China's Daoist tradition spans thousands of years. Once filled with powerful masters and sacred knowledge, today it's mostly reduced to tourist attractions, its ancient wisdom fading into rural folklore.
There was once a Daoist priest whose life was as extraordinary as it was tragic. He saved many lives—including mine and my aunt's. This is the story of Zha Wenbin, the last true Daoist, whose legend began with a seemingly small incident that would change everything.
The surname "Zha" is rare. According to the Hundred Family Surnames, it ranks 397th in China. One branch descends from the Jiang clan, offspring of the legendary Yan Emperor. During the Spring and Autumn period, the son of Duke Qing received a fief called "Zha," and his descendants took it as their surname. Another branch comes from the Mi clan of Chu state, who also adopted the name from their ancestral lands.
In the mountains of western Zhejiang lies Hong Village, where my grandfather—known as "Xu the Master Carpenter"—made his living crafting coffins. Though skilled, his profession made finding a wife difficult. After many rejections, he eventually married a woman from a neighboring village. Without modern birth control, they had five children over ten years: three daughters and two sons. With expenses mounting, his wife underwent sterilization.
Ten years later, something impossible happened—my grandmother became pregnant again. My grandfather was torn between joy and confusion. Day by day, her belly grew until she delivered a daughter. At forty, he named this unexpected blessing Xiu—my aunt. The year was 1977.
To celebrate, he threw a grand feast when she turned one month old. During the celebration, a ragged Daoist carrying an Eight Trigrams bag wandered by. Curious villagers asked him to read the baby's fortune. After examining her, the Daoist's expression darkened. Taking my grandfather aside, he warned, "Your daughter is beautiful, but I fear she won't be easy to raise."
My grandfather was furious. "How dare you speak such nonsense at a celebration!" He shoved the Daoist, tearing his already tattered robe and sending a brass trinket clattering to the ground.
Hearing the commotion, my grandmother rushed over. She scolded my grandfather for his rudeness and apologized to the Daoist, even mending his torn clothes and insisting he join the feast. After a few drinks, the Daoist boasted that he was the head of the Mao Mountain Sect—a claim that drew laughter from everyone.
But when asked again about the baby, he repeated his warning: "This child is short-lived. She may not survive beyond nine years." This time, my grandfather nearly attacked him with an axe before being restrained. My grandmother, now equally furious, shouted, "I welcomed you with kindness, and you curse my daughter? Get out!"
The Daoist didn't argue. He touched his chest, looked skyward, and said quietly, "I speak only the truth. If trouble comes, find me in Wuli Village, An County." With that, he bowed and departed, leaving a shadow of doubt that no reassurances could fully dispel.
Nine years passed. My aunt grew into a healthy, bright, and beautiful girl with captivating eyes. The family had almost forgotten the Daoist's grim prediction.
In rural China, funerals were celebratory affairs—"happy funerals," they called them—where entire villages gathered for feasting. Every table featured plain tofu, earning these events the nickname "tofu meals."
The summer of 1986—the very day I was born—an elder in Hong Village passed away. My grandparents took my aunt to the funeral feast, where she ate heartily. Afterward, they walked home under the stars, following a familiar two-mile path past a reservoir where I would later sneak swims as a child, earning mysterious scoldings from my grandmother.
The moonlight was so bright that night that no flashlight was needed. Like all children on summer nights, my aunt chased fireflies, giggling as she ran. Watching her, my grandfather puffed his pipe and remarked, "Who said she wouldn't live? She hasn't caught a single cold. That Daoist was clearly a fraud!"
My grandmother just cautioned my aunt to slow down as they neared home.
In her early years, my aunt had slept with my grandparents, but now she shared a bed with her third sister. Before sleeping, she excitedly described all the delicious food from the feast, making her sister envious. Since birth, my aunt had received preferential treatment—always getting the sweetest part of the corn while her sister got the less tasty end. Despite this favoritism, her third sister adored her, washing her feet and tucking her in before they both fell asleep.
Hours later, a blood-curdling scream shattered nine years of tranquility.
The third sister had awakened to rustling sounds and noticed my aunt was missing from bed. After waiting what felt like the time it takes to smoke a cigarette, she looked around and froze in horror. By the window, under moonlight, nine-year-old Xiu knelt with an empty, trancelike stare.
"Xiu?" she called softly. No response.
"Xiu, what's wrong?" she tried again, louder. Still nothing.
