劍問蒼天 - 第6章 入門 - 翰墨軒

At that moment, the people inside the hall were talking, seemingly discussing something. The young Daoist who had led Zhang Qingyue and Lin Jinghong there straightened his robe outside the door and said respectfully, "Sect Master, Senior Brothers, this disciple, Chang Jian, has been ordered to bring these two young—"

Before he could finish, a shrill and mournful cry suddenly rang out within that sacred, solemn hall, cutting him off: "Ghosts, evil ghosts! Ghosts!"

Chang Jian was startled, but Zhang Qingyue and Lin Jinghong were even more shocked. Shrill and ugly as the voice was, it was only too familiar. Zhang Qingyue thought no more of propriety and rushed straight into the hall, shouting, "Uncle Wang Er, Uncle Wang Er, is that you?"

In his agitation, his voice carried a note of anxiety, a note of tears, and all who watched felt a pang at heart. Behind the crowd, in a corner by one wall of the hall, a middle-aged man dressed as a woodcutter had his arms clasped over his head, crouched tight in the corner, his whole body shaking, and from between his fingers came still the sound: "Ghosts, ghosts."

Zhang Qingyue and Lin Jinghong, who had followed him in, recognized him at once as a woodcutter of Liumiao Village, surnamed Wang, second among his brothers—a kindhearted fellow, always grinning, who had been very good to their band of children, and who, on his days gathering firewood in the hills, would bring back wild mountain fruit to share among them.

Without a second thought, Zhang Qingyue rushed over, ran to Uncle Wang Er's side, seized him hard by the shoulders, and cried, "Uncle Wang Er, what happened? Why are all the people in the village—all dead? And my mother, my father, what about them? Tell me!"

Hearing Zhang Qingyue's barrage of questions, Uncle Wang Er seemed stirred. He stopped for the moment his talk of "ghosts, ghosts," and slowly raised his head to look at the Zhang Qingyue before him.

A stir ran through the hall; everyone fell silent, and even among those seated in chairs several could not help rising to watch.

But Uncle Wang Er's eyes were bloodshot, filled with terror and confusion. He studied Zhang Qingyue for a long while, yet said not a word, his brows knit tight, as though straining to think of something.

At this, someone among the Canglan Sect could not help stepping forward to speak, but was quietly restrained by the person beside him.

Seeing that Uncle Wang Er made no response for a long time, only staring at him lifelessly, Zhang Qingyue grew frantic and cried, "Uncle Wang Er, what's wrong with you?"

To his surprise, at the loud shout Uncle Wang Er shuddered all over, terror flooding his face, and suddenly scrambled and rolled to one side, again clasping his arms over his head and curling into a ball, wailing without cease, "Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts!"

Sighs rose on every side in the hall; disappointment showed on the faces of the Canglan Sect, and those who had just risen slumped back into their seats. Zhang Qingyue would have pressed further, but Lin Jinghong seized him by the arm.

Zhang Qingyue turned, uncomprehending, and saw tears at the corners of Lin Jinghong's eyes. "It's no use," Lin Jinghong said bitterly. "He's gone mad."

A roar went off in Zhang Qingyue's head; he stood there stunned, unable to make a sound.

Lin Jinghong, a year older, was the more meticulous of mind. He glanced around the hall and saw that all present wore the garb of the Canglan Sect—men and women, ordained and lay alike. Most carried weapons, chiefly long swords. The six seated in chairs were especially distinguished in bearing, standing apart from the rest. Of these six, three were ordained and three lay; and the one seated at the center, in a dark green Daoist robe, with the grave, ethereal look of a crane among men and warm, bright eyes, was naturally none other than the renowned Sect Master of Canglan, the Perfected One Daoyan.