Volume 1, Chapter 9: The Mountain Hunter

Logging is a year-round occupation. Typically, in the spring, once the river ice melts, the workers at the logging camps transport the wood harvested throughout the year to the riverbanks. There, they lash the logs into rafts, which are sent downstream to places like Harbin and Mudanjiang.

The shelters built along these riverbanks are known as "water camps."

The Northeast is cold, and the Greater Khingan Mountains are colder still. Setting aside the way heavy snow seals off the mountains, the mere lack of supplies and medical care meant that a simple cold could cost a man his life. Therefore, those who survived the logging camps were men among men, tough as nails. As the saying went: "Enter the logging camp, and even if you don't die, you'll lose a layer of skin."

Entering the logging camp was a death-defying gamble, yet in the late Qing Dynasty, it was also considered a way to make quick money. Back then, peasants toiling in the fields all year round could barely afford a full meal, so many men chose to head into the mountains.

Many swore before entering the mountains that if they survived and made their money, they wouldn't return even if they were ghosts. But the world outside held too many temptations. The logging began in September, and by March or April, when the ice melted, the rafting began. They would arrive in Harbin around June or July. As the rafts drifted downstream, they passed through many villages and towns—not to mention the taverns and restaurants, there were also gambling dens.

Even if a man had the willpower to avoid the gambling houses, he couldn't escape the women along the riverbanks. As soon as a raft appeared, women would call out, "Master, the kang is heated, the wine is warm, and the meal is ready. Come up for a bath, let a girl loosen those stiff muscles of yours..."

How many men, stifled by months in the mountains, could resist such temptation?

Don't think it was just simple prostitution—selling one's flesh didn't earn much. The real trap was what followed: once the men were satisfied, they were offered opium. Once hooked on that, never mind their pockets—they would sell their wives and children just to get enough money for another hit.

One could say that the riverbanks where the rafts passed were blood-soaked pits where people were skinned and geese were plucked—hellish dens that devoured men without spitting out the bones.

By the time they reached Harbin, the loggers not only had no money left but often owed the foreman a debt. There was no choice but to head back into the mountains. For the next few years, this cycle would repeat.

Why only a few years?

Because even the strongest man could not withstand the harsh environment of the mountains—the waist-deep snow and the biting, pervasive wind. Within a few years, a man would suffer from chronic aches in his arms and legs; some couldn't even climb off the kang.

If a man could no longer work, he was useless to the camp. Thus, the final destination for these people was either to die in the logging camp or on the way down the mountain—whether from freezing, starvation, or illness. If their luck was even worse, they might be eaten by a bear or a mountain predator.

Consequently, the mass graves near the logging camps were layers of bones upon bones. They were the premier spots for hunting "ghost ginseng."

However, the logging camps were also profoundly sinister places. Because so many had died there, each harboring deep resentment—especially those who died far from home with no one to perform rites for them—they were pure, vengeful spirits.

Although Master Ma had some skills, even a good tiger cannot hold off a pack of wolves, let alone a little old man and a raw kid.

Two days later, we stumbled upon a logging camp.

This camp consisted of two rows of houses, about ten units each, surrounded by a fence made of wooden stakes. In the center stood a ten-meter-high watchtower. Judging by the decay of the wood, it hadn't been inhabited for at least a hundred years; the logs, as thick as a man's waist, had turned to mush and crumbled at the slightest touch.

Master Ma took one look and ordered me to search for burial mounds.

I dared not act alone and stuck to the Daoist like a shadow.

In truth, there were no mounds to find. After a hundred years, any grave would have leveled out. To be blunt, while the wooden stakes could keep out tigers and leopards, the mass graves had no such protection, and many corpses were dug up and scavenged by wild beasts as soon as they were buried.

I don't know if there were ever headstones, but now, not a trace remained. Or perhaps the markers were merely wooden boards, which had long since rotted away. So, Master Ma and I could only circle the camp, searching.

"Who are you?" an old, gravelly voice echoed from nearby.

I let out a yelp and clung to Master Ma.

Master Ma was startled too. We followed the sound and saw two black holes—a double-barreled shotgun.

Behind the gun stood a stern-looking old man with hair like frost-covered withered grass in winter. As his long, thin strands danced in the wind, his face was partially obscured, but a long, black scar stretching from the corner of his eye to his chin was impossible to hide. He wore a sleeveless sheepskin coat, fur breeches, and deerskin boots.

Master Ma took the initiative and asked, "And who might you be?"

The old man held the gun with both hands and took a step forward. "Get out of here."

Master Ma chuckled. "Who are you? A forest ranger?"

"Enough talk. Leave now, or my bullets won't show any mercy."

I was terrified. Back then, a shotgun didn't fire a single bullet; it was loaded with iron pellets. One blast might not kill you outright, but it would leave you with a thousand tiny holes.

Master Ma suddenly cupped his hands in a salute. "Pardon the intrusion. I am... [a self-introduction longer than my own life]. We have come into the mountains to find ghost ginseng to save a life. May the heavens and earth bear witness; if I speak a word of falsehood, let the lightning strike me down right here."

The old man looked skeptical. Master Ma gestured toward me. "Brother, tell me, what kind of scoundrel would bring a child up into these mountains, eh?"

The old man looked at me, and his expression softened. He lowered the shotgun and immediately put on a smile. "Look at this mess. I thought you were here to steal treasures. Come, come, come inside, have some broth."

I let out a long sigh of relief. I never expected the "house" the old man spoke of to be the logging camp itself—the one that had been abandoned for a century.

In my eyes, this camp was a haunted house. The courtyard was choked with weeds, and fat wood ears and mushrooms grew from the ancient, rotting tree roots.

Among the many buildings, only one showed signs of life; hanging by the door were clusters of orange corn cobs and bright red dried chili peppers.

The jarring part, however, was the two white lanterns hanging from the roof. They were made of white paper, full of holes and tears, and under the faded ink, one could barely make out a large character for "Funeral."

These were the white lanterns used only for holding wakes or leading funeral processions for the dead.

Seeing this, my stomach turned to knots.

I gave Master Ma a look, signaling that the place was unclean. I could tell he understood, but instead of responding, he followed the old hunter into the wooden house with a cheerful demeanor.

The cabin was small but well-equipped. There was a heated brick bed (kang) covered in a quilt made of stitched sheepskins, and next to it, a vintage stove with hot water boiling on top.

Hanging on the inside of the wooden door was a tiger's head. It had been dried out, and aside from the eyes being two hollow black pits, it lost none of the mountain king's ferocity. Especially the teeth and whiskers—standing before that tiger head was enough to chill any man's heart.