Summoning her courage—she was normally terrified of even mice—the third sister approached barefoot. When she touched my aunt's shoulder, she couldn't budge her. Circling around to see her face, she witnessed something she would never forget: my aunt was chewing on a white wax candle, her face deathly pale, eyes vacant and fixed on the moon.
Her scream woke everyone—my grandparents and twelve-year-old uncle rushed in. When the lights came on, my aunt lay collapsed on the floor with the candle showing clear bite marks beside her. The third sister trembled uncontrollably, too terrified to speak.
My youngest uncle's little black dog—normally vicious toward strangers—began barking frantically. When my grandmother ordered it outside, it continued barking until she threatened, "Bark again and I'll butcher you!" The dog immediately wet itself and scurried away.
Once the third sister calmed enough to explain what she'd seen, my aunt began vomiting violently—a disgusting mix of candle wax and partially digested food. My grandmother, knowing some folk remedies, brewed kuding tea made from chicken gizzard skin and charred tea leaves to dispel what she believed might be evil energy.
My aunt refused to drink, clenching her teeth tightly. Finally, my grandfather had to pry her mouth open while my uncle held down her kicking legs as they forced her to swallow enough to stop the vomiting.
Though she calmed briefly, she soon developed diarrhea. By dawn, they rushed her to the township clinic, where doctors diagnosed food poisoning and tried administering an IV. My aunt yanked out the needle, fighting so wildly that they had to give injections in her buttocks while my grandfather physically restrained her. When she continued vomiting bile, the doctor recommended transferring her to the county hospital.
That afternoon, on the crowded bus to the county town, my aunt suddenly lunged through an open window. My grandfather, still outside, barely caught her. Through sobs, she cried, "Mom, don't take me to the hospital! I'm going to die! Take me home!" At only nine years old, her desperation was heartbreaking. My youngest uncle later recounted these words, though my aunt herself remembers nothing but being vaguely ill.
After forcing her back onto the bus, they reached the county hospital, where doctors also suspected food poisoning. During her stay, my aunt repeatedly tried to escape, forcing my grandmother to tie her to the bed with cloth strips. They took turns keeping constant watch, even using bedpans rather than risk untying her for bathroom trips.
Around the third day, something strange happened. When my grandmother brought half-cooked rice from the cafeteria, my aunt—who had refused all food—suddenly said, "I want to eat." She devoured not only her portion but everyone else's until her stomach visibly swelled. Yet when served properly cooked rice at dinner, she refused to touch it.
As days passed, she grew thinner, eating nothing but half-cooked rice when they could get it. The doctors warned against this strange diet but couldn't explain it. On the seventh day, my aunt collapsed again—convulsing, foaming at the mouth, with plummeting vital signs. The doctor advised them to prepare for the worst.
Without tears, my grandmother declared, "If she's going to die, she won't die in a hospital. We're taking her home." That night, they arranged transport back to the village. During the journey, my grandmother suddenly recalled the Daoist's words and sent my grandfather to find him in Wuli Village.
After frantic questioning and difficult travel, my grandfather located the village. An old man directed him to a remote settlement west of Wuli, beyond a chestnut grove with a graveyard beneath. The path was terrifying at night, with eerie green lights—fireflies or ghost fires—flickering among the trees. In his haste, my grandfather fell badly, injuring his leg so severely the bone was nearly visible. Reaching the village in agony, he collapsed at its entrance, weeping from pain and desperation.
A young man emerged from a thatched hut—tall with thick eyebrows and a prominent nose, dressed in a simple white robe. Approaching my grandfather, he asked what was wrong. My grandfather immediately poured out the whole story.
The young man calmly led him inside a humble cottage adorned with images of the Three Pure Ones of Daoism. After treating my grandfather's wound with herbs and a strange tea that eased both pain and anxiety, he listened carefully to the full story.
"If I'm not mistaken," he said, "you're looking for my master. Unfortunately, he passed away three years ago. But since he sent you here, I could help your daughter instead."
After calculating my aunt's birth time using a Luopan compass, the young man announced gravely, "Your daughter may not live past the fifteenth of this month. My master warned you nine years ago, but you didn't believe him..."
My grandfather fell to his knees, crying, "How could we have known the Daoist Master was telling the truth? What can we do now?"
"Perhaps it was all destined," the young man murmured, helping my grandfather up. "Wait a moment."
He emerged from a side room transformed—now wearing an elaborate gold-and-silver embroidered Daoist robe, an Eight Trigrams hat, white ceremonial shoes, and carrying a ritual bag. "Take me to your home immediately," he instructed.
