Chapter 20: That Scientific Expedition at Qingshi Lake

I spent almost the entire afternoon in the study, poring over documents well into midnight. The longer I read, the more awake I became, not a hint of drowsiness in my mind. It was as if I’d fallen into a trance, flipping obsessively through every record and file.

When the clock struck twelve, the resonant chimes from the old wall clock in the living room rang out, clear and distinct in the silence of night. I looked up, set aside the document in my hands, and began to massage my temples.

Thinking back on all I’d read, I found myself deeply shaken. After all, my father hadn’t gone straight to work at the lumber mill after leaving the mountain—he’d joined a scientific expedition team. Because of my mother, he’d once been involved as an auxiliary member—not officially on the team, more like a porter or a handyman. But I never believed he did it merely to make ends meet; with his extraordinary knife skills, he could always find a way to feed himself. There had to be another reason. Most likely, he used the resources and status of the expedition to further his research.

Moreover, I noticed that whenever my father appeared as an auxiliary member on the team’s roster, the project inevitably had something to do with the ancient Li Kingdom. He joined four expeditions in total, all linked to the Li Kingdom. Only after these did he go to work at the lumber mill. The rest of his notes seemed to be the result of his own explorations—one might call it tomb raiding, though not for profit.

After the last expedition—which my father also attended—my mother left the team soon after. It seemed these studies hadn’t achieved much. Otherwise, my father would not have died so suddenly. What I was learning now only deepened my understanding, but did not resolve the curse afflicting me and my kin.

Now I fully understood: the so-called curse was, in essence, a kind of gu poison. This gu was extraordinarily rare, barely mentioned in history, and transmitted through blood. It was passed down generation after generation, ensuring its continuity as long as the family line endured. What’s more, this poison resonated with its “mother gu” or nest—if its host ventured too far away, the curse would activate, causing unnatural death.

My father spent decades researching it without success. Though he amassed a wealth of literature, archives, and field notes, it seemed all he gained was knowledge, not a solution. Killing the mother gu was apparently futile. Both in my father’s notes and in Zhang Zhengming’s words, I found that many predecessors had slain the mother gu, but it always reemerged. Even when it appeared to be utterly destroyed, the curse persisted. I even went so far as to destroy the stone coffin, so it couldn’t have been a fake—how had it restored itself? This, I could not fathom. Never one for superstition, I began to wonder if I’d imagined it all, but it felt far too real for that. I quickly dismissed the thought.

A wave of fatigue abruptly washed over me. My eyelids grew heavy. I closed the file, turned out the light, and went to bed, sleeping straight through to daylight. The next morning, after a simple meal of instant noodles, I buried myself in the study again for another full day. So it went for three days—rarely sleeping more than a few hours a night. By the third day, I faced the mirror, dark circles under my eyes, and considered all I’d uncovered. The harvest was substantial.

I dressed and went downstairs to a small restaurant, ordered a few dishes, and ate alone. Next, I planned to visit the Institute of Archaeology. According to my mother’s notes, a professor there—her senior from university—had helped my parents greatly and might know about missing pieces in the archives. I wanted to ask him, hoping he could offer some guidance. The decision was made: with less than a year left to live, I would gamble everything. No matter what, I refused to wait quietly for death.

Back home, I gathered my things. My mother had left me many possessions, including their savings. Leafing through the passbooks, I saw the amount was considerable. Despite their years of research, my father’s skill as a woodcarver had brought the family substantial wealth. Staring at the balance, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself—what use was money, when I had so little time left? Perhaps I’d bequeath it all to the tomb-guarding clan. There was much to do in this final year, and I’d need the funds. I slipped the passbook into my pocket.

I hailed a cab and headed straight to the archaeology department at Peking University. It was the weekend, so the place was nearly deserted. The guard saw my student attire and let me through without question. Inquiring along the way, I eventually found the deputy director’s office. His name was Wang Bowen, my mother’s old classmate. Her notes said he’d helped my parents for many years, always searching for a solution, but ultimately failed.

I knocked. I’d already asked about him—he was supposed to be in, drafting documents for an upcoming dig.

“Who is it? Come in...” came a warm, approachable voice.

I opened the door softly and met Wang Bowen—a man in his fifties, with black-rimmed glasses and graying hair, but looking energetic and competent, especially his eyes, which seemed unable to conceal any secrets.

“Hello, Uncle Wang,” I greeted him.

“And you are...?”

“My name is Gao Ziyun. My mother is...”

Before I could finish, he exclaimed, “Oh, I know! You’re Xiaohong’s child. Goodness, where have you been? I was looking for you recently! My memory isn’t what it used to be—I saw you several times when you were little, but after your mother transferred to the Culture Bureau, I hardly saw you. A few months ago, I was away on research and just got back, but I couldn’t reach you...”

He invited me to sit, poured me a glass of water, and began talking at length. I listened with a smile, occasionally replying, until he paused to drink, then asked, “So, what brings you here today?”

I hesitated, unsure where to begin. Sensing my uncertainty, Wang Bowen smiled, patted my shoulder, and sighed. “There’s no need to be guarded with me. I know about many things. We tried our best back then, but...what’s the use of mentioning it now?”

Before I could respond, his expression changed. He reached for my wrist. I knew he meant no harm, so I did not resist. He turned my hand over, examined my palm, and his face darkened, his eyes wide with concern.

“You...you...how could this be? I should have realized sooner. No wonder your parents were so desperate.”

He went on to explain that when my father first sought a solution to the gu poison, he found it impossible and gave up for a while. Only after discovering that I too was afflicted did he resume his frantic search. At that time, my parents sought Wang Bowen’s help. Perceptive as he was, he soon guessed the truth—making him the only outsider, apart from the tomb-guarding clan, to know. Wang Bowen had always tried to help, but after my parents died, he thought it was over. He had looked for me, intending to take care of me in their stead, but at the time I was with the tomb-guardians and he couldn’t reach me.

Now, having learned everything, he slumped onto the sofa, sighing, “Such is fate. You poor child... really...”

He sighed for a long time. I didn’t know how to comfort him—I couldn’t exactly say, “Uncle Wang, I’m not afraid of dying.” After a while, he said, “Don’t worry. Even if it costs me my life, I’ll help you find a solution. Medicine keeps advancing—perhaps there’s hope yet. I failed your parents, and that’s my greatest regret. Now, I will do everything I can for you. Your mother... how could she bear to leave you alone?”

Suddenly remembering my purpose in coming, I asked, “Uncle Wang, do you know about the 1979 expedition to Qingshi Lake?”

He looked at me in surprise and asked how I’d heard of it. I hesitated, but with him I felt a natural trust, and he already knew so much. I told him everything.

“That expedition was truly bizarre,” he said at last. “The authorities forbade any mention of it, and the records were sealed. If you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have wanted to recall it at all.”