It was well within the seven-times-seven days of the bardo – sacred interval! – when Lena had seen the detective as she came into Deep Lead from the bush track and he turned just in time to see her slipping in and out of the mirage – lately such an everyday phenomenon in the bush around these parts. Except that she had experienced the illusion as a sense of lightness and return somehow, yes, as though she had been returning from somewhere a great distance off, or rather, from a kind of nowhere, the memory of which transformed into a sudden dizziness and queer visual shimmer that almost made her trip, and gave her a fleeting impression that she could be about to die, so strong she let out an involuntary laugh.
Afterward, she went into the garden behind the Junction’s teahouse to visit the maiden wattle, for whom she fetched a can of water from the tank. Mow Fung must have noticed her come in, because he joined her for a little while by the plant. Both father and daughter drew insight and calm from the wattle, which had a way of filtering the midday light through its leaves, thereby producing what seemed like a cool and ambient sphere – a calming aura, one might say. Lena retained her uncanny connection with her “Maiden” and even extracted her resin to use as an ingredient for incense.
“I noticed that the detective came to the teahouse,” Lena said. “He is sure to meet Miss Chan. I wonder whether they will hit it off? Of course, you won’t mention to him your business with the spirit of the headless man. He might find it odd.” She giggled. “Even Mama finds it a little bit silly. I can’t imagine you in Hell. How terrifying it must be.”
“As you should know, the old fables are a way to help simple souls like myself to understand the nature of our own being. Ancient stories about the Ten Courts can guide us towards understanding and confronting the dark shadows that dwell within ourselves. It makes perfect sense. Let’s say you commit fairly light crimes. In such cases you will go to Tongue-Pull Hell for lying, or suffer the scissor torture for breaking up a marriage. Worse crimes are punished in more severe, lower hells. If you kill animals for sport, you must climb a mountain of knives. Those who disrespect their elders, commit murder, or break monastic vows will find themselves in a vast crimson pool, where they choke forever on boiling, filthy blood. It’s all somewhere inside oneself … almost enough to make you wonder how much of it is there in any real sense.”
Official horse-face demon rifles through the papers piled before him on his desk, a few of which catch fire from the sparks, while three ox-heads idle over a game of snakes and ladders, tiny screams floating up from the board. Horse-face scowls, spectacles balanced precariously above his nostrils, and snorts an abrupt reply to the human being standing there before him, the smell of life lingering about him.
“Foolish Daoist publican,” he spits. “I presume you represent this headless supplicant trailing along behind you with the hound-demons snapping at his heels. What are his name and circumstances?”
“I do not know his name, nor even his face, because he was decapitated in the bush, and when his body was discovered, he was taken to my pub to be stored and investigated.”
“Address?” Mow Fung tells him where the body had been found at the Four Posts, and the horse-face summons two demons with blue faces and hooked ivory tusks, sending them to retrieve the spirit’s details. They return almost instantly dragging a barrow behind them, trailing coals and burning reams and scraps of paper.
“Luckily,” hisses the horse-face, “a few remnants of the record remain, though it was ordered to be assigned to the Pit of Irrelevance.” Blowing on the sheaf presented to him, he extinguishes it, producing a plume of thick acrid black smoke.
“This happens to be the most recent entry – luckily for him. According to the regulations, that makes it admissible as the record of final authority. I see you have visited the place of death?”
“There was a strong sense of his presence,” says Mow Fung, “as though he is tied to the spot. His head cannot be found.”
“I see here that you performed some arcane rites. Not that it is any great concern of mine, but it may be a good idea to fashion a head from paper and ink, then burn it. For the hun, the corpse is mere paperwork. Identity and karmic record are what count.”
“I tried the head effigy. The head descended temporarily onto the body, then disappeared again.”
“Then try again. Each seeks the other, as do the hun and po: ethereal and corporeal…” Tosses his head and looks to the upper void. “Is this kindergarten? Now take a look here,” waving a charred document, “and you’ll see the supplicant does not need to confront the judges, but instead, being an innocent victim of murder, is to be sent to Wangsi Cheng, the wrongful-death precinct.”
He flicks his hand and a team of ox-heads materialise and bear them away bodily, both living and dead. In the void, the entire group dissolves into spots of dark light, yet their individual forms may be perceived, not unlike the projections of a shadow play. Wang Sicheng is not far from the Pool of Blood.
“Wangsi Cheng? Seventh jurisdiction, is it, Bright Nose?” says one of the ox-heads, giving one of their burdens a sniff. “This living one is surely destined for Fire Mountain, in the Eighth – classified as the most suitable for liquor-drinking Daoist monks…”
“Horse-face said what he said, White Cork,” comes a reply. “He is not yet dead. This other decapitated wonder is the murder victim, apparently.”
“I visited the Four Posts a few times over the next weeks to try and summon the soul,” said Mow Fung, “so he wouldn’t wander off into the bush and get lost. The dreams nagged at me to go there to chant sutras, burn hell money to bribe the guards down below, ring my good brass bell to lure the soul out of the ground.”
“You didn’t make a spectacle of yourself?” said Lena, looking up earnestly, from where she knelt to remove some stubborn weeds.
“Don’t worry, Pu-Ehr taught me long ago how you can perform these rituals subtly when you know the methods – like a deep meditation. It was to purify the Four Posts, as well: You wouldn’t want some hungry ghost wandering around the place scaring anyone who went there at night, asking them if they knew where his head was.”
“Pu-Ehr…” said Lena.
Chapter to be continued
From the draft novel Stawell Bardo © Michael Guest 2026
Furin Chime Press 