Despite his injured leg, my grandfather led the young man—Zha Wenbin—back to our family that very night, unknowingly beginning a connection that would last generations.
When they arrived, even the normally aggressive black dog greeted Wenbin like an old friend. After examining my aunt briefly, Wenbin emerged with a grave expression. He instructed my grandmother to prepare a small table outside the door with a bowl of "upside-down rice"—half-cooked rice packed firmly into a bowl and turned out so the bottom faced upward.
From his bag, Wenbin produced incense sticks, talisman paper, cinnabar, and a writing brush. He had my grandfather tie my aunt to her bed with hemp rope—not just to restrain her increasingly violent movements, but to "lock her soul" into her body. He placed a dark stone in her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue.
The three incense sticks he lit were unusual—longer, thicker, and yellowish. Though there was no breeze, their smoke merged into a single stream that drifted toward my aunt's room. Using an Eight Trigrams-shaped white copper inkstone with a red center, Wenbin mixed cinnabar with my young uncle's urine. With this mixture, he drew eight talismans in continuous strokes and placed them at eight positions around the room.
When the final talisman was placed, my aunt let out a terrifying howl through the object in her mouth, her eyes wide with what looked like fear or rage. Ignoring her, Wenbin began walking in the Seven Stars pattern, drawing and burning a talisman with each step while chanting incantations.
With each burning talisman, my aunt's struggles intensified. This nine-year-old girl nearly broke free from finger-thick ropes, making the bed creak as her face turned from pale to blue. After burning forty-nine talismans in total, her strength finally seemed exhausted, though she continued breathing heavily.
By now, Wenbin was drenched in sweat. He sat cross-legged on the floor, drank the tea my grandmother offered, and after recovering somewhat, beckoned my grandfather to the doorway.
"Everyone should leave the room," he said quietly. "I have something to tell you."
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Chinese Words/Phrases in Chapter 1 Auntie's Nine-Year Prophecy
Character Names and Titles
1. Zha Wenbin (查文斌) - A young Daoist who helps save the narrator's aunt
2. Xu the Master Carpenter (徐木匠) - The narrator's grandfather who crafts coffins
3. Xiu (秀) - The narrator's aunt who falls mysteriously ill
Daoist Practitioners and Sects
1. Daoist (道士) - Religious practitioner of Daoism
2. Mao Mountain Sect (茅山派) - A prestigious school of Daoist practice mentioned by the ragged Daoist
3. Three Pure Ones (三清) - Highest deities in Daoism, whose images adorned Wenbin's cottage
Divination Tools and Objects
1. Eight Trigrams bag (八卦包) - A bag carried by Daoists containing ritual implements
2. Luopan compass (罗盘) - A geomantic compass used for calculations based on feng shui principles
3. Talisman paper (符纸) - Special paper used for writing magical symbols
4. Cinnabar (朱砂) - Red mineral powder used in Daoist rituals
5. Writing brush (毛笔) - Traditional brush used for calligraphy and writing talismans
6. Talismans (符/符咒) - Paper charms with mystical symbols used to ward off evil
7. Eight Trigrams-shaped white copper inkstone (八卦形状的白铜砚台) - Special inkstone used in rituals
Ritual Practices and Techniques
1. Seven Stars pattern (七星步) - A ritual walking pattern based on the Big Dipper constellation
2. "Upside-down rice" (倒头饭) - Half-cooked rice packed into a bowl and turned upside down for ritual purposes
3. Binding rope (捆仙绳) - Hemp rope used to "lock the soul" into the body
4. Soul locking (锁魂) - Ritual to prevent the soul from leaving the body
Cultural and Historical References
1. Hundred Family Surnames (百家姓) - Ancient text listing common Chinese surnames
2. Daoism (道教) - Chinese philosophical and religious tradition
3. Happy funerals (喜丧) - Rural Chinese tradition of celebratory funeral ceremonies
4. Tofu meals (豆腐饭) - Nickname for funeral feasts where tofu was traditionally served
5. Kuding tea (苦丁茶) - Bitter tea used as a folk remedy
Locations
1. Hong Village (洪村) - The rural village in western Zhejiang where the story begins
2. Wuli Village (五里铺) - Village where the ragged Daoist could be found
3. An County (安县) - The county where Wuli Village is located
Supernatural Elements
1. Yin-yang eyes (阴阳眼) - Special ability to see spirits (implied in the sister seeing the aunt's trance)
2. Evil energy (邪气) - Malevolent force that grandmother believed affected the aunt