The boys chatted all the way until their boat reached a wider stretch of the river.
Panzi went to help Grandpa with the bamboo pole, Li Weihan began checking fishing spots while untangling the net, and Leizi set up his fishing rod.
Li Zhuiyuan hadn’t been assigned a task. He sat quietly with his small bamboo basket on his back, sometimes watching his grandfather and older cousins at work, other times gazing at the water plants and frogs leaping across the surface.
After a while, he leaned forward, a puzzled look on his face.
Li Weihan had been keeping an eye on this “grandson.” Seeing him move like that, he quickly warned, “Xiaoyuanhou, sit a little farther in. Don’t fall overboard!”
Li Zhuiyuan pointed at the river ahead. “Grandpa, Brother, there’s a patch of black weeds over there.”
“Where?” Leizi followed the direction of Zhuiyuan’s finger. “Huh, there really is something... black.”
“Where? Let me see.” Panzi was at the stern, helping with the pole and couldn’t see clearly. He adjusted their direction, nudging the boat toward that spot.
Li Weihan didn’t think much of it at first. He was busy loosening a knot in the fishing net. But when he heard Zhuiyuan and Leizi still chattering about it, he finally looked up—and in that instant, his expression froze.
That patch of black—fine yet spreading, loose but not drifting apart—was no water plant. It was hair. Human hair.As Panzi kept steering the boat closer, the water beneath grew clearer. Shadows emerged—black patterns, white buttons, flowing curves...
Because Zhuiyuan was seated, it was Leizi, standing beside him, who first caught sight of what lay beneath the surface. He immediately shouted:
“Grandpa! It’s a person! Someone’s fallen in! Panzi, hurry, we need to rescue them!”
Tales of Water Monkeys no longer frightened these older boys. Their instinctive kindness led them to believe someone was drowning, and their first reaction was to help.
“Bullshit!”
Li Weihan roared. The usually kindly, if strict, grandfather erupted with uncharacteristic fury. The veins stood out on his weathered skin as he hurled the fishing net onto the boat and rushed toward the stern, shouting to Panzi:
“Turn around! Hand me the pole! Don’t go near it!”
They’d been in this part of the river for a while now. There had been no splash, no cry for help. The water was still, without a ripple. Whoever was in there—if it was even a person—was long dead.
And yet, even if it was a drowned corpse, wasn’t that just bad luck? Why was he reacting like this?
Because Li Weihan knew better. He knew they needed to get away—fast.
Here in Siyuan, where waterways wove through river and sea, drowning deaths weren’t rare. Every village—or nearby ones—had someone who handled the job of corpse retrieval.
It wasn’t usually their main trade, but the role was fixed. Not because it was profitable, but because it was taboo. Bad luck stuck to the work, and most wouldn’t touch it unless it was an inherited craft.
Siyuan Village had its own corpse retriever. His name was Li Sanjiang. According to family seniority, even Li Weihan had to call him uncle.
Li Sanjiang had no wife or children. He didn’t even bother farming the land allocated to him—he leased it out just to have enough to eat.
But he wasn’t living the life of a lazy vagabond. He made paper effigies for the dead and retrieved corpses from the water—both jobs paid well, far more than farming. So though he lived alone, his days were filled with wine and meat. He was doing just fine.
Back when Li Weihan was helping his four sons start families, he rented that land from Li Sanjiang. He owed the old man. So whenever a corpse had to be retrieved, Li Weihan would help out.
Sanjiang never let him touch the body or go on the boat. His job was to set up the offering table onshore and prepare the chicken blood and dog blood. But after enough outings, Li Weihan picked up a few things.
In the jargon of their trade, a floating corpse was called a dead sinker.
Usually, a person who drowned would float up after a few days as their body decomposed. Because of pelvic structure, male corpses floated face down, females face up.
Most dead sinkers followed this process. Li Sanjiang would retrieve them and carry them back to the family.
But once, over drinks, Sanjiang had solemnly mentioned two exceptions—cases he never dared touch.
The first: a dead sinker near a whirlpool. That meant hidden sinkholes, soft silt. One misstep, and both retriever and boat could be dragged under.
The second… was the kind that even hardened Li Sanjiang couldn’t face without trembling lips and a scalp gone cold—
A corpse standing upright underwater, with only the hair floating on the surface.
Such a one died with unbearable grievance. Their soul refused peace. They wanted someone to drown with them.
Li Weihan still remembered Sanjiang’s bloodshot eyes as he’d warned:
“Han Hou, listen to me. If you ever see one of those on the water—don’t think, don’t hesitate. Get out as fast as you can. If you wait, it’ll keep you.”
So when he saw that upright corpse, how could he not panic—especially with his three grandsons aboard?
Panzi clearly hadn’t caught on. Still curious, he wobbled as Grandpa snatched the pole from his hands. The pole slipped, stabbing into the mud, and the boat tilted sharply to the right.
For seasoned boaters, it wasn’t a big deal. Leizi, standing at the edge, instinctively crouched and grabbed the side to steady himself.
But Zhuiyuan, sitting and unused to the motion, was flung forward. His upper body lurched with the boat, and with a splash, he fell right into the water—on the same side as the corpse.
The river was clear, and with the afternoon sun high above, light pierced deep below.
Zhuiyuan flailed on instinct—then froze.
Just as Leizi had said, someone stood underwater.
And not just anyone.
It was Little Yellow Oriole.
She wore the same black qipao she had performed in, white embroidered buttons, slit up to the waist. On her feet were red high heels.
The water flowed gently, making her arms sway forward and back, her legs slowly rocking.
She looked as if she were walking underwater.
She swung her hips. She stretched her legs. She stood on tiptoe. She moved like she was dancing. Like she was singing.
Even beneath the surface, she performed the same coquettish act the village women both envied and despised.
“Though songs may fade through time and tide, they drift with me upon this road…”
A familiar, off-kilter Cantonese accent echoed in Zhuiyuan’s ears.
And with that song,
Little Yellow Oriole slowly turned.
Her long hair fanned upward like a black umbrella. Her makeup was even heavier than yesterday, her lips painted a more vivid red.
And then,
She smiled.
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