Chapter Ten: The Pole Ghost

When Lei Aniu and his companions sailed their grain transport boats into Shandong territory, they encountered a rare and severe drought not seen in years. The canal channels were silted up, making progress difficult; the boats advanced at a painfully slow pace, sometimes halting entirely. In some stretches, the grain boats could only move forward by relying on the brute strength of the towmen, who dragged the vessels along with great effort.

But when the fleet reached the region of Jining, the weather changed abruptly. Just as if it had been preordained, the moment they arrived, the parched land was suddenly engulfed in thunder and lightning. Amidst a midday as dark as night, torrents of rain mixed with hailstones the size of beans crashed down in an instant.

The deluge quickly swelled the muddy, sediment-choked canal waters, raising the level so much that navigation became clear and unimpeded. This was a golden opportunity for the fleet to break free of their predicament, and since Lei Aniu and his crew had already been delayed too long in Shandong, they seized upon the rare chance. Instead of seeking shelter from the wind and rain, they pressed northward at full speed, hoping to make up for lost time.

But, as the saying goes, “more haste, less speed.” In the rush of these sudden, turbulent waters, controlling the boats’ speed and direction became nearly impossible. With howling winds adding to the chaos, disaster soon struck.

Lei Aniu was struggling to rein in the ropes when suddenly the deck lurched beneath his feet. He glanced up to see the helmsman’s face blanch in panic as the man shouted, “Something’s wrong!”

In the next instant, their grain boat collided with a small black-canopied boat coming straight at them. The grain boat, being much larger, was little affected, but the small craft—fit only for ferrying passengers—fared far worse.

Lei Aniu saw the little boat rock violently after the collision, taking on water with a bubbling sound. The boat and its helmsman, shrieking in terror, quickly sank beneath the surface.

Watching the man’s futile struggle in the torrential rain, Lei Aniu instinctively moved to help with his oar—only to be yanked back by his crew boss, the “Stickhead.”

Stickhead slapped Lei Aniu hard across the face, snatched the oar from his hands, and barked only one order: “Sail on!”

“But it was us who hit him!” Lei Aniu protested, unwilling to let it go.

Stickhead pulled a foreign pistol from his belt, pressed it to Lei Aniu’s forehead, and snarled again, “Sail the damn boat!”

Stickhead’s ruthlessness silenced every sailor and towman. The message was clear: not only would they leave the drowning man to his fate, but they were to pick up the pace.

In grim silence, the fleet moved on. The man floundering in the rain-swollen river soon vanished into the curtain of rain.

When the storm passed and the sky cleared, Lei Aniu could not shake the memory of the harrowing scene. His heart pounded with dread, and the memory of Stickhead’s brutality left him increasingly unsettled.

Restless in the cabin, Lei Aniu was the first to rush out when Stickhead called for hands to raise the sail, hoping that labor would distract him from his fright.

He responded promptly and ran out to find the halyard on the mast. But as he looked up, he almost lost his wits.

To his shock, he saw a man standing atop the twelve-foot mast.

At first, Lei Aniu thought his eyes deceived him. But looking again, he saw clearly—a man in coarse homespun clothes stood there.

Lei Aniu was so terrified that he nearly wet himself. He screamed, “Mast ghost!” and scrambled back into the cabin to fetch Stickhead.

Lei Aniu believed he had seen the legendary “Mast Ghost” spoken of among sailors—a vengeful spirit said to appear on foggy days, the soul of a drowned seaman. These ghosts, the tales went, would stand on the ship’s mast with their heads hanging low and eyes wide open in death’s stare, sometimes crying out in anguish to protest their misfortune.

Recalling the helmsman who had just drowned, Lei Aniu’s first thought was that the man had returned as a mast ghost to claim vengeance. Gripped by this terror, he tumbled back to the cabin.

Inside, he found Stickhead, the enforcer aboard.

Clutching Stickhead’s sleeve, Lei Aniu babbled hysterically, “Mast ghost! The helmsman we drowned—he’s come back as a ghost for revenge!”

Stickhead, far from afraid, darkened his face, drew his pistol, and—paying no mind to Lei Aniu’s pleas—dragged him and two others out, intent on “catching the ghost.”

But just as they reached the threshold, something happened that left everyone speechless.

The mast ghost entered the cabin himself!

Lei Aniu, blinking in disbelief, saw a shadow drift in through the doorway. The figure swayed swiftly around the cabin, then stopped. Under the dim lamplight, all could see it was a drenched, gaunt, stern-faced man with a bluish tint to his cheeks and a bristling beard.

At once, Lei Aniu recognized the “ghost” from the mast.

Half the towmen aboard collapsed in fright.

But Stickhead, seeing the “ghost,” suddenly broke into laughter. He holstered his pistol and saluted the blue-faced man with a fist: “Sir, you have impressive skill. Do you come to discuss something with us? Why pretend to be a ghost?”

The blue-faced man’s eyes were as sharp as lanterns in the night. After scanning the cabin, he replied coldly, “You think you can just run after knocking someone down in Jining? Is this how the Canal Guild does things?”

