"Hey, little ones! Time to eat, yoo-hoo, come on now!"
Elena Cui, wearing an apron, carried a bowl in her left hand and a ladle in her right, shouting as she banged the edge of the congee pot with the metal spoon.
Victor Li, who was sitting nearby packing tobacco into his water pipe, kicked her firmly on the hip and snapped, "Have you lost your mind? Are you calling piglets?"
Elena shot her husband a glare, slammed a stack of bowls in front of him, and spat, "Bah! Pigs don't make this much noise or eat this much!"
At her call, a swarm of children rushed in from outside—seven boys and four girls, ranging from sixteen years old down to three.
Victor and Elena had four sons and one daughter. Once their children grew up and started their own families, only the eldest son, whose family lived nearby, regularly left his three-year-old twins with them. But when summer vacation hit, for reasons of convenience (or perhaps a fear of missing out on their grandparents' hospitality), all their children began sending their kids to stay. You can't accept one grandchild and reject the others, so the house soon felt like a schoolhouse.
Before the couple could savor the "sweetness" of having a full nest, their rice jar was already emptying fast. As the saying goes, "Half-grown boys eat their fathers into bankruptcy"—and that included the girls, all in their growth spurts, with stomachs like bottomless pits. Elena served meals in literal pots, and even then, a second pot stayed warm on the stove.
Though they were already grandparents, the couple wasn't old by rural standards. In today's countryside, you only qualify for your children's support if you're bedridden and unable to work. As long as you can still till the fields, you fend for yourself.
"Stop grabbing! Line up like you're not starved half to death!"
The children held out their bowls as Elena ladled congee. The last to approach was a ten-year-old boy in denim overalls and trendy sandals, his skin fair, his expression shy. He stood out from his messy, snot-nosed cousins, who'd been playing outdoors.
"Little Ethan," Elena said, smiling as she patted his head. He was her only grandson by blood… well, technically, he'd been her grandson before, but now he was officially hers.
His name was Ethan Li. His mother, Elena's youngest daughter, was the first college graduate from Siyuan Village. She'd attended university in Beijing, stayed to work, and brought home a soft-spoken city man as her fiancé. Elena and Victor had been too nervous to study him closely that day. Later, when their daughter had a son, the distance and her busy job kept her from visiting, but she'd sent money every month since graduation.
Before the wedding, the couple had saved every penny she sent, refusing to touch it even when their four sons needed dowries. When the daughter and her husband visited, Victor pushed back the bride price and returned all the savings. They'd wanted to add more, but after four sons' weddings, their pockets were empty. This guilt lingered—returning the money meant they'd given nothing for their daughter's marriage, a loss of face.
After the wedding, they saved her monthly payments too, chasing away sons and daughters-in-law who tried to claim the money. Half a month ago, their daughter had sent her son with a soldier, along with a letter and money, explaining she'd divorced, had work changes, and needed her parents to care for the boy temporarily. The letter also said she'd changed the child's surname to hers, making the grandson officially hers.
In the countryside, Ethan hadn't just adapted—he thrived, chasing his cousins through the village daily.
Today's meal was sweet potato congee, tasty but not filling. It digested quickly; even after bowls full, a run around the yard left them hungry again. Eating too much sweet potato congee or strips could hurt the stomach—just the sight of them could make you queasy when you weren't hungry. But Ethan loved the "communal dining" feel, and he adored Elena's salty pickles and sauces.
"Grandma, why didn't we go to Uncle Beard's feast today?" asked Liam, her nine-year-old grandson from the second son.
Elena rapped his head with a chopstick. "Silly boy, that feast was for his mother's funeral. You think they'll hold one every day?"
"Why not? Daily feasts would be great," Liam said, rubbing his head.
"Nonsense! Even if they wanted to, do you think people line up to die every day?"
"SMACK!" Victor slammed his chopsticks on the table. "What kind of nonsense are you spouting to the kids?"
Elena realized her mistake. Instead of snapping back, she spooned some salty sauce—with peanut crumbs and a few meat dices—into Ethan's bowl. His chopsticks stirred it, revealing tiny white meat chunks in the congee.
