The Mystery of the Red Gourd

  Zhou Chun and Yan’er stepped into the House of Flavors tavern when Zhou’s gaze suddenly locked onto an object hanging behind the counter—a red lacquered wine gourd, its faint aroma teasing the air like a tipsy ghost haunting the room.

  His pupils narrowed. This is the same gourd carried by that disheveled Daoist we met at the foot of Mount Emei! Yet scanning the room, the man was nowhere in sight—unless he’d turned invisible after one too many drinks.

  “Master, could it be a coincidence?” Yan’er whispered, eyeing the gourd as if it might sprout legs and run.

  Zhou Chun ignored him and beckoned the waiter with the urgency of a man who’d just spotted free dumplings. “Where did you get that gourd? It looks… handy.”

  The waiter grinned like a fox who’d found the henhouse key. “Ah, sir, that’s not ours! Five days ago, a shabby Daoist stumbled in—looked like he’d wrestled a mud demon, but boy, could he drink! Ten pounds of liquor a day! He’d pass out, wake up, and start guzzling again. Odd duck, that one. This morning, he claimed he ‘forgot his purse’—classic move—and pawned the gourd, saying someone would come to settle his tab within two hours. Guess you’re his fairy godmother?”

  Zhou Chun listened, gears turning louder than a rusty millwheel. “How much does he owe? We’ll cover it.”

  The waiter hesitated, eyeing Zhou like he’d just offered to adopt a rabid raccoon. “Er… the Daoist’s a regular. We don’t mind tabs…”

  Yan’er opened his mouth—likely to ask why they were funding a stranger’s bender—but Zhou silenced him with a glance sharp enough to slice tofu.

  “No need for suspicion,” Zhou said coolly. “The Daoist is an old friend. We’ll pay his debt. Keep the gourd safe until he returns—don’t let anyone else take it. Unless they’re also carrying ten pounds of liquor in their veins.”

  The waiter, realizing his blunder, awkwardly accepted the silver, probably mentally spending it on a nicer hat.

  Once outside, Yan’er burst out, “Master, that Daoist—”

  “Hush! Move!” Zhou quickened his pace, as if the ground might swallow them for meddling in a drunkard’s tab. Something told him that grubby alcoholic was the human equivalent of a sleeping tiger—best not poked.

  Secrets in the Cotton Robe

  At Yan’er’s humble cottage, Zhao Granny waited by the door like a sentinel owl. Yan’er rushed into her arms, while Zhou stared at a bundle on the table—a familiar cotton robe lay atop it, looking smugger than a cat who’d stolen the last fish.

  “Master, isn’t that the robe you gave the Daoist?!” Yan’er exclaimed, as if the garment had personally betrayed them.

  Zhao Granny trembled like a leaf in a typhoon. “A Daoist came earlier. He said Master Zhou ‘might need lighter pockets on the road’ and returned this. I didn’t believe him, but the robe’s stitching is mine—unless moths learned embroidery! He claimed you’d arrive soon… and here you are!”

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  Zhou unwrapped the bundle—300 taels of silver glittered inside, along with a note scrawled in handwriting that could double as abstract art: “From the Drunken Daoist: For the Virtuous Widow and Filial Son.”

  “It was him!” Zhou slapped his thigh hard enough to startle a passing sparrow. “I gave him my robe at Mount Emei, and he repaid us tenfold! To travel 200 li in hours? His skills dwarf ours! That man could outrun a rumor!”

  Zhao Granny muttered prayers loud enough to be heard in the next province as Zhou broached his plan: “Yan’er has talent. I wish to take him as my disciple.”

  Tearfully, the old woman agreed. “Without you, we’d have starved—or died of boredom listening to Tutor Ma’s poetry. Let him learn from a true master!”

  After settling affairs with Tutor Ma Xiang—who probably wept into his inkstone at losing his star pupil—Zhou returned to the tavern the next day, hoping to meet the enigmatic Daoist. But both man and gourd had vanished faster than a bureaucrat’s integrity.

  The waiter shrugged. “He rushed in yesterday, grabbed his gourd like it owed him money, and bolted. Told us to say he’ll see you in Chengdu. Poof—gone before I blinked! You’d think he had a hot date with a wine barrel.”

  Disappointed but undeterred—much like a man who’d lost his umbrella but kept walking in the rain—Zhou and Yan’er set off for the capital.

  Peril on the Mountain Pass

  Days later, at a fork in the road, Zhou hesitated. The main route was safe but long; the shortcut through Yunling Mountain saved 200 li… but rumors spoke of beasts that made tigers look like kittens.

  “We take the shortcut!” Zhou decided, because apparently living dangerously was this month’s theme.

  As they trekked through ancient forests where sunlight feared to tread, Yan’er gulped water from a stream while Zhou studied the sky like a man expecting divine intervention. A crane’s cry echoed—the third time since leaving Mount Emei. Zhou was starting to think the bird had a crush on him.

  “Master, look!” Yan’er pointed at a boulder, his voice squeakier than a rusty hinge.

  An eight-foot-tall white crane stood regally, crimson-crowned and golden-eyed, looking like it had just walked out of a mythological painting. Suddenly, a seven-foot green serpent shot from the rocks—a creature so sneaky it probably paid rent in stealth.

  The crane struck like lightning, but the snake slithered into a crevice, hissing insults in reptile language. The bird’s beak sparked against stone, shattering the boulder into gravel faster than a toddler destroys a sandcastle. Forced into the open, the snake lunged—only to have its head severed mid-air. With a flap that sent leaves fleeing in terror, the crane scattered the carcass and swallowed it whole, as casually as a nobleman sipping tea.

  “That crane’s a demon!” Yan’er gaped, possibly reconsidering his life choices.

  Zhou dragged him away. “We need shelter before dark—preferably somewhere without immortal poultry!”

  A Haunted Night

  At dusk, they found a dilapidated house that screamed “haunted” in three languages. Zhou knocked, half-expecting a ghost to bill the door.

  A weak voice groaned, “Leave… this place kills!”

  “We seek shelter—”

  “I’m poisoned! Get away!” The man wheezed like a broken accordion. “Head southwest… Find White Cloud Master’s hut. She might save you! Or at least serve better tea!”

  Silence followed. Curiosity outweighing survival instincts—classic Zhou Chun—he vaulted the wall like a man who’d missed his calling as a circus acrobat.

  Moonlight revealed a man sprawled on a vine bed, his arm marked by seven crimson moles arranged like a cursed constellation. “Why won’t you listen? I’m cursed! Bring food… then flee! Unless you fancy becoming snake chow!”

  Zhou tossed him provisions—then froze. The air thickened with dread.

  Yan’er was gone.

  “Yan’er! YAN’ER!” His shouts echoed through the valley, unanswered except by the mocking chirp of crickets.