I asked what the promise was, and Grandpa looked grave. "You must get into university, or I'll have failed your late parents." I burst into tears, and Grandpa wiped his own eyes before telling me a story from his days in Shenyang.
He said northeast China was once a paradise, free from disasters and thriving. At sixteen, the average income there was $315—nearly equal to Shenyang's minimum wage in 2013.
(For those interested in this history, search online for China's glory during that era.)
Unable to speak after biting off his tongue, Old Man Zhang resumed his feng shui work, with Grandpa—who'd attended a few years of private school—serving as his interpreter. Together, they traveled to dispel curses, select tomb sites, and treat ailments.
One summer when Grandpa was sixteen, Old Man Zhang had appendicitis surgery. While he recuperated, a landlord arrived, desperate to have his ancestral tomb site selected. He offered to carry Old Man Zhang in an eight-carrier sedan and paid in stacks of "horse " (10,000-yuan banknotes).
Despite rising inflation, the money was tempting. Old Man Zhang agreed, but three minutes after arriving at the north bank of the Hun River, he began babbling to go home.
Grandpa, too young to understand, watched the landlord plead and even offer ingots of "horse hoof gold"—enough to buy a mansion in Fengtian with servants. But Old Man Zhang rolled out of the sedan, wailing to leave.
Grandpa had no choice but to take him home. However, blinded by greed, he later sneaked back to the landlord without Old Man Zhang.
After agreeing on a price, Grandpa returned to the Hun River with a compass and selected a site as requested. The moment he marked the dragon eye, migratory geese circling overhead landed on the river. They dipped their heads into the water as if bowing. Then, as the geese rose, they formed a (king) character in the sky. Simultaneously, the sunny sky darkened, flowers bloomed around the site, and carp leaped from the river—what Grandpa called "geese kowtowing, carp worshiping the tomb."
Just as he thought he'd chosen correctly and accepted the gold ingots, Old Man Zhang arrived, clutching his stomach, roaring in anger and weeping uncontrollably.
Realizing he'd messed up, Grandpa wrote a note asking why. The landlord, now in possession of the treasure site, tried to drive them away. In a frenzy, Old Man Zhang ran to the dragon eye, pulled out a knife, and stabbed himself in the chest.
I was stunned. "Why?" I demanded. Grandpa sighed, taking a long drag. "It was my greed. That site was the Qing dynasty's dragon nest! I killed Old Man Zhang."
By the time Grandpa reached him, it was too late. As Old Man Zhang's blood seeped into the dragon eye, Grandpa found a bead stained red in the soil—why the Hun River is called the "Pearl of Northern Hun."
I later learned that a "dragon nest" is where a dragon vein rests before maturing. When the northeast dragon vein was about to leave, Nurhaci nailed it down, giving birth to Fengtian City.
The landlord, enraged, beat Grandpa. When he saw the bead, he grew greedy—but the "night pearl" was a coiled white snake. It bit the landlord and vanished into the river.
Believe it or not, Grandpa said northeast China's decline began when the snake left the nest.
Feeling he owed Old Man Zhang his life, Grandpa changed our surname to Zhang. Later, he found Old Man Zhang's will, revealing that he'd predicted one of them would die for leaking too much heavenly secret—and that the humble steamed bun my great-grandfather gave had inspired him to protect the last male of the Li family with his life.
I felt a deep melancholy, admiring Old Man Zhang's sacrifice.
Grandpa blamed his own karma from leaking heavenly secrets. Though he changed our surname, retribution came—my parents died near New World Garden.
The next day, we never mentioned Mr. Liu. Grandpa began teaching me systematically, and to repay him, I studied relentlessly, ranking top three in my grade every year.
But as the college entrance exam approached, a dilemma arose...