Old Yangpi said he learned a method from a shamanistic old wizard that could deal with the huangpizi (weasels). These creatures must never be provoked; whether you save one or kill one, if you happen to cross one with genuine spiritual power (daohang), then every huangpizi in the mountains will attach themselves to you, and you won't be able to escape them no matter how far you flee.

If someone has offended the Great Immortal Weasel (Huang Daxian) in life, there is only one way to atone for the sin and protect the family and future generations from suffering the consequences. But this method is exceedingly bizarre: immediately after the person breathes their last, a pit must be dug in the house, precisely eight chi deep. Then, the deceased must be stripped naked, entirely unclothed, and buried head-first in the pit. Once covered, the death must not be announced, and the burial must remain undisturbed for seven days and seven nights. Only after the first seven-day vigil (touqi) can the body be exhumed and interred according to the proper local customs for formal burial.

Legend has it that by being immediately placed head-down and feet-up, inverted in the earth after death, the deceased person's soul is suffocated, preventing rebirth for eternity. When the huangpizi arrive that night and see that the deceased was willing to comply, they will cease pursuing the descendants, and the debt will be considered fully paid. Since ancient times, the greatest dereliction of filial piety is failing to produce heirs. Old Yangpi, in order to continue his lineage, would stop at nothing to protect his offspring. Otherwise, once the Great Immortal Weasel came calling, the descendants of the Yang family would surely have no path to survival. Not only would the huangpizi ransack the house, but during a period of great misfortune (sancuai liuwang), they might even hang themselves to trade lives with the little huangpizi...

After Old Yangpi finished speaking, he embraced his son and wept bitterly, exhibiting the profound sorrow of impending separation. We had never heard of such an evil, unorthodox practice. My grandfather had spent his entire life dealing with geomancy and burial sites; he could recite Zang Jing backward and forward, yet I had never even heard him mention such a strange custom of digging an eight-chi grave and burying the corpse inverted. But Old Yangpi spoke with utmost seriousness, suggesting the situation had reached a point so severe it was irreparable. We were temporarily at a loss for what to do.

Fatty, Ding Sitian, and I conferred quietly. Firstly, even if the old weasels could cause harm, they couldn't possess omniscient divine power. We also didn't truly believe in souls reincarnating after death, and we felt we should prevent Old Yangpi from taking such an irrational action. If he truly died and was buried in the house for seven days and nights only to be dug up, obtaining a death certificate would be incredibly difficult.

However, we then considered that Old Yangpi's family deeply believed this. If something were to happen to Old Yangpi that very day, we, being outsiders, would bear too great a responsibility. It was better to temporarily agree to his demands to ease his mind while he was ill, and then quickly send someone to the commune center (qi) to fetch a doctor for him. This was a delaying tactic; while deceiving him was wrong, our motive was entirely sound.

So, we unanimously expressed our agreement to honor Old Yangpi's last wish, assuring him to rest easy and that everything would be done as he instructed. Unexpectedly, Old Yangpi then forced everyone present to swear solemn oaths. Under duress, we loudly swore the oaths to him while mentally chanting: Not counted, not counted, not counted...

I intended to sneak out to the commune center to find a doctor, but Old Yangpi watched us like a hawk, repeatedly reiterating every detail for after his death. Only when he was certain everyone had fully understood and memorized his instructions did he suddenly roll his eyes back, kick his legs, and pass away.

Old Yangpi’s death was incredibly sudden; everyone momentarily failed to react. By the time they realized what had happened, there was no possibility of revival. No one could reverse it. Grief overwhelmed everyone, and we could only weep loudly for a long time. Finally, Old Yangpi's son begged us, the sent-down youth (zhishiqing), to help arrange the funeral, following all of Old Yangpi's dying commands.

This put the three of us in a terrible position. We had planned to stall for time to find a doctor, but he passed away without any warning. For the first time, we felt the profound impermanence of human life. Given the circumstances, we had no choice but to obey his last wishes; after all, honoring the dead was paramount, and this was also a form of respect for the deceased's final desire.

Fatty and I, suppressing our sorrow, dug a grave pit beneath the yurt. Afterward, we undressed the body for burial. It was best not to have outsiders present, so the three of us zhishiqing waited outside the yurt. After burying his father, Old Yangpi’s son sealed the yurt tightly, keeping the matter quiet.

The pasturelands were already sparsely populated, with few visitors. Apart from the three of us zhishiqing and Old Yangpi's son and daughter-in-law—five people in total—no one else knew of this. We could only keep silent vigil for now and wait for seven days before formally laying out Old Yangpi’s remains.

Fatty, Ding Sitian, and I felt extremely heavy-hearted. Old Yangpi, the poor and lower-middle peasant we had lived alongside day and night, was suddenly gone. How could a person's journey from birth to death end so easily? The suddenness made it hard to accept reality. Sitting on a grassy mound not far from the yurt, gazing at the endless prairie, our hearts felt hollow, as if something had been carved out of us. Ding Sitian was weeping uncontrollably, her eyes swollen like rotten peaches.

