Chapter Fifty-Eight
OUR CONVOY DEFINITELY DIDN’T BELONG.
It felt as if we’d stepped through history to a simpler time where stone roads, grassy verges, and a slower way of life ruled. White-washed buildings sprinkled the mountainside as if people had built wherever they felt like it—rather than following boundary lines and municipal plans.
Lucien sat beside me in the back of a rugged jeep that didn’t look anything like the flashy G-wagons from Cinderkeep. It had rusty dents and off-road tyres as if the rugged mountain road wasn’t welcoming to visitors.
Uncle Wen drove carefully, avoiding potholes, glasses perched on his nose, and a smile on his face as he waved at villagers he knew. Behind us—in equally weathered off-road vehicles that’d been stored in a huge outbuilding behind Ashfall Cliff—Dillon and the fifteen Snowflake Corp guards followed.
“How far is it to Brimstone headquarters?” I rested my hand on Whisper’s neck where he sat between us. The panther glowered out the windscreen, his eyes flicking from running children, fluttering laundry, and prayer flags looped across the street.
“From what I remember, it takes about two hours to get there,” Lucien replied, his eyes locked—just like Whisper’s—on the chaos darting outside. A flock of fat chickens scratched beneath persimmon trees, pecking at the fallen fruit. Another crowd of children darted in front of the car, waving at Uncle Wen as he stopped to let them pass—half-made lanterns swinging in their hands.
“Is it always this busy?” Lucien asked. “I don’t remember it being so...festive.”
“It’s Zhongyuan Jie.” Uncle Wen caught my gaze in the mirror. “That means the Hungry Ghost Festival. It’s the night we talk to the wandering souls and spend time with our dead loved ones.”
My eyes widened as we drove past a table full of young men and women, all carefully bending bamboo strips. More bamboo bundles waited by their feet, soaking in shallow basins to make it easier to bend into lantern ribs. A couple of women smoothed translucent rice paper over the dried frames before passing them down the line to be painted with Chinese calligraphy.
Uncle Wen smiled at my curiosity. “We spend the day making the lanterns so when night falls, we can send them into the heavens, taking our notes to our loved ones.”
My heart skipped a beat as we kept driving—passing clusters of children making their own lanterns and groups of adults hard at work. “It seems as though everyone in the village is making a tribute. Is that normal? Has death touched every family in this village?”
His hands clenched around the steering wheel. “Every family, no matter who they are, has lost someone but...you’re right. Unfortunately, the past twenty years haven’t been kind to the people of Mistwood or the other villages throughout this mountain.”
Lucien stiffened. “What happened to them?”
“Not sure.” Uncle Wen took a corner, bumping over a few rocks and waving at an elderly woman as she carried a basket of washing on her back. “So many have gone missing over the years. Of course, the river has flooded, and the rains have brought heavy landslides but...sometimes they go missing without cause.”
“And no one has thought to try to find them?” Lucien’s face went stony.
“Of course they have.” Uncle Wen braked as yet another flock of children darted past, raggedy but happy, half-painted lanterns flying behind them. “Mistwood and all the surrounding villages have arranged multiple search parties over the years. Together, we’ve searched every inch of the Gaoligong Ranges—the parts that are passable, at least—but no one has ever been found.”
“Even their bodies?” Lucien asked.
Uncle Wen shook his head sadly.
The coldness inside me woke up, tiptoeing along my ribs. Lucien shot me a grateful look, sensing the ice that’d risen to combat his increasing heat, but he wasn’t the only reason the frost stirred.
I couldn’t shake the awful feeling that something bad had happened to them...
We inched past a pack of dogs sunning themselves in the middle of the road.
“Lao Wen!” An old man rose from his stool where he sat with a group of elders playing mahjong. Cigarettes dangled from their wrinkled mouths and the sun was held at bay thanks to the gnarled ginkgo tree. “Here to paint your own lantern?”
“Mei already made ours.” Uncle Wen pulled to a stop and clasped his friend’s hand through the open window. “We’ll be back when it’s dark to light our candles. However...” He shifted in his seat and pointed at Lucien. “We’ll have to send one less this year. Jin and Meilin’s boy is finally home.”
“What? No, it can’t be.” The old man peered at Lucien as if he was seeing a ghost. “Luxin? Little Master Luxin is finally home?”
Lucien gave him a polite nod.
“Shouxin, get back here! You’re ruining the game.” One of the old men threw a crab-apple at us. “Stop gossiping and play your hand.”
“See what I have to put up with?” Shouxin rolled his eyes. “So I’ll see you tonight?” His sharp gaze landed on me, widened on Whisper, then fell back to Lucien with a look of awe. “You’ll come to the festival. Let off a lantern for your parents?”
Lucien balled his hands and flickers of his feelings bled into me. Suspicion and distrust...the same wariness filling me.
Too much death.
