That night, the Partridge went alone to the broken Song stone tablet. Clouds drifted across the dusky sky, the moon peeping between them. Dry leaves rustled in the wind, like the sobbing of ghosts.
Instead of using his usual mountain-moving techniques, the Partridge followed the master’s instructions and opened a tunnel directly to the heart of the tomb. He had everything ready: black donkey hooves, candles, corpse incense, glutinous rice grains, pangolin claws—and also, to guard against more worldly dangers, a loaded Mauser pistol. He wrapped a damp cloth around his nose and mouth.
The monk had described this place as shaped like a broken sword, a design that should have prevented the dead from coming back to life. The Partridge wasn’t worried—he’d encountered all sorts of dumplings in the course of his work, and the undead no longer frightened him. He thought, So the old monk wants to test my skills and bravery? I definitely can’t afford to look bad. And with that, he took a deep breath, held his lantern high, and burrowed into the darkness.
He moved expertly through the space and was soon in the main burial chamber. This was a cramped room with a low ceiling, grave goods piled all over the floor. Without even looking at them, the Partridge picked his way through to the southeast corner, where he lit a candle. Turning, he saw that there was no platform, just a coffin made entirely of bronze. He’d never seen one like it. The metal was probably intended to hold the corpse in place—had it shown signs of being undead even before it was buried?
Mustering his courage, the Partridge used a pangolin claw to ease the lid open. Inside was a noblewoman of about thirty, who seemed to be sound asleep. Her cheeks bulged slightly, indicating she probably had a pearl in her mouth to prevent her body from rotting, and her hair was full of gold and silver ornaments. A light satin sheet lay over her, but he could see that she was dressed in many layers of fine robes. If he could just remove her outermost garments and bring them back, that would fulfill his end of the bargain. Stepping into the coffin, he got out his rope and wound it twice around himself, knotting it once at his chest and again around her neck.
He held his breath and leaned over her to burn a little corpse incense by her cheek. This fragrance would cause her body to unstiffen, making it easy to remove her robe. He was standing over her so that when she rose, her neck would be level with his chest. That was why the rope had to be arranged just so—many amateurs, only half understanding the method, would tie a noose around their own necks too and end up strangling themselves.
After a few moments, she softened and the rope lifted her. The Partridge was just pulling off her gown when he felt a gust of wind and turned to see the candle flame flickering like crazy, as if it might go out at any moment. “This is bad,” he muttered. Before he could untie the rope, the woman’s mouth dropped open, and a purplish-black pearl rolled out of it. Right away, her face sprouted a layer of fine white down. She was becoming a white demon.
According to the rules, he wasn’t allowed to take anything if the candle got extinguished. He’d started in this line of work at the age of fifteen and had been doing it for twelve years now. He could easily have departed at this point without any danger to himself at all, but it wasn’t his style to retreat at the first sign of trouble. He had to get hold of that robe—without letting the corpse become a demon, or the candle going out.
Glancing down at the pearl, he recognized it as a mixture of scarlet sand and purple jade, a formula used to prevent corpses changing form. In noble families, because it was taboo to burn bodies, the only solution when someone showed signs of being undead was to secretly slip one of these into their mouths before burial.
Eyeing the guttering candle, the Partridge gave the rope a sharp tug. Softened by the corpse incense, the woman’s neck jerked back and her mouth fell open. He quickly scooped up the pearl and popped it back in, then pulled the rope downward so her head tilted and her jaw shut.
In a single movement, he pulled the pistol from his belt and fired it behind him. The wooden rafters had circular tiles along them, one of which was struck by the bullet and fell, lodging in the ground by the candle and shielding it from the wind. The flame wavered a second longer, then stabilized.
He had to hurry to get the job done before dawn: “No gold hunting after the cock crows” was another of the rules. The reasoning was that no matter how pure your motives, reverse dipping is a dark art that should be carried out under cover of night. If the sun caught sight of what you were up to, well, there’d be no helping you. Trying to speed up, he sat on the corpse’s leg to pin her in place as he started loosening her garments.
Then, suddenly, there was a tickle at his neck, and he felt something furry rub against his shoulder. As bold as he was, the Partridge felt his hairs standing on end. Keeping his body still, he slowly turned to see what was there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A large tabby cat was perched on the Partridge’s shoulder. It must have sneaked into the chamber without a sound and was staring right at him with its large eyes.
He cursed under his breath. Every branch of reverse dipping is afraid of encountering animals, and cats are the worst of all. Cats are said to carry some sort of electric charge that can bring a corpse back to life if it comes into contact with one.
This wild cat didn’t seem afraid of people. It lowered its gaze, seemingly drawn to the glittery grave goods, which must have looked like an array of cat toys. The Partridge’s heart was in his throat. If the cat jumped into the coffin and came into contact with the woman, even with the pearl back in her mouth, she’d surely turn demonic again. Yet he didn’t dare make any big movements, in case that put the candle out.
Whatever he did, it had to be fast—the sun would rise soon, and if he couldn’t get the grave clothes back to World’s End before dawn, he’d never learn the secrets of gold hunting.
