the ancestral tombs of the Gao family on the back hill.

Today marked the end of their mourning, and according to the customs of Linsui County, it was customary to host a grand banquet for friends and kin. But villagers rarely adhered to such formalities, and the siblings, with no relatives nearby, only prepared to pay their respects to their departed mother together.

Early winter brought a chill; the morning wind was cold against their cheeks. The trees atop Ox Mountain stood bare, the ground covered in withered grass, while only the wheat fields below remained green.

Following the narrow winding path, the three climbed the hill. From afar, they saw a grayish mass near Mrs. Yu’s tomb. Drawing closer, they realized it was a person lying there. The siblings exchanged glances—who would be here at this hour? Approaching, they saw that the figure was about the same size as Gao Zhao, likely a boy of twelve or thirteen, sprawled beside the altar at Mrs. Yu’s grave. His clothes were torn and filthy, hair matted, and even in winter, a faint stench emanated from him.

“Could it be a beggar trying to steal the offerings?” Yu Shensi guessed.

Every few days, the siblings came to honor Mrs. Yu, always bringing offerings. Two days prior, they had left several rice cakes on the altar, but now they were gone.

“There hasn’t been a beggar in the nearby villages for half a year,” said Gao Zhao.

They walked up to the boy, who remained motionless, his smell growing stronger. For such a stench in cold weather, he must not have washed in a long time.

“Hey—” Gao Zhao called out.

Still no response. Gao Zhao raised his voice, and the boy’s shoulder twitched slightly—just barely—then fell still.

Was he starving?

Gao Zhao set down his shovel and basket, gently tapped the boy. The boy’s shoulder and head moved a little, but he didn’t lift himself up.

Lying in front of their mother’s grave like this was unacceptable. “Big Sister, let’s move him aside first!”

Though Gao Nuan was repulsed by the smell, the boy’s presence at their mother’s grave was disrespectful. She put down her things and, with Gao Zhao, tried to move him. Yu Shensi also came to help.

With effort, the siblings turned the boy over—and both cried out in shock, falling to the ground.

Yu Shensi saw the boy’s face and nearly screamed. His face and neck were covered in dense pustules, dark around the edges, the fluid inside murky. Some had burst, leaking pus, terrifying enough to make anyone nauseous. Similar blisters covered his exposed wrists.

“Big Sister, Big Brother—”

“Yang’er—”

“Little Zhao, Yang’er—”

The three siblings recovered from their shock, faces pale, drenched in cold sweat, calling to each other in unison. Gao Nuan and Gao Zhao scrambled up and dragged their youngest brother away. In their haste, Gao Zhao twisted his ankle and fell again; the others helped him up.

Then they heard the boy’s low, desperate plea: “Help me—”

They stepped back further before daring to look again. The boy’s eyes barely opened, reaching toward them, as if trying to grasp them, begging them not to leave. The blisters on his hand made them retreat even more.

The boy coughed softly, his voice barely more than a whisper: “Help me—” He gazed at them, full of longing, the thirst for life mingled with fear of death. He weakly pointed in a direction, his gaze following.

The siblings looked where he pointed; the dry grass rustled.

“Who’s there?” Gao Zhao demanded.

The grass shook violently—a dark figure, covering its head and face, hunched and ran up the hill. Gao Zhao made to chase, but Yu Shensi grabbed him. “It’s dangerous.”

Early that morning, a boy stricken with smallpox lay at Mrs. Yu’s grave—a deliberate act meant to bring them harm. Gao Zhao would be no match for whoever set this trap. At this hour, the mountain was deserted, no one to call for help. If the intruder meant them harm, the three siblings could not hope to subdue him.

Gao Nuan glanced again at the boy riddled with blisters, then at her mother’s grave. Leaving their belongings behind, she pulled her brothers toward the foot of the hill. “Hurry home and wash yourselves thoroughly.”

Behind them, the boy cried out again in despair: “Help me—” Louder, as if expending the last of his strength.

Gao Nuan looked back, but still hurried her brothers home. Once inside, she immediately boiled water, making her brothers wash from head to toe, soaking their clothes in hot water. She scrubbed herself and changed into clean garments.

As she scrubbed the clothes, Gao Zhao asked, “What should we do about that boy?”

He remained at their mother’s grave. If they left him there and he died, the grave would be defiled, and the disease could spread. Someone else might come to pay respects, get curious, and be infected, possibly spreading smallpox throughout Gaojia Village and beyond, turning it into an epidemic.

Seeing Gao Nuan silent, he pressed on: “He was clearly sent to harm us. Now the mastermind has fled; he’s our only clue and evidence. From his reaction, he knows who’s behind it.”

Gao Nuan pounded the clothes in the hot water, venting her anger.

Someone had plotted so viciously against them, using such cruel means.

Yu Shensi waited for their decision. The boy could not remain at Mrs. Yu’s grave. Yet the matter must not be revealed to others. History had seen countless deaths from smallpox; common folk feared it more than anything, adopting the principle of erring on the side of caution. If word spread that the siblings had contact with a smallpox victim, they would be targeted. The culprit only needed to fan the flames, and escape would be impossible.