Fatty and I couldn't console her. Only when she ran out of tears did she sit silently on the mound, spacing out. The three of us sat there speechless, our minds dazed, until dusk when Old Yangpi’s daughter-in-law brought out food, calling us to eat. But none of us had an appetite. That night, we gathered in another yurt to keep watch together.

We remembered Old Yangpi saying that the huangpizi would surely come wailing that night, and no matter what strange things happened, we were not to pay them any mind. Although this sounded utterly unreliable, we couldn't help but feel uneasy, unable to be certain that nothing untoward would occur in the dark. Ding Sitian, exhausted from crying, fell asleep with tears still glistening on her face. Fatty and I sat cross-legged, straining our ears to catch every sound the wind made outside.

Fatty asked me, "I just feel that burying Old Yangpi like this is highly inappropriate. The old man must have been delirious with sickness, his mind burned out. He was reciting rhythms based on hitting bamboo strips—thinking of things as they came. But we are rational; we possess a high degree of class struggle theory and rich practical experience. If Old Yangpi was confused, shouldn't Old Hu, we two, avoid following his foolishness?"

I nodded: "I cannot agree with this method of burying the dead inverted and naked. From ancient times to the present, I've never heard of such a precedent. But you must understand, death is the extinguishing of a lamp. Regardless of whether Old Yangpi spoke nonsense before he died, we shared hardships and faced life and death together; we are comrades. If we hadn't agreed to his dying wish then, he might have passed away filled with deep regret, which is something we didn't want to see, right?"

Fatty and I debated for a while, concluding it was purely academic worry. In the end, we reasoned that burying him according to his dying instructions was also what his family wanted, and we had no grounds to interfere excessively. Different regions nurture different people; every group of people has its own way of living. China is vast with countless unseen places, and there must certainly be many antiquated folk customs we are unaware of. While theoretically we should criticize such deviant practices, some things can be accommodated flexibly. It was only for seven days anyway; holding a formal memorial service afterward wouldn't be too late. As long as the five of us kept the secret, how would outsiders know? As long as it didn't spread, it shouldn't be a major issue.

We continued to reflect on and mourn Old Yangpi's life, feeling he lacked the rebellious spirit of "Are kings and nobles born to their stations?" He lived a meek life and even arranged his own funeral in such a way. Whether this was tragic or pitiful, it left a sour taste in our mouths when we thought about it.

We waited until the deep of night when a mournful wind suddenly rose outside the tent. The howling sound grew increasingly urgent, and intermittent claps of muffled thunder boomed across the sky. Fatty's and my nerves immediately tightened; this sound was ominous, suggesting trouble was truly brewing. The thunder grew louder, peal after peal of sharp cracks. Ding Sitian was startled awake by the noise, wiping tears from her face with a look of extreme panic. I waved my hand to signal her not to worry—if you plug your ears, you won't hear it.

But rain was already scarce on the prairie, and with the harshness of winter approaching, such intense thunder was highly abnormal. We intended to observe the situation quietly, but the thunder seemed to be crashing down directly around us, making it impossible to sit still. We had to go outside to check. We saw heavy black clouds overhead, and streaks of lightning were constantly erupting directly above the yurt where Old Yangpi was buried.

Seeing this, Old Yangpi’s son was so terrified he collapsed to the ground with a thud. I helped him up and asked what was happening—this thunder was too bizarre.

Old Yangpi’s son, tongue-tied and slow-witted, stammered out the reason after much effort: He felt burying Old Yangpi naked and inverted in an earthen pit was completely improper—it was not the way of a filial son, showing such disrespect to his own father. If this ever got out, he would never be able to hold his head up as a man again. So, he had devised a compromise: he wrapped the corpse in a layer of white silk cloth before inverting and burying it head-down in the pit. This was clearly disobeying the old man's instructions and had invited disaster.

Fatty and I exchanged glances, both finding it strange. What was the big deal about wrapping the corpse in white silk? That shouldn't summon such a severe thunderstorm. Furthermore, watching the lightning and thunder, what exactly was about to be struck?

Everyone asked what we should do now. If the thunder continued like this, disaster was certain, but the matter was beyond my experience and knowledge; I had no idea what to do. Fatty, however, offered a suggestion: "Perhaps Old Yangpi is angry that his son disobeyed him, and this is a warning for us. Why don't we quickly dig up the earth again and remove that white silk wrapping?" He added, "Let's just try it; what if it works?"

Old Yangpi's son was utterly indecisive and easily swayed. Upon hearing Fatty’s words, he began slapping his own face, confessing that he hadn't followed the last will exactly—a tiny deviation had led to a huge error. He didn't know if remediation was still possible now, but there was no other option; the immediate necessity was to dig up the body from that yurt.

We braved the danger of being struck by lightning and hastily grabbed shovels to dig up the grave pit that had only been filled that afternoon. Halfway through digging, the thunder subsided, though muffled rumbling could still be heard occasionally in the clouds. When we finally scraped away all the buried soil, everyone was stunned. Was the thing buried in the grave Old Yangpi or a huangpizi?