My grandpa was a swine slaughterer who dedicated his life to the blade's cold dance with porcine flesh, met his end by their exact angle of cut. The villagers still whisper about it when night falls- how the master butcher became the slaughtered, his story twisting through the lanes like smoke from funeral incense.Some say the pig wore his missing whetstone around its neck like a vengeance charm.
When recounting this bizarre tale to outsiders, they'd dismiss it as some fabricated countryside legend, as fantastical as episodes from classic tales of the supernatural. Yet I swear upon heaven's vault, every word holds truth.
"All living things hold spirits," the elders murmur, their pipe smoke curling like accusing fingers. "Old Su broke the cosmic scales. Too much blood on his blade, see? The debts came due." Their wrinkled faces nod in unison, certain as the turning seasons. Karma's ledger, they call it - butcher's hands can't stay clean forever.
Yet I know different. The true curse wasn't in the killing, but in the rules he broke. Every trade has its masters, they say, but more importantly, every craft holds commandments written in shadow. "every craft carries its taboos."Grandfather often intoned, "These rules may seem lifeless, but they're ancestral masters' commandments—a disciplinary ruler hanging from the blade's edge." His words still echo: "Believe or doubt, obey or disregard, these precepts stand immutable as ancestral tablets in our shrine." It's as if celestial eyes pierce the clouds, scrutinizing every practitioner's deed. When divine witnesses hover within arm's reach, who dares claim these ancient edicts don't harbor profound mysteries?
At sixteen, Grandpa formally apprenticed himself to a master butcher — kowtowing and serving ceremonial tea in solemn ritual.He dedicated a full sixty years to his craft until his passing.
The pigs that fell to his blade numbered in excess of eight thousand, if not ten thousand, each dispatched with a swift and clean single strike.
Grandpa's last pig slaughter took place at the end of last year.It was roughly ten days before the New Year.I clearly remember that it was snowing heavily that day, large flakes falling gently, as if welcoming the arrival of the New Year.
The man who came seeking Grandpa's butchering skills was Xue Lao Wu from the neighboring village—a ruddy-faced fellow in his mid-forties, roughly my father's age. Clad in a navy blue padded jacket that strained against his barrel chest, his lambskin cap dusted with snow, he shouted as soon as he stepped into the yard: "Uncle Musheng! Hate to trouble your bones in this weather!"
At that moment, I was sitting with my grandpa by the fire in the main room. Upon seeing the guest, my grandpa immediately put on his cotton shoes and stood up to greet him, gesturing for me to prepare a cup of hot tea.
Xue Lao Wu slapped his lambskin cap against his thigh, sending up a puff of frost crystals. "That hog's been fasting three days—gnawing the cedar planks to splinters" he rasped, the hoarfrost on his beard crackling as he grinned.
My grandpa took out the wooden box containing his slaughter knife from the cabinet and casually replied, "The longer it's hungry, the cleaner its intestines will be, making it easier to handle. By the way, have you boiled the hot water yet?"
"We've had the water boiling since dawn, just waiting for your expert bleeding cut." Xue Lao Wu accepted the freshly brewed tea from my hands, grinning broadly. "And this must be Little Ning? My, how you've grown in the blink of an eye."
"Off to university next year."grandpa sat on the stool carrying his wooden crate "My Xiaoning loves pork cheek. Let me be clear—after slaughtering the pig, I'm taking the head."
"Take twenty pounds of prime cuts too!" Xue Lao Wu boomed, breath steaming in the frozen air. "Offal, trotters—whatever your heart desires.How could we let you go home with just a head in this freezing cold?"Their laughter clattered like ice sheets breaking on the village pond.
grandpa smiled, "Alright then. When the braised pig's head is ready, I'll call you over for drinks." After the customary pleasantries, once Xue Lao Wu finished his hot tea, the two set out one after another.
Bored at home, I begged d\grandpa to let me watch. "Wear a hat and extra layers. You're frail—don't catch cold," he cautioned. Without a word, I threw on a down jacket, informed my father, and bounced along behind grandpa to Taihua Village where Xue Lao Wu lived.
When we trudged through knee-deep snow to Taihua Village, the slaughter yard smelled of woodsmoke and anticipation. I carried grandpa's toolkit—its contents clinking like a shaman's charm belt.Every lintel stood adorned with crimson couplets, their auspicious verses precision-aligned like frozen calligraphy.