He recalled reading in a miscellany: in a previous dynasty, an epidemic struck a region. In one village, a family’s son contracted smallpox. When the news spread, villagers, fearing contagion, burned the family alive that night. Yet the village still succumbed to the disease, infecting nearby villages. The authorities, desperate to stamp it out, ordered the villages razed and burned.

Medical knowledge was limited; wealthy families fared better, but peasants had no means to treat it—smallpox was a death sentence. To ensure survival, population, and stability, both people and officials resorted to extreme measures.

Gao Nuan said nothing; her brothers kept silent. She finished washing the clothes, hung them to dry, and looked at her brothers, their faces still pale, unable to move past the shock.

“I’ll go remove him,” Gao Nuan said, heading into the house.

“Big Sister,” Yu Shensi followed, trying to dissuade her. “It’s too dangerous. Better not to get involved.”

“Even if we don’t, we must retrieve our things, or the clan will suspect us.” The shovel and basket had been borrowed from Fourth Grandmother’s house. Gao Nuan found a rag, folded it and tucked it into her pocket, then took two worn-out garments. She comforted her youngest brother, “I’ve had smallpox before; I won’t get infected. Stay home and don’t go anywhere, understand?” She instructed Gao Zhao to watch over him.

Gao Nuan returned to Mrs. Yu’s grave. The boy had crawled forward two steps, holding offerings from the basket, nibbling them slowly, likely because the illness made swallowing difficult.

Hearing her approach, the boy turned his head, coughing softly. His dead eyes suddenly flickered with hope. He reached toward her, no longer saying “help me,” but tears streamed down his face.

In that moment, Gao Nuan saw herself, and her brothers.

Years ago, their uncle abandoned them halfway, penniless, begging on the streets for days without a meal, their vision blurred from hunger. They watched passersby, reaching out to beg for a bite—one mouthful could save their lives.

Later, driven to the old house, their youngest brother gravely ill, she herself was no different from the boy before her.

In Gaojia Village, thirty-three households, she begged each one for food. Many grew tired of her pleas and wouldn’t open their doors. Some opened only to mock her, offering nothing.

Then, as now, her heart echoed the boy’s plea: help me.

Though she felt sympathy and pity, the situations differed. They had been dying of hunger; the boy before her had smallpox, contagious and deadly, a risk not just to themselves but to their entire clan.

She swallowed her tears and buried her compassion.

She wrapped her mouth and nose in the rag, approached, and placed the offerings back on the altar. She burned straw and paper money for her mother, then added earth to the grave.

After finishing, she turned to the boy and said, “You know what illness you have. Even the village doctors dare not treat it. You’re gravely ill now; I cannot save you. All I can do is bury you after you die, so your body isn’t left exposed on the mountain. I hope you won’t resent me.”

Tears welled in the boy’s eyes; he nodded faintly.

Gao Nuan donned the old clothes, wrapped her hands in rags, and helped the boy up. It took much effort, but she managed to carry him on her back, heading east of the ancestral tombs.

The eastern side was rocky and wooded, with no paths and rarely visited. If the boy died there, no one would find him. Even if discovered, it wouldn’t be traced back to the siblings. If he died, she would dig a grave and bury him, fulfilling her promise.

The path was rough, and Gao Nuan, only thirteen or fourteen, struggled under the weight, though the boy was thin.

“Shuanghe Township… Shi Village…” the boy whispered as she carried him.

“Is that where the ones who sent you to harm us are from?” she asked.

“My home,” he replied.

“Do you want me to send you home after you die?”

“No!” He paused for a long time, coughing, gathering his strength to continue. “Someone… paid… bought me… sent me here…”

“Who?”

“Don’t know…”

“Do your parents know?”

“I don’t know… if they know…”

Gao Nuan, sweating and exhausted, finally carried him to a spot behind a boulder on the east slope, settling him against the stone. The boy gazed at the girl, wrapped so tightly only her eyes showed; she might be the last person he would ever see.

He had hoped to see his parents before dying, but they had sold him for two taels of silver. The buyer used him to harm others. He wanted to live, begged the girl to save him, but knew she couldn’t—he had smallpox. Even doctors avoided him; how could she save him? With this disease, one either survived and became immune, or died.

Gao Nuan looked at him, sighed silently, and turned away.

She returned to Mrs. Yu’s grave, removed all the rags and old clothes from her face, body, and hands, burned them before the tomb, then took the baskets and shovel and headed home. Turning, she saw Gao Xi walking up from below.

“Nuan Sister, why are you alone? Zhao and Yang didn’t come?” Gao Xi asked. Today was Second Aunt’s grand memorial; as children, how could they not attend?

Gao Nuan steadied herself and replied, “Little Zhao twisted his ankle. Yang is keeping him company at home.”

“Is it serious?”

“Not too bad—just inconvenient for climbing. They’ll come another day to honor mother.”

Gao Xi carried his basket to the grave, preparing the offerings, but noticed some unburned cloth. He looked back curiously.

Gao Nuan explained, “Today marks the end of mourning, so I burned two mourning garments for mother. Hoping she’ll see them in the afterlife, feel less longing.”

Her explanation was reasonable; Gao Xi suspected nothing. After paying his respects, he went to the old house at the west end of the village to visit Gao Zhao.