His words stunned Stickhead and left Lei Aniu bewildered. Aniu, barely recovered from his fright, could not fathom how this man had boarded the boat, let alone stood so steadily on the mast.

But what puzzled him most was how such a scrawny man dared challenge Stickhead. No matter how skilled, could he really face so many at once? Was he not afraid of the foreign pistol?

Sure enough, events unfolded as Aniu expected.

Seeing the visitor meant trouble, Stickhead drew his pistol again, cursing the drowned boatman for ramming them, claiming he got what he deserved. He warned the blue-faced stranger not to meddle and to get lost, or he’d be shot.

He pressed the gun to the man’s face, grinning wickedly.

But at that moment, the blue-faced man reached out and handed something to Stickhead.

Stickhead froze when he saw what it was—a clip of bullets for the pistol.

In a panic, Stickhead checked his weapon and found it empty.

The stranger’s display of skill left everyone present in awe; who could move so fast as to disarm a man unnoticed in the blink of an eye?

Seeing the tables turned, Stickhead instantly backed down, his face changing from dark to ingratiating in a heartbeat.

“I want nothing else,” said the blue-faced man, tossing the clip back. “Six silver dollars—the price for the boat you sank.”

With his strength and confidence, Stickhead dared not defy him and respectfully handed over ten silver dollars.

The man did not leave immediately, but continued to gaze coldly at Stickhead, a faint, sardonic smile on his lips.

Caught in that knife-edged stare, Stickhead shifted uncomfortably.

“You’ve got your money—why haven’t you left?” he ventured.

The blue-faced man kept smiling; after a moment, he spoke, his words like thunder: “You’re not with the Canal Guild. And you’re not transporting grain for people to eat, either.”

The words struck like a bomb among the crew. Not only Lei Aniu, whose suspicions had long been aroused, but also Stickhead and the bosun, whose faces twisted in shock and anger.

Instantly, three or four men brandished knives, ready to attack at Stickhead’s command.

But Stickhead, wary of the stranger’s skill, held back.

He forced a smile. “Brother, what’s your name? Why get involved in this at all?”

The man’s reply left them all dumbfounded.

“I don’t care what you’re transporting,” he said. “But I pity these towmen…”

His meaning was lost on them, especially Lei Aniu, who began to fret. What could be inside the ship’s jars if not rice for food?

But the blue-faced man offered no further explanation. He turned and left, but before he did, he paused to pat Lei Aniu and a few others on the shoulder, saying only, “Take care…” Then he was gone.

Lei Aniu rushed after him, but though he was quick, the man had vanished without a trace.

The prow and mast were empty; under the now-cleared sky, it seemed as if the entire episode had been a dream.

Just as Lei Aniu was lost in confusion, he felt something odd in his right palm. Looking down, he was startled to find a slip of paper had appeared there, bearing two characters written in ink.

Unable to read, he kept the paper hidden until nightfall, when he found a fellow towman—a man with a similar fate but a smattering of literacy—to read it.

The note said: “Run!”

Lei Aniu knew at once it could only have come from the blue-faced man, with his uncanny skill. The note stoked his doubts and fears. He had long suspected the true purpose of this voyage—those yellow talismans and copper-sword charms hanging from the bosuns, the musty, heavy jars of rice in the hold, all seemed strange and ominous.

Lei Aniu was a practical man; weighing the risks, he decided to slip away that very night, preferring to lose his wages rather than risk his life any further.

So, in the dead of night, he rose quietly, intending to sneak off during a midnight trip to the latrine.

But as he passed the rice hold, he suddenly heard an unusual sound in the silence ahead.

A sharp, brittle crack—like porcelain clinking or being dropped.

Lei Aniu stopped in his tracks, listening intently to the dark corridor ahead.

Another sharp crack. This time, he could tell it came from the far end of the corridor, where something seemed to be stirring in the pitch-black gloom.

Lei Aniu froze, realizing he was trapped between two dangers: the unknown ahead, or certain doom if he returned.

As he hesitated, a cold voice sounded behind him.

“What are you doing? Trying to run?”

Lei Aniu jumped, startled. He turned to see Stickhead, disheveled and bleary-eyed but as fierce as ever, already drawing his pistol.

Caught, Lei Aniu immediately collapsed in fear, falling to his knees before the muzzle, mouth opening and closing as he tried in vain to beg for mercy.

But just then, the distinctive sound of shattering porcelain came again from the darkness.

This time, the sound was clear and drawn out—like a fledgling bird breaking from its shell.

Stickhead’s face changed abruptly. “Damn! It’s out—” he muttered, abandoning his threat to Aniu.

He turned his pistol toward the sound, tore a damp yellow talisman from his neck, and strode into the blackness.

His form quickly vanished into the night.

After a brief hush, gunshots erupted at the end of the corridor.

Lei Aniu, cowering on the floor, dared not look up, paralyzed with confusion and fear.

Only when the gunfire ceased did he slowly raise his head.

And the sight that greeted him left Lei Aniu utterly petrified.