The story took place when I was still young — a time filled with hardship and uncertainty. Those strange and twisting experiences changed the way I saw many things in life. There are indeed matters in this world that we cannot fully comprehend.
That year, I wandered across the country with the Red Guards. Once, while destroying the tomb of an old warlord in Hunan, I stumbled upon an ancient book. I remember feeling greedy for the warlord’s treasures, but I was too refined — not as quick or forceful as the others — and ended up with nothing valuable. All I got was a tattered old book. When I looked at it closely, I saw its title: Zhou’s Star Chart (周氏星谱). It looked quite ancient.
At that time, I didn’t think it meant anything. But I never imagined it would change my life forever. The book was a star atlas — it described constellations, celestial patterns, and even recorded the best places for the starlight to fall. The more I read, the more astonished I became. It was, in truth, a text about feng shui. Still, I didn’t fully believe its authenticity back then.
Later, responding to the call of the times, I was sent down to the countryside. As an intellectual, I was assigned to a remote little village in the western slopes of the Greater Khingan Mountains. Three other like-minded young people were sent there with me. We met with joy and optimism, never imagining that the four of us would one day experience so many thrilling, unforgettable events together.
We came from different provinces. From south to north, the first was Zeng Xiang from Guangdong. “Xiang” as in “prime minister,” he said proudly — claiming that one of his ancestors had indeed been a high official. Why he was named that, he couldn’t quite explain, and none of us cared much either.
Then there was me — Tang Guohai, also from Guangdong, though a bit farther north than Zeng Xiang. It was a good name. My Tang family had never produced any grand historical figures, but the Tang surname was once imperial — that was something to be proud of.
Next came Sun Tianli from the capital, a few years older than us and a true intellectual — a university student. In those days, college students were rare, but ironically, the more educated you were, the more misfortune you faced. Once destined to soar like a swan, he now toiled among us sparrows. “The motherland has wronged me,” he would sigh.
Lastly, there was Huyanba Kangjun from Xinjiang — a rough, burly man who had studied only a few years, yet somehow was also classified as an “educated youth.” At first, I couldn’t understand why, but after getting to know him, I realized the people’s eyes were indeed sharp and just.
Our village was deep in the mountains of Jilin Province, on the western side of the Greater Khingan Range — so remote that even the Cultural Revolution’s influence barely reached it. There were seventy or eighty households, most of them illiterate. The few who could read had long packed up their families and left for the outside world — never to return.
We four agreed that they were an ungrateful bunch — people who drank the water but forgot who dug the well. The village chief arranged for us to stay with an old widow. His reasoning made sense: first, she lived alone and had spare rooms; second, she was too old to manage housework, and we could help look after her. We accepted the arrangement gladly — after all, we weren’t here to enjoy comfort but to serve the countryside.
Settling in wasn’t hard. After years of wandering, we had grown used to adapting. Zeng Xiang, Huyan, and I joined in the farm work, while old Sun got the better post — teaching. Though despised as a “stinking intellectual,” his job was still far easier than ours. In our spare time, we’d trade stories from our travels — tales both true and exaggerated. The mountain folk were honest and plain; most had never read a word of government policy. They lived by common sense alone.
Half a year passed peacefully enough. Sometimes the days felt endless, sometimes quite serene. The isolation brought little entertainment, so whenever I had free time, I would study Zhou’s Star Chart. At first, it made no sense, but at night, I began matching the stars above to the diagrams in the book — and slowly, mysteries began to unfold.
After half a year, I had basically mastered its contents. It wasn’t so much mystical as it was complex — requiring a strong sense of spatial imagination. Luckily, I had studied for ten years and could handle that much.
At the widow’s house, Huyan took care of all the chores. He actually enjoyed them. Though the village still used the “work point” system, it wasn’t very strict here — too remote for that to matter. Life was simple; there was little greed, no scheming, and no competition.
Evenings were our time of ease. There was no electricity — we used oil lamps, the oil rendered from animal fat. After dinner, with hours before bed, we would gather to hear the old lady’s stories. Some were amusing, others chillingly real.
But when she spoke of the Tiger God’s Tomb, I felt a strange unease. I’ve always been impulsive, driven by a spirit of adventure, and by the time her story ended, I was already itching to see it for myself.
According to her, to the north of the village lay a forest where tigers were often seen. Deep within those woods was a tomb — the Tiger God’s Tomb — said to be the burial site of a great tiger, dating back to the Ming dynasty. When she was young, during the Japanese invasion of Northeast China, her entire village fled into those mountains. By sheer accident, they discovered a large cave and took refuge there.
Because it was so hidden, the Japanese never found them, and they survived the war — living in that cave for eight long years, only returning home after the Soviets drove the Japanese out.
The cave, she said, was huge, its walls covered with countless inscriptions. A young man back then had read them and said they must have once belonged to a bandit king. But during those eight years of hiding, something terrifying occurred: every year, on August 8th, one person would mysteriously vanish — no trace, no sound, no explanation. They dared not leave, though, for leaving meant certain death in a world at war.