Chapter 32: Schemes of the Heart

Old Gou, as he was called, truly dared to ascend the great mountain this time. Atop the peak, there was nothing to be seen save for a crescent moon hanging in the deep blue sky. Beside this waning moon, a solitary star flickered with a cold, piercing light. The glow fell upon Old Gou, but instead of frightening him, it only seemed to stir his excitement.

To be able to indulge in carnal pleasures with a female ghost in this desolate, uninhabited wilderness—wouldn't that be an experience quite unlike any other? So thought Old Gou. Yet, where was he to find such a seductive specter? He had no idea.

Old Gou settled against an ancient pine tree to rest, though he dared not close his eyes. He was not a man of great courage; had the ghost not been female, he would never have ventured up the mountain, not even if his life depended on it. He placed the pig's head he had brought as an offering beside him. He did not harbor high hopes—if he happened upon her, well and good; if not, there was nothing to be done, was there?

Leaning against the pine, he kept his eyes shut but dared not truly sleep. In these wild, lonely mountains, if something unclean were to appear while he slumbered, the consequences would be dire.

Heaven, it seemed, did not disappoint those who sought. Old Gou heard footsteps—softly approaching, yet unseen, nothing more than a spectral, ethereal sound. Soon after, a woman dressed in red emerged from the depths of the forest. Her face was ghastly pale, not beautiful in the least, but rather a sight to instill terror.

Old Gou was gripped by fear and kept shouting for her not to come closer, but his pleas did not stop the woman in red from advancing. He had no choice but to scramble away, yet after running for some time, he realized he had forgotten the pig’s head and turned back to retrieve it. Upon returning to the pine tree, he found the offering had vanished into thin air. A fresh wave of terror washed over him as he looked up and saw the woman in red blocking his path of retreat.

Old Gou was filled with profound regret. He should never have come to this mountain, especially in the dead of night. Looking up at the sky, he saw the woman in red sitting upon the crescent moon, smiling down at him. Her face appeared even paler than before.

As he watched, things turned even worse. The woman in red hung a rope from the crescent moon and began to hang herself from it. Old Gou dared not look; he squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them and looked again, the woman was hanging right before his eyes.

The long rope dangled from the crescent moon, shivering in the cold wind as if it might snap or fall at any moment.

Old Gou finally understood what he had brought upon himself. Perhaps he should not have had that affair with the old woman—this was surely divine retribution.

The woman in red hung nearby, as still as a mountain crag. As Old Gou stared, a wicked impulse stirred within him once more. Since there was no one else on this vast mountain, why not take advantage of the situation?

Just then, he heard a booming voice from the depths of the forest, threatening to beat him to death, and his courage withered. When he looked again, the rope no longer held a woman, but a coffin, swaying rhythmically in the wind.

Terrified, Old Gou fled for his life, eventually tumbling down a high cliff. When he awoke, he realized he had been sitting by the pine tree, caught in a dream. He had slept alone in the heart of the great mountain; luckily, it was not too cold, or he might have caught his death.

As for the pig’s head he had brought, it was nowhere to be found.

Old Gou did not bother searching for it. Saving his own skin was paramount; he scrambled down the mountain and fled.

On his way back, Old Gou encountered a man sitting alone in the gloom, smoking incessantly. His expression was grim, but he was recognizable—it was Uncle Hua. Upon seeing Old Gou, Uncle Hua offered a curt, polite greeting before returning to his smoking on the mountain rock.

Since that incident, one could only imagine Uncle Hua’s state of mind. He sat there not for any other reason than to find a way to end his life. Yet, he suddenly thought of Shaoqiu. *Right,* he told himself, *I cannot die; that would only benefit that boy.* Having found this small, bitter purpose for survival, a smile touched his lips. At the very least, he could protect his daughter from being ruined by Shaoqiu.

Everything was Shaoqiu’s fault, and he had to return the favor in full; otherwise, what was the point of living? Sitting in the wild, Uncle Hua pondered this deeply. It was fortunate that Shaoqiu was not there, or someone might have met their end in these lonely hills.

Unable to contain his rage, Uncle Hua climbed the mountain and crept into Shaoqiu's fields. The watermelons were ripe, and Uncle Hua sat among them, devouring them like a locust. He felt no remorse; after all, these were Shaoqiu's crops. Getting a free meal was simply his own skill—where was the sin in that?

He would bite into a seven or eight-pound watermelon and discard it, repeating this until he had destroyed over a dozen. Unable to eat more, he urinated in the field, and feeling that such a gift was too good for Shaoqiu, he dug up the soil soaked with his urine and tossed it into his own plot.

After wreaking havoc for half the night, an exhausted Uncle Hua set a fire to the field, leaving it in ruins before finally departing. Before leaving, he posted a sign in the field: *The one who lit this fire is Uncle Hua.*

The next day, when Shaoqiu arrived and saw what had become of his field, he sat down and wept bitterly. He had been counting on these melons to earn money. Without money, how could he buy flowers in Lu Town to gift to Xiaohua? And without flowers, Xiaohua would certainly refuse to read books with him.

Looking at the ruined field, he felt his hard work had come to nothing. He wondered how he had offended Xiaohua's father to deserve this. What was the point of living in this world? Overwhelmed by grief, he tore down the sign Uncle Hua had left. He was clever enough to know that if he had stormed over to Uncle Hua's house in a fit of rage to confront him, he would have played right into the man’s hands, and Xiaohua would have severed ties with him for good.

Shaoqiu did not do that. He tossed the sign away, cleared the field, shouldered his hoe, and headed down the mountain. As he walked, he looked at the sunset. He did not know why, but it seemed impossibly red—like blood, like a terrifying dream.