He could have simply broken the rules to succeed, of course, but honor and trust are important to this profession, and a renowned expert like the Partridge naturally placed them above his own life. Even though reverse dipping is a dark art, its practitioners would still rather die than betray its principles, which are the only things differentiating them from common thieves.
It all happened very quickly. Barely had these thoughts passed through the Partridge’s head when the cat, unable to stand the temptation any longer, arched its back and prepared to leap from his shoulder, toward the shiny baubles that captivated it.
The Partridge instinctively made a grab for the creature but stopped himself just in time. If he startled it, that might drive it toward the corpse. Instead, he had a thought. One of his many talents was that he could imitate almost any animal sound, and right now, after attracting the cat’s attention with a whistle, he meowed a few times.
The cat froze, and its ears pricked up. Was there another of its own kind nearby? It looked around, puzzled not to find the source of those meows, which had sounded so very close.
Disaster averted, the Partridge tried to think of a way to lure the animal away. He needed just a bit more time to get the grave clothes off, after which the cat could go roll about in the coffin for all he cared. But how could he get those few minutes he needed?
Trying to further distract the cat, he did a couple of birdcalls. The animal looked swiftly around, then back at the Partridge. It pawed at the cloth covering his face, no doubt thinking a sparrow was hiding beneath it.
“Stupid beast,” the Partridge said with a grin. “Imagine falling for that!”
While the cat’s attention was on the black cloth, the Partridge stealthily reached out for the nearest piece of treasure: a bracelet woven from fine threads of pure gold. Moving very carefully so as not to alarm the cat, he hung the bracelet from his thumb, then, with a quick flick of his wrist, sent it spinning toward the tunnel he’d come in by.
The golden object arced through the air, clanking down by the entrance. It was so quiet in the
chamber you could have heard a pin drop, and the cat definitely heard the clatter. Perhaps thinking the sparrow had flown away while it wasn’t looking, the cat meowed furiously and made a dash toward the new noise.
Seizing the opportunity, the Partridge whipped out his pistol, intending to shoot the creature dead to prevent it from causing any more of a disturbance. Then a sound from behind him caught his attention, and he turned to see that another seven or eight cats of different sizes had sneaked in along with the big one, one of them only an inch from the fallen ceiling tile. The slightest nudge and that tile would knock the candle over, putting it out.
The Partridge broke out in a cold sweat. He’d survived all sorts of catastrophes and didn’t relish the thought of it all ending here, in this tiny chamber, stymied by this weird situation. Had he accidentally attracted all these cats with his sparrow calls? Cats have sharp hearing, and would have come in search of a meal if they’d been within earshot. What was he to do now? It was almost dawn.
He stared at the line of cats, uncertain whether he should laugh or cry. What was going on? He’d averted one disaster, only to have a worse one pop up. Normally, getting a robe off a corpse would be no big deal, yet this was turning into one of the most difficult jobs of his career.
This reminded him of that old saying “Win or lose, it’s all the same.” His animal calls had saved him from one feral cat, only to attract a herd of others. Should he just shoot them all? The Partridge stiffened his resolve. Nothing in the world could stop him. Gritting his teeth, he worked hard to remain calm, trying to finish the task at hand before those wretched cats could spoil everything.
Moving lightning fast, he held the woman firmly in place and finished unfastening her outer robe. Lifting her left arm with his leg, he slipped it out of its sleeve. The movement attracted a couple of the cats, and they jumped onto the bronze edge of the coffin. Why were they so unafraid of people? It was probably that reverse dippers are filled with dark energy, dress in black, and take pills to slow down their pulse, so animals might see them as no different than corpses, and therefore no danger.
The cats, one black and one tortoiseshell, bumped into each other as they drew toward the glittering spoils. Immediately they started fighting, biting and scratching away, and in the tussle, they inevitably tumbled into the coffin.
Now they were right next to the corpse. The white hair had receded after he got the pearl back in her mouth, and she looked like she had when he’d come in. But if the cats were to touch her, all bets were off. The Partridge had seen white demons before. They were fearsome, not easily defeated. The roosters would start crowing for dawn in the time it took half an incense stick to burn. On one hand, the demon would stop moving at dawn. On the other, if the Partridge didn’t get the robe off by then, he’d have to leave it behind.
This was where his fine physical skills came in handy. A second before the cats touched the woman, the Partridge straightened his torso, and with a firm thrust of his legs, he leaped straight out of the bronze coffin, the corpse still attached to him. They landed lightly on the floor of the burial chamber.
Another three or four cats had jumped into the coffin too and were now prowling about inside, treating it as a giant kitty playpen. A close shave. No time to waste—he shoved the corpse away, raising her arm with his leg again. Before he could get the other sleeve off, he noticed by the flickering candlelight that her mouth was wide open. That must have happened during the jump—he’d shaken her jaw loose. And now the white fur was returning, sprouting from her like mold on food left out too long, growing thicker by the moment. A black fog drifted from her open mouth, sending a shiver through him. This was dark energy, thick and cold, and if he hadn’t taken those heart-stilling pills, the fog might well have metabolized through his body and killed him at once.