The children, sharp-eyed and obsessed with fairness, immediately protested. "Grandma, I want meat too—like Ethan's!" Liam said.
"Me too!" "Me too!" the others chimed in.
"Shoo!" Elena scolded. "The little ones can whine, but you older ones—Evan, Ryan, Luna—should know better! Today's food is bought with Little Ethan's mother's money. Your parents haven't contributed a single grain of rice. Shame on you for begging!"
Evan, Ryan, and Luna looked down, embarrassed, while the younger ones just giggled and forgot.
Grandma had hinted to their parents, and they'd relayed the message, but their parents had told them to play dumb.
Just then, Mason, the eight-year-old from the third son, asked, "Is Little Oriole still there?"
"Who's Little Oriole?" Elena asked.
Liam answered, "Grandma, she's the singer who danced at Uncle Beard's yesterday. Her voice was amazing, and she danced beautifully!"
"Is that so?" Elena had been washing dishes in the kitchen, too busy to watch the funeral performance. Her husband hadn't gone either, claiming he was fishing—really, he was too ashamed: five kids (Evan, Ryan, Ethan, Liam, Mason) had already eaten there, and an adult showing up would've been disgraceful.
The five kids hadn't just eaten; they'd smuggled food, especially the per-person dishes. Ethan had learned to wrap food in red plastic tablecloths, like his cousins, and share it with the younger siblings at home. They'd felt like victorious generals.
Ryan said, "Her singing was beautiful, and she was pretty. She told us to call her Little Oriole."
Evan nodded. "She was kind, pretty, and dressed nicely. I want to marry someone like her."
Elena turned to Ethan. "Little Ethan, is that true?"
"Uh-huh." Ethan put down his chopsticks and nodded. "Pretty."
Rural funeral performance troupes needed to be versatile: chanting scriptures in Taoist robes during rituals, then putting on singing, dancing, acrobatics, or magic shows after the meal. Wealthier families might even pay for a night show, though parents sent kids to bed before that.
Little Oriole's real name was Sophia Shaw, mid-thirties, divorced. Her skills were mediocre, but she dressed provocatively—in a tight black cheongsam with a high slit revealing her legs—and had a flirtatious stage presence. The village women called her sao—a term of both scorn and envy.
With few TVs in the village, her "sao" was a sensation, captivating not just men but impressionable boys.
Just then, Megan Zhao, a neighbor and longtime gossip partner, appeared at the door.
"Eaten yet?" Elena asked. "Join us—grab a bowl."
Megan waved her off, laughing. "I wouldn't dare mooch here! Look at you—serving thin congee."
"This congee warms the stomach. I love it. Come on, I can spare a bowl even if the jar's scraping bottom."
"Alright, I've eaten. But guess what? The funeral troupe leader just stormed Uncle Beard's place—they smashed things, almost fought!"
Elena stood, shoveling congee into her mouth as she approached the door. "Why? Unpaid fees?"
"Not the money—someone from the troupe is missing."
"Missing? Who?"
"A woman—the sao one who shook her hips like her backside was falling off yesterday."
"Little Oriole?" Evan asked.
The children perked up.
"Probably her—the slutty one," Megan said, relishing the drama.
"How'd she go missing? Found yet?" Elena asked.
"Someone saw her follow Uncle Beard's youngest son into the riverside woods last night. She never went back, so the troupe came to demand her."
"What about the son?"
"He's home, denying it. But lots of villagers saw them enter the woods."
"Where is she now?"
"Gone. The troupe leader came for her, but the Beards swear they don't know, say she ran off on her own."
"What happened next?"
"The Beards paid the troupe a hefty sum to settle it."
Elena elbowed Megan, raising an eyebrow. "Fishy!"
Megan elbowed back, nodding. "You bet! Old Beard was a grain station deputy—still has influence. His sons work in town. For him to pay up, there's definitely something wrong!"
"Did the troupe leave after the money?"
"Left in a truck for the next job."
"Don't they care about finding her?"
