Chapter Four: Inviting the Divine

I deliberately tried to scare Wen: “Has anyone ever died at that kindergarten?”

“Nonsense! If someone had died, would parents still dare to send their kids there?” Wen shot back.

The Cantonese opera singing continued, delicate and winding. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “But…”

As soon as I heard that, I knew he’d fallen into my trap!

“I heard that a long time ago, there was a troupe of child performers who came here to put on a show. They performed all through the night and a few of the children died from exhaustion,” Wen said. “But that was all before the founding of the country. You don’t actually think it’s ghosts singing, do you?”

“I was just saying, don’t get carried away,” I replied, satisfied with myself.

As we drew closer to the kindergarten, the opera singing grew clearer, and faint candlelight flickered from within.

So late at night, and there were still children here?

We walked toward the kindergarten. Suddenly, the singing stopped and the candlelight vanished. I was slightly surprised and quickened my pace with Wen.

The main gate of the kindergarten was tightly shut, darkness shrouding the inside. It looked like everyone had left for the day. There was no way any children were still around. But what about the chanting and singing we’d just heard?

“That’s bizarre. The sound definitely came from in here, but there’s not a soul inside,” Wen muttered, peering around.

“Let’s go in and take a look. The place isn’t big, whether it’s a person or a ghost, we’re sure to find out,” I said.

The gate and the wall might as well not have existed for us; we vaulted over with ease. The kindergarten was small, with just a little playground and a few classrooms. By the weak glow of the streetlight outside, we could barely make out the surroundings; everything was deathly quiet.

A faint rustling noise caught my attention. I whipped my head around just in time to see a dark figure dart around the corner.

“There!” I shouted.

Wen sprinted after it.

Although I’d grown stronger after reaching adulthood, I’d been out of shape for years, not as fit as Wen.

I hurried after him, only to see Wen drag a little rascal out from behind the building. “You little brat! What are you doing here so late at night?”

“Cousin, let go, let go! That hurts!”

It was Wen’s little cousin!

A few more kids emerged from behind, all about the same age as his cousin—children from the urban village.

So it was these little rascals making mischief all along!

They gathered on the playground. One of them took a lighter and lit a half-burnt candle in the corner. So that explained the candlelight.

“What are you all doing here so late, sneaking around? Don’t tell me you’re up to no good!” Wen demanded.

His cousin hurried to explain: only the playground here was big enough for them to play, so they’d climbed in. When they heard someone coming, they hid, afraid of being scolded. They didn’t expect it would be us.

“Was it you singing opera just now?” I asked.

The kids’ expressions changed. They exchanged nervous glances but said nothing, clearly hiding something.

“Why so quiet? Wasn’t it you?” Wen pressed his cousin.

His cousin looked conflicted, glancing at the others as if wanting to keep the secret, but under Wen’s pressure, he was at a loss.

I crouched down and lowered my voice, “We won’t tell anyone. Absolute secrecy.”

His cousin relaxed a little, hesitated, then pointed at one of the kids. “It… it was him.”

That boy looked sturdy and thickset, clothes messy, two lines of snot hanging from his nose—he didn’t look at all like someone who could sing a Cantonese opera aria.

Wen smacked his cousin on the head. “Are you trying to fool me?”

One of the other kids said, “No, it’s not him singing… actually, it’s him, but it’s not him…”

“What do you mean ‘it’s him but not him?’ Was it him or not?” Wen said impatiently.

His cousin explained, “It came from his mouth, but it wasn’t him singing—it was the spirit possessing him!”

A spirit?

Wen was about to lose his temper, but I stopped him and asked the cousin, “What spirit? What are you all playing at? Tell us.”

He glanced at the others, then whispered, “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone!”

“We promise, not a word,” I said solemnly.

His cousin drew closer, lowering his voice mysteriously, “We’re inviting the spirits!”

“Nonsense. You’ve been listening to your grandma’s stories too much! Inviting spirits? Even if gods existed, do you think they’d bother coming down to fool around with you brats? Lighting candles here at night—if someone sees you, you’ll get a beating!” Wen scolded.

His cousin retorted stubbornly, “It’s true! Just now, the opera was sung by the spirit that possessed him! If you don’t believe me, watch—we’ll do it again, and the spirit will come.”

“Fine, I’ll watch. If no spirit comes, you’ll all go home quietly.”

The children fetched sticks, brooms, and some toy weapons, arranging them in the middle of the playground. Each took a dragonfly from a bag, and I noticed a bowl of water with pomelo leaves soaking nearby.

The ground was damp, clearly sprinkled on purpose.

It all looked quite methodical—these rules and rituals weren’t something they’d just made up.