The Partridge didn’t dare get careless in the face of this corpse breath. Keeping his head down to avoid breathing it in, he saw the purple pearl had rolled across the floor and lodged against the fallen tile. There was no choice—he couldn’t risk her fully transforming into a white demon—so he let go of the robe. He had to stop the change before it became irreversible.
Lunging across the floor, the corpse still in his grasp, he dragged her to the southeast corner of the chamber. This was where the light from both the lantern he’d hung from the coffin and the candle faded into nothing. Now and then, a stray flicker from the candle showed him where the pearl had rolled to, but otherwise it was swallowed by the dark.
The Partridge got close enough to reach for it, when an enormous cat pounced from the shadows. It was the first one that had come in, the one that had started this whole mess. It must really have been starving, because even the pearl was starting to look appetizing. Opening its mouth wide, it prepared to bite into it.
The Partridge could have throttled the creature. There wasn’t enough time to snatch the pearl, so he did the only thing he could: he squeaked like a mouse. Sure enough, the cat fell for the trick once again, freezing in place and staring wide-eyed at the man, as if baffled at this giant mouse.
Taking advantage of this confusion, the Partridge grabbed the pearl and stuffed it into the corpse’s mouth, nudging the cat aside with his boot. It yelped and scuttled away. The Partridge thought vengefully about how much trouble the cat had managed to cause, but he let it go and focused on his work.
He had an animal’s instinct for time and sensed the cocks would crow any minute now. There was no time left. Pulling the corpse up by the rope, he finally managed to get the robe completely unfastened. She was wearing at least nine layers of clothing, so this topmost one was jammed on tight, but if he used the right technique, he would probably be able to get it off without too much trouble. Spinning her around, he took hold of the sleeves. This way, he wouldn’t need to mess around with her arms—he could just let go of the body and she’d drop out of the garment.
Before he could do this, though, he felt a sudden movement. It was the other cats, who’d heard his mouse cries, and being just as hungry as their friend, they had come over to investigate, scurrying around the Partridge to find the mice.
There were more than a dozen cats now. Even if he had three pairs of arms, he’d never be able to deal with them all. He felt himself go cold. All right, I give up. I guess fate isn’t going to let me learn gold hunting. But even as this despairing thought was running through his head, another idea came to him. “Meow,” he called. “Meow, meow!”
Wild cats are cautious by nature. Hearing this strange creature who’d been squeaking a minute ago now suddenly sounding just like them, they couldn’t understand what was going on. So the cats stayed put till they could be sure, their eyes fixed on him.
In the inky dark, the cats’ eyes glowed eerily like little lamps. The Partridge left them to it, pulled the corpse to him, and got to work again. At the same moment, the cats seemed to make up their minds all at once that whatever he was, whether a mouse or a dead person, he might be edible, and they’d take a bite to make sure, never mind what sound it made. Moving in unison, they suddenly swarmed toward him.
This long, awful night would reach its conclusion in the next few seconds—success or failure hung in the balance. In this tiny fraction of time, the Partridge had to do three things: not let the cats touch the corpse, not let the candle go out, and get the robe off the corpse before the cock crowed.
He took a step back, finding the tile and bracing his foot against it. Reaching out with his other shoe, he flicked the nearest cat smartly on the nose. It yowled in shock and darted aside in a hurry.
Now the Partridge dropped to the floor, flinging himself over the corpse, so the two cats that had been lunging at them flew harmlessly through the air. He grabbed the candle and held it to the corpse rope with his right hand, singeing through it, while his left hand clutched her lapel. Her back was to him, so he just had to kick gently for her to slide away, leaving h
er robe behind. The candle flickered out, and in the distance, he heard the cocks crowing, their cries drifting into the tomb on the morning breeze.
You don’t often see cats eating a human body, but at that moment, more than ten feral cats, wild with hunger, descended at once on the corpse left behind from the Southern Song dynasty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Partridge pulled the black cloth from around his mouth. The hungry cats gnawed and clawed at the corpse so ferociously that he shuddered. They were more like evil spirits than animals. The cocks had crowed three times now, so the corpse would no longer be able to transform. The cats would be able to gorge themselves to their hearts’ content. Of course, the purple pearl in the corpse’s mouth, which had kept her flesh from decaying, was probably filling her body with dark forces—but he wouldn’t be around to see what effect that would have on the cats.
The Partridge carefully folded the robe, picked up the lantern, and made his way back through the tunnel into the open air. Despite the roosters’ noise, the sky remained dark. He quickly filled in the hole and replaced the broken stone tablet. When he looked back, it appeared as if the grave had never been disturbed.
Back at the monastery, he bowed to World’s End and offered the robe to him with both hands respectfully outstretched, describing the events of the night in detail and finishing with, “The cocks crowed and the flame went out almost at the same instant I laid my hands on the grave garment. It’s impossible to say which came first. I can’t swear I followed the rules. I believe that means I have no right to your tutelage. If I remain alive, I’ll surely visit again and open my ears to your wisdom. Now I must depart.”
The monk had been around long enough and understood perfectly well what the Partridge was doing—he was using a fine reverse-dipping technique and retreating in order to advance.
The Dragon Ridge Tombs Page 14