"Who cares? They're off to the next gig."
"Oy," Elena sighed. "Hope nothing bad happened."
"Who knows?"
"The truth will come out."
"You're right."
At this, Liam and Mason burst into tears: "Wahhh! Little Oriole! Little Oriole's gone!"
Megan snorted, almost laughing her snot out. "Look at your grandsons—love-struck already."
Elena rolled her eyes. "You have a granddaughter—want a match?"
"Ha!" Megan pointed at Ethan. "If it's with your Little Ethan, sure! My Xiaojuan could follow him to Beijing someday."
"Dream on," Elena said, waving her off.
Victor had finished eating. He ignored the gossip, reaching for his water pipe—only to find the matchbox empty.
Ethan jumped up, fetched a new box from behind the stove, and brought it over. Victor held out his pipe bowl instead of taking the matches. Ethan smiled, struck a match (scchh, scchh, scchh), and shielded the flame with his hand as he lit the pipe.
Victor inhaled deeply, satisfied, recalling how his daughter used to light his pipe too, promising to buy him boxed cigarettes when she grew up.
Whoosh. Ethan blew out the match, stepped on it, and ground it into the dirt.
Evan spoke up. "Grandpa, let's pole the boat to pick lotus pods this afternoon."
Victor glanced at the meager table and nodded. "Ryan, come too. Bring the net—maybe catch some fish for your grandma's soup."
Liam and Mason forgot Little Oriole, shouting, "Grandpa, we want to go too!" The younger kids joined in, afraid of missing out.
Victor scanned them sternly. "Listen—there are water ghosts in the river. They drag people down to drown and take their place in the afterlife."
The children fell silent, scared. Mason protested, "Why can the brothers go?"
Evan and Ryan, being older, helped scare their siblings: "I'm strong—ghosts can't pull me under." "I swim fast—they can't catch me."
Ethan wanted to go too but was shy to ask, staring at his hands and sneaking glances at Grandpa.
Victor said, "Little Ethan can come too."
Liam complained, "Not fair! He's only a year older than me."
Mason added, "Ethan's not as strong as me—how can he fight water ghosts?"
Victor exhaled a smoke ring and offered a logic even kids accepted: "Little Ethan's from the city. Our local water ghosts don't know him."
…
Most village houses faced the road in front and the river behind. To wash clothes or vegetables, you exited the back door and stepped down stone steps to the water. Thrifty families fenced sections of the river to raise ducks or geese.
The Li family's boat was tied to a persimmon tree by the back door. Victor unlooped the rope, stepped onto the boat, and steadied it with a bamboo pole.
Evan carried a fishing rod, Ryan a net, and they jumped on board. Ethan, with a small bamboo basket on his back, was lifted onto the boat by his grandfather.
"Sit tight—let's go!"
As the pole pushed against the riverbed, the boat glided forward. Evan and Ryan lounged casually, but Ethan sat upright, watching waterweeds and dragonflies pass by.
"Here, Ethan," Evan said, offering a handful of roasted beans. He was from the eldest son's family, lived nearby, and sometimes snuck snacks from home—though his mother told him to hoard them. In contrast, Ethan's mother had sent a big bag of treats with the soldier, and another package arrived recently, which Elena rationed daily.
"Thanks, Evan-ge."
Ethan took one bean—locally called "fist beans" (broad beans), stir-fried with salt and spices, crunchy and fragrant. But Ethan didn't like them; they were too hard, risking his teeth. While his cousins crunched noisily, he sucked on one like a candy.
"Come a troupe of young men, wandering on the road; come a troupe of young men, tonight the lights will shine." Evan sang.
"You're singing it wrong," Ryan laughed. "That's not how it goes."
Evan scoffed, "You think you can do better? Sing then!"
Ryan mumbled, scratching his head. "I only remember the tune."
Victor, poling the boat, asked, "What are you singing? I don't understand."
"Grandpa, it's the song Little Oriole sang yesterday—Cantonese opera," Evan said.
"Cantonese opera?" Victor was surprised. "That's what you just sang?"
