Postscript to the Mystery of the Wooden Cabin

Through this case, I have briefly introduced the customs, anecdotes, and local color of my hometown. Yet, as the story unfolds amid fictional storms of blood and violence, I cannot help but feel it is somewhat cruel—perhaps excessively so. But is it not true? Life itself seems to bear this harshness; is there truly such a thing as peaceful, untroubled days? Fortunately, we do not forget our longing for home because of its scandals or misfortunes, nor do we abandon loved ones and old friends for their many faults. More often, we simply grow accustomed to these things, finding them commonplace and unremarkable.

But it is precisely this indifference that breeds tragedy among us, the very people living it. When society changes little, the rustic simplicity of rural life, masked by its slow pace, conceals certain issues, making them hard to detect. Yet, when social upheaval comes, these deeply hidden conflicts erupt in unexpected, shadowy corners, suddenly and violently, catching everyone off guard and often ending in disaster.

Such cases are all too common.

For us, those who have wandered far from home, what stirs and tugs at our hearts are more often dreams: that the young have support, the old are cared for, poverty is escaped, and justice and fairness never absent.

But how difficult that is!

Many so-called city dwellers, when speaking of their hometowns, inevitably taste a medley of emotions—sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, and salty—all present and accounted for.

We do not wish to abandon our roots, yet we cannot truly draw close to them. To return home for the holidays is already a luxury; families who move to the city and bear their burdens together are not rare. Thus, a village like Riverside, where everyone remains, is itself a fantasy. Since this is a novel, I might as well disregard the passage of time, set it seven or eight years in the past, and everything becomes reasonable: the village still bustling, the fields lively, the old customs vibrant…

During the writing of this novel, an unexpected burglary at my family home gave me the "privilege" of returning to my old village. I thought I might alter some details in the story, but found that what I saw and thought differed little from what was already written. I let it be… Perhaps the first draft is the most honest and direct portrayal; best not to embellish needlessly.

Many will be curious about the progress of the burglary at my home. I fear I must disappoint: some matters are beyond even the reach of Beiting. There is no surveillance in the countryside; the guardians are elderly, deaf and dim-eyed, and with dog-keeping prohibited in recent years, thieves come and go as if in an uninhabited realm, seeming even more skilled than the legendary Chu Liuxiang or Sikong Picking Stars—one feels utterly powerless.

Moreover, out of compassion, my relatives repaired the hole in the wall, cleaned the house, and tidied the scattered belongings before I returned, erasing all traces; there was nothing left to see, no clues to follow, leaving the intruders free of consequence.

After much effort, all we obtained was a compensation of one thousand yuan from the insurance, with the humiliating requirement to sign a declaration: should the police recover the lost funds, I would willingly return all the compensation.

Laughable and pitiable!

Let us hope that good and evil will eventually be repaid—not that it will not be, but simply that the time has not yet come... Ironically, Beiting never believed in such things!

Returning to the main subject—

The Fishgut Sword in the story is a fabrication, though I did consult both official and unofficial histories; to say it is in the Li family should not be taken seriously. Where this ancient divine weapon truly rests is still unknown, so I boldly speculate that it is hidden in the Li ancestral shrine—a kind of inspired guess, and at least no one can claim I am wrong.

Let us all accept the convenient fiction!

Illegal harvesting of yew trees is widespread; wherever wild specimens exist in the south, few escape their fate. So do not doubt the reality of this, but also do not exaggerate the significance of the yew itself—it is merely endangered. Note that as long as there is no trade, it is not illegal; for example, you may safely burn dead wood for warmth…

Thus, the yew is not the central theme of this book. So what is its true intent?

In fact, this mystery of the wooden house is meant to speak of that invisible, insidious "evil wind and crooked currents" that kill without leaving a trace. Every few years, the countryside is invaded by such harmful trends. The worst of these rumors lies in their ambiguity: for instance, claims that yew cures cancer (perhaps true, but now distorted by hearsay), golden thread lotus sells for tens of thousands per kilo, antiques abound everywhere, pangolin scales nourish the blood, lottery results can be divined from daily meals—all more absurd than the last, yet countless blindly follow. The result: desperate people destroy their limited resources in a frenzy, killing the goose that lays the golden egg and sinking further into poverty.

One could say that in the countryside, every day is a stage for manipulation and rumor.

Of course, this is a phenomenon of the past decade or so: restless hearts, rumors rampant, traditional customs all but destroyed.

Once, the prospect of returning home filled me with excitement day and night, and I threw myself fearlessly into the tide of spring migration. But now, upon returning, I find everything changed; the authentic things have been discarded, nothing left to squander, replaced by talk of money and ambitions of moving to the city.

So now, each homecoming is inexplicably filled with deep disappointment and melancholy.

The state has worked hard in recent years to revive traditional customs, but progress is slow, and urbanization is an unstoppable force—a fact, but perhaps the real culprit is the damaged root of our attachment to home. Restoring tradition requires rebuilding simple feelings, yet for the sake of money, few value them anymore.

Many say poverty is to blame.

Is that truly so?

I still remember the wild flavors sizzling in the oil pan, the roasted sweet potatoes in the bonfire, the crisp, freshly boiled peanuts, the steaming bundles of green soybeans—though life was hard, it was always full of savor, and our spirits were happy and fulfilled. Can we blame poverty? Are we poorer now than before?

Certainly not.

What we have lost is our original intention; what has grown is an insatiable desire.

No one wishes to return to the hardship of the past, so many believe that sacrificing their spirit is worthwhile, even limitless. Yet before the sweetness is fully tasted, its bitter consequences have already begun to appear.

Some would rather dig through the earth in pursuit of pleasure, and only worry about having nowhere to stand when the time comes. May those with insight face this issue of their own accord.

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A vision remains a vision; words are futile!

By the seventh volume, I believe I have exhaustively addressed everything that needed saying.

I do not know if anything was omitted.

Let it be as it is, for now.

Good night, everyone!

Author: Plainclothes Magistrate

September 2, 2018