Upon grandpa's arrival, familiar greetings were exchanged. Xue Lao Wu led him to the pigpen. "Uncle Musheng, I've already lit the divination incense for you—every stick burned completely to ash, all safe and sound." Xue pointed to the brick crevice before the pen. "See? The incense ashes remain there."
Grandpa bent to examine the incense remnants, his voice grave. "Your offering holds no power. Divination incense must be lit by the slaughterer's hand." Xue Lao Wu flushed crimson but nodded—every soul in three villages knew Musheng Su's butchering rites. "I'll fetch fresh incense," he offered.
"Needn't trouble yourself." grandpa took the cypress-wood box from my grasp. From its depths emerged three yellow ritual incense, their smoke coiling skyward as he planted them in thawing earth. His chant vibrated through my molars: "All living beings bear suffering. Let this fragrance guide your soul through today's ordeal."
Two minutes later, grandpa rose from his seat and instructed me, "Ningzi, keep your eyes on the Divination incense. If it goes out midway, you must tell me immediately." With that, he pushed open the creaking pigpen gate and stepped inside to conduct his pre-slaughter inspection.
To an uninformed observer, the old man's meticulous examination of the hog might have appeared comical - after all, what need was there for such elaborate preparations when simply slaughtering a pig? But I alone understood this ritual stemmed from our ancestral traditions as butchers, those sacred Six Taboos of Pig Slaughtering that governed our craft.
And what exactly were these six inviolable rules?
The First Taboo: Never slaughter a Celestial Official Pig. Legend holds that these swine embody divine incarnations - celestial beings descending to earth to undergo mortal trials. Such creatures must be allowed to die naturally, for killing them unleashes their vengeful spirits. These enraged entities will torment their slayers unto familial ruin. The detection method grandpa employed with the Divine Inquiry Incense proves infallible - extinguished flames reveal a sanctified porcine soul rejecting sacrificial offerings. To put it plainly, why would any divine spirit accept worship from those intending its demise?
The Second Taboo: Forbid the killing of Five-Toed Pigs. While ordinary swine bear four digits per hoof, these anomalous creatures mirror human anatomy with five-toed feet. Folklore warns these are reincarnated humans retaining past-life memories. Butchers who disregard this prohibition find themselves haunted by vengeful spirits carrying karmic retribution from their previous existence.
The Third Taboo: Prohibition against slaughtering White-Crowned Swine. These creatures bearing expansive white markings across their skulls are ominously dubbed Mourning Swine, their snowy patches resembling human funeral attire. Folk wisdom maintains that butchers who disregard this interdiction inevitably invite funeral processions to their own households. This ominous resemblance to mortal bereavement transforms the swine into living harbingers of doom.
The Fourth Taboo: Forbidding the killing of Buddha-Saluting Swine. Contrary to literal interpretations of porcine temple visits, this designation applies to hogs exhibiting uncanny posture - rear legs standing parallel like temple pillars, forelegs folded in prayerful entreaty. Tradition dictates these creatures have attained spiritual awareness through Buddhist devotion. Their slaughter is believed to unleash karmic storms upon the butcher's household, as extinguishing enlightened life violates cosmic balance.
The Fifth Taboo: Absolute ban on Tailess Swine. These anomalous creatures lacking caudal appendages embody profound symbolism. Butchers perceive the missing tail as portending "severed progeny" - a symbolic equivalence where anatomical deficiency foreshadows familial extinction. To slaughter such beasts is to court ancestral discontinuity, risking the irreversible severing of one's bloodline through divine retribution.
The Sixth Taboo: Absolute prohibition against slaughtering gravid swine. Butchers' lore maintains that souls inhabiting porcine wombs are celestial penitents - those who committed heinous acts in past lives now undergoing porcine reincarnation as divine punishment. These tormented spirits already seethe with resentment at their bestial incarnation. Should they perish unborn, their embryonic consciousness transforms into embryonic malevolence, eternally haunting the butcher to avenge their interrupted cycle of rebirth. Of all our ancestral precepts, this injunction against killing pregnant sows resonated most profoundly through my childhood, its dire warnings etched into my memory through grandpa's solemn repetitions.
As I maintained vigil over the Divine Inquiry Incense, grandpa concluded his inspection. Xue Lao Wu whispered deferentially, "Uncle, shall we summon the hands to truss the hog?"
Emerging from the pen, whether from muddy footing or aged frailty, the old man suddenly lurched forward. His stumbling body crushed all three sacred yellow incense sticks into extinguished ruin - an ill-omened occurrence where divine communication flames perished beneath human clumsiness.