To prove himself, Wen’s cousin insisted on being the next to invite the spirit. He stood in the center. The other children, each holding a dragonfly, formed a circle around him. They were about to begin.

“How about I play with you all?” I suddenly asked.

The kids looked at me, hesitant. Wen’s cousin offered, “Sure, you can use my dragonfly.”

I looked at Wen, inviting him to join.

He curled his lip in disdain. “If you want to act like a kid, go ahead.”

I took the last dragonfly from the bag. There was one for each kid, but since one had to stand in the center as the subject, one was left over.

I joined the group, and everything was set. The children began to circle Wen’s cousin, chanting in unison:

“Lost child, maze of souls, invite your master to descend and play awhile. Brother tends cattle and burns incense, man for you, you for man…”

So that was the incantation we’d heard earlier.

Their voices were tidy and steady, probably more focused than they were in class.

“…Spinning, spinning, dizzy now, carrying ghosts, carrying gods, invite your master to descend and play awhile. If the master doesn’t come, the disciple comes; if the disciple doesn’t come, the official comes. Official comes, official comes, look left, look right, if the official still doesn’t come, the subject comes. The subject comes, the subject comes, subject come quickly, repay grievances, repay grudges!”

The chant repeated again and again, the childish voices echoing through the empty kindergarten.

All the children wore solemn expressions, taking it very seriously. Wen’s cousin stood tall and straight in the center, ready for the spirit to possess him at any moment.

I yawned, wondering what possessed me to join in with these kids’ antics.

A cold wind swept through, raising goosebumps on my skin. It really was getting late; the chill in the air was growing heavier, a mist starting to form. Under the dim streetlight, the street looked hazy, like an old, yellowed photograph from the seventies or eighties.

I caught a glimpse of someone in the corner by the roadside, half their body swallowed by darkness—indistinct, impossible to see clearly.

When did that person get there? Damn! If they saw me playing around with these kids in the kindergarten, I’d be in trouble for sure.

But the figure didn’t seem interested in coming over, just stood there unmoving.

“…If the official doesn’t come, the subject comes. The subject comes, the subject comes, subject come quickly, repay grievances, repay grudges!”

“Lost child, maze of souls, invite your master to descend and play awhile, brother tends cattle and burns incense, man for you, you for man…”

The chanting grew more resonant, echoing in my head.

The mist thickened, tinted yellow by the streetlights, shrinking my field of vision little by little, as if I were looking at a faded old photograph.

The figure in the corner vanished. I had no idea when he left; his spot was soon swallowed by the fog.

“What are you doing!” a voice suddenly barked.

The chanting stopped abruptly, and the dense fog vanished in an instant. I looked around in surprise—everything was as it had been. The street under the dim light was empty, the playground faintly lit by candlelight, no sign of mist.

“Xiao Chao!” a child suddenly cried out.

The rest of the children rushed to the center. Wen’s cousin had collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

Wen hurried over, calling, “Xiao Chao! Xiao Chao!”

A beam of flashlight swept across the kindergarten gate, and Wen’s uncle’s anxious voice sounded, “What happened to Xiao Chao? What’s going on? Wen!”

A few people had come with Wen’s uncle—some were relatives I’d seen at dinner, others were strangers.

I quickly told the kids to pack up their things. Wen carried his cousin on his back, and we all climbed back over the wall.

The newcomers were the kids’ parents. After we explained what happened, Wen’s uncle scolded, “Playing in the kindergarten so late at night! Ridiculous! Wen, you’re already grown and still messing around with the kids? Do you realize how worried everyone was when we couldn’t find you?”

Since I was an outsider and they didn’t want to scold the other kids, Wen’s uncle took all his anger out on Wen.

Xiao Chao was still unconscious. Wen’s uncle carried him to the clinic, Wen and I following behind, while the other children went home with their parents.

Luckily, the clinic was still open. The doctor checked him thoroughly; apart from a slightly elevated temperature, nothing else seemed wrong. He advised taking him home for now, but to go straight to the hospital if anything changed.

Wen’s uncle scolded Wen again.

Back home, Wen’s uncle and aunt stayed up, taking turns watching over Xiao Chao, terrified that something else might happen. Fortunately, aside from the sudden fainting, nothing else was wrong. His breathing was steady—he looked simply asleep.

Wen and I shared a guest room, two beds side by side.

Lying in bed, I thought to myself, another day over. Tomorrow was the Mid-Autumn Festival—the day my grandfather always warned me not to go out.

I drifted off, half-asleep, half-awake, when I seemed to hear a voice:

“One stroke for blessings and long life, two strokes for freedom from sorrow. Three strokes for fidelity, four strokes for sworn friendship…”