Chapter Forty: The Peddler’s Shoulder Pole

At this point, Gao Gou’er sighed and said, “That’s how I ended up becoming a water ghost, muddleheaded and trapped here ever since.”

“If you want to find the Wanjia Gate, I can tell you how to get there.”

Hearing this, I nodded, broke off half of the roast chicken, and tossed it to him. While Gao Gou’er devoured his share, inhaling its aroma with greedy gulps, I made sure the other half ended up in my own stomach. Hu Sanqi’s roast chicken was too good to let it all go to a wild ghost like him.

Satisfied, I wiped my mouth and said to Gao Gou’er, “Now that you’re full, lead the way!”

Gao Gou’er stood up and instructed, “If you want to reach the Wanjia Gate, you have to skirt around the edge of the marsh, loop around to the other side. There you’ll find the slope where I fell all those years ago. Just follow it and you’ll see the Wanjia Gate.”

He turned and continued, “This path is slick; follow me closely.”

I gathered my things, slung the peddler’s pole across my shoulders, and followed Gao Gou’er into the tall grass.

After a few steps, Gao Gou’er turned back and extended his hand to me. “The slope ahead is steep. Let me give you a hand.”

“Oh!” I replied. But as he reached out, I suddenly drew my bayonet and brought it down on his hand.

Gao Gou’er never expected me to strike so suddenly. Before he could even pull back, my blade had already severed half his hand.

As he let out a wail of pain, I swung the shoulder pole from my back, tossing the box onto the ground. With the weight of the other box, the pole whistled through the air, striking straight at Gao Gou’er’s head.

Whether a shoulder pole can harm ghosts is a matter of folklore. In some regions, it’s just a handy tool, useful in a brawl but not particularly significant otherwise. In others, however, when someone dies, a broom and a shoulder pole are placed by the spirit tent— the broom to sweep away evil, the pole to strike wicked spirits.

A shoulder pole near the coffin keeps malevolent ghosts at bay, preventing them from seizing offerings, and can even stop the corpse from rising. Still, such beliefs are not widely known.

Why is a shoulder pole thought to ward off ghosts? There are two main folk explanations. One holds that an old pole, having rested on human shoulders for many years, is saturated with yang energy, which terrifies spirits. The other claims that, in ancient times, the god Erlang fashioned a shoulder pole from an old poplar tree, hoisted a mountain on it, and chased the sun, pressing it down with the mountain. This legend is dramatized in the play “Erlang Hoists the Mountain” or “Hoisting the Mountain to Chase the Sun,” and ever since, old poplar poles are believed to have the power to repel evil.

When I picked up the peddler’s pole earlier, I noticed immediately that it was made from old poplar, its surface gleaming with the sheen of long use—Hu Sanqi clearly intended it as a protective charm for me. That’s why I didn’t hesitate to swing it at Gao Gou’er.

Having lost one hand, he was too distracted by pain to notice the pole descending toward his head. The blow landed squarely on his forehead, splitting his skull into four pieces. His body instantly dissolved into a flicker of ghostly phosphorescence.

I used the pole to part the grass where Gao Gou’er had been standing. As expected, the ground was nothing but mud. If I had stepped onto that mess, I would have slipped straight into the marsh, only to become Gao Gou’er’s substitute in death.

A true vengeful ghost has no conscience. When the chance comes to seize a scapegoat, it never hesitates. The only reason Gao Gou’er hadn’t made a move on me earlier was either the bayonet in my hand or the shoulder pole on my back.

He thought he had me fooled and that I would let down my guard, but in truth, I was alert the whole time.

Hu Sanqi had warned me: the tricks of ghosts and monsters are more deceitful than you can imagine. Be wary of people, and even more so of spirits, or you’ll regret it when it’s too late. As for mistakenly harming a good person? Don’t let that worry you. When people long to see ghosts, their feelings are one part longing, three parts caution. When ghosts seek people, it’s three parts danger. They won’t come to you for no reason—especially not ghosts outside your closest kin. If one does come for you, why shouldn’t you act?

I trust what Hu Sanqi taught me. So when I struck, I held nothing back. After smashing Gao Gou’er with the shoulder pole, I hoisted the peddler’s load again, carefully picking my way along the edge of the marsh. Only after skirting halfway around did I start up the slope.

Just as I spotted the path Gao Gou’er had described, I heard splashing behind me. Turning, I saw two heads, pale as paper effigies, rising from the water.

The next moment, those heads rose higher, revealing figures clad in red and blue—costumes unmistakably belonging to paper effigies. Yet their features moved and smiled like those of living people, their shrill laughter churning up waves that surged toward the shore.

I had no time to wonder how two paper figures could have survived so long submerged without dissolving. One look was enough to send me fleeing up the slope for dear life.

Soon, the sound of hooves and rattling wheels echoed behind me. Glancing back, I saw a flat cart burst from the water, drawn by a horse just as Gao Gou’er had described—its eyes sewn shut with thick twine. Atop a coffin on the cart sat the two paper figures, a man and a woman, each clutching a rein and driving the cart straight toward me.

With the hoofbeats closing in, I turned and planted the peddler’s pole squarely across the path, facing it as I backed away step by step.

If that ghostly cart didn’t slow, it would crash straight into the old poplar pole. Whether it could withstand the force of the ghost cart, I had no idea. This was a gamble with my life at stake.

As a child, I’d always been curious about a peddler’s pole, with its two little cubby-like boxes. I once tried to open one, but the old peddler told me, “If you want something, tell me—but you can’t open my box. If the pole loses its connection to people, it can’t keep out evil things.”

I’d accused him of lying, but he insisted, “Once, a great scholar wrote a poem for the peddler’s pole: ‘Don’t say the burden is hard to bear—heaven and earth rest across these shoulders.’ Don’t be fooled by its size; it carries the daily needs of ordinary folk, and that’s powerful luck! When I sleep in the wilderness, I place one box at my head, one at my feet, and nothing—wolves, tigers, monsters, or ghosts—dares to come near.”

I never forgot his words. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have dared this desperate gamble.