Ryan corrected him, "No, Grandpa—from Hong Kong, like pop music."
"Ah, right. Sing it properly for me."
Ryan teased, "Evan doesn't know the lyrics—nowhere near as good as Little Oriole."
Little Oriole's singing hadn't been authentic, but in rural China, authenticity didn't matter; it was the confident tone that charmed.
Evan pointed at Ethan. "Ethan sang along yesterday. He knows it."
Victor said, "Little Ethan, sing for Grandpa."
Ethan blushed. "I only know a little."
"Sing, sing!" Ryan urged. "Ethan can even sing English songs!"
Ethan began:
"Even if a thousand songs float into my distant path; even if a thousand evening stars outshine tonight's moon."
"That's all. Mom likes this song—she plays it at home a lot."
Ryan shot Evan a smug look. "See? Your lyrics were wrong."
Evan rolled his eyes.
As they chatted, the boat reached a wider stretch of the river. Evan helped his grandfather with the pole, Victor prepared the net, and Ryan set up his fishing rod. Ethan, unassigned, stayed seated with his basket, watching the adults work and frogs leap on waterweeds.
Suddenly, he leaned forward, puzzled.
Victor, keeping an eye on his grandson, warned, "Little Ethan, sit back—don't fall in!"
Ethan pointed ahead. "Grandpa, brothers, there's a clump of black waterweeds."
"Where?" Ryan looked in the direction. "Wow, really—black."
"Where? Where?" Evan, poling from the stern, couldn't see clearly, so he steered the boat closer.
Victor, busy untying the net, glanced up—and froze.
That black mass, thin yet swirling, scattered yet connected—those weren't waterweeds. It was hair.
As the boat neared, the underwater shape became visible: dark patterns, white buttons, curving lines…
Standing beside Ethan, Ryan saw it first and yelled, "Grandpa, it's a person! Someone's drowning! Evan, pole over to save them!"
Stories of water ghosts couldn't scare these older kids; their innate kindness drove them to act.
"NO!"
Victor roared, veins bulging under his weathered skin. He dropped the net and rushed to the stern, yelling at Evan: "Turn around! Give me the pole—don't get closer!"
They'd been in this area for a while, heard no splashing. The water was calm—whoever was there had been dead for hours.
But Victor knew the legend: in these waters, some drowned corpses weren't just tragic—they were cursed.
Siyuan Village had a professional body collector, Uncle Sanjiang, a distant relative. Childless and odd, he made good money from funerals and rituals, living comfortably. Victor had helped him before, learning the trade's dark secrets.
In their slang, a floating corpse was a "dead drift." Most were retrieved after rituals, but Uncle Sanjiang had warned of a terrifying exception: a corpse standing upright at the bottom, only hair visible on the surface—a spirit desperate to drag someone down as a replacement.
Victor remembered Sanjiang's warning over wine: "Victor, if you see one, run. Fast. Or it'll claim you."
Now, spotting that upright dead drift, how could he not panic—especially with three grandsons on board?
Curious Evan misread his grandfather's urgency. As Victor grabbed the pole, Evan stumbled, jabbing the pole sideways into the mud, tilting the boat sharply to the right.
Seasoned boatmen like Ryan balanced easily, grabbing the gunwale. But Ethan, inexperienced, was thrown off balance. "PLUNK!" He fell into the water—right where the dead drift lay.
The river was clear, the afternoon sun bright, illuminating the underwater scene.
Ethan kicked instinctively, then froze.
There, standing in the water, was Little Oriole—today's topic of conversation.
She wore her performance cheongsam: black with white floral buttons, slit to the waist, red high heels. The current pushed her arms and legs in rhythmic swings, as if she were walking underwater.
She swayed her hands, twisted her waist, showed her legs, pointed her toes… even here, she embodied the sao that fascinated and repulsed the village.
"Even if a thousand songs float into my distant path…"
Her off-key Cantonese echoed in his ears.
As the song played, Little Oriole turned slowly toward Ethan. Her hair billowed upward like a black umbrella, her makeup thicker, lips redder.
Then, she smiled.