Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

At seven, Lop Nor developed a rare skin disease. Whenever he drank milk, a painful rash would burst out over his entire body. His mother was warned never to let him touch milk again. But one day during another outing with his grandfather on the mountain, Lop Nor accidentally downed some discarded milk and was soon writhing with pain. The boy, in hysteria, grabbed a nearby plant and chewed on it. Miraculously, the rash subsided.

The grandfather deemed this herb a miracle sent from heaven. So, instead of just letting his grandson play on the mountain, the old man decided to train the boy to be an herbalist so one day, when he took over the herbal store, he would repay heaven’s generous gift by curing his customers.

From then on, Lop Nor’s mountain trips with his grandfather were solely plant oriented. The old man would teach him not only how to identify and differentiate herbs, their functions, and locations but, most important, how to use the correct angle and force when picking them.

A gifted child, Lop Nor learned fast, absorbing the knowledge of natural remedies like a desert soaking up a blissful downpour. At fifteen, he began to work as an apprentice at his grandfather’s shop. Five years later, the old man let him have his own patients, and when another five years had passed he had won both respect for his power to heal and a beautiful Uyghur woman who bore him a handsome son.

Soon Lop Nor’s fame spread to a shaman who also claimed to have healing power, though not by herbs, but with exorcisms. Jealous, the shaman demanded that Lop Nor give him his precious herbs and secret recipes. Lop Nor refused, well aware of the shaman’s evil deeds—kidnapping baby boys for sale and even, according to rumors, killing baby girls for offerings. From then on, to avoid the shaman, Lop Nor frequently moved his family while protecting his herbs and recipes.

Later, the shaman tracked down the family and, with the help of his disciples—a group of Kazakh bandits—invaded Lop Nor’s store, ransacked his house, and killed his whole family—his mother, grandfather, young wife, and son. Their bodies were never found, but rumor had it that they carried the bodies up to the Black Dragon Pool and threw them in, each tied with a rock. As superstitious as he was evil, the shaman believed that only by submerging their bodies and suffocating their souls could their ghosts be prevented from coming back to haunt him.

Lop Nor’s life was spared. On that day he was out collecting herbs on the Mountains of Heaven and a few of the most precious herbs and their recipes were safely tucked inside his bag. Some believed that the shaman had in fact deliberately spared Lop Nor’s life, afraid of offending the gods by killing a healer who might, someday, save his life.

After he had lost his whole family, Lop Nor changed his name to the one he used now and came to this remote village. Here, no one knew his past and he was respected as the healer sent from heaven. In the ten years that had passed, Lop Nor had been basically left in peace, though never in happiness.

After my friend finished his story, I was saddened beyond words. Looking at the leathery, tragic face in front of me, I felt tempted to pull him into my arms and rock him like a mother with a sick child. But I only patted his hand to show my sympathy.

He said, “I continue to live only because many people’s lives depend upon me. If I die, I waste not only my grandfather’s teaching but also heaven’s gift.”

Lop Nor healed people’s diseases, but there was no one to heal his broken heart. Even the rarest herb would not do that.

I sighed inside, recognizing the source of the vacuity and chill I had felt in my little cottage and even more now at Black Dragon Pond. I was filled with his immense sadness and emptiness.

From his backpack, Lop Nor took out a thermos, unscrewed the top, and poured hot tea inside, then handed it to me.

I meditated on his story while sipping the fragrant tea. “Lop Nor, I know nothing I say can alleviate your pain.”

“Miss Lin”—his eyes searched mine as he rubbed his white jade pendant—“you’re a gift sent by heaven to hear my story. I have nothing more to ask.”

A long silence developed between us while I felt the steam from the tea warm and moisten my face. “Lop Nor, are you sure your wife and son are dead?”

“Of course they’re dead!” he exclaimed, then paused to think for a moment. “If they’re still alive, why don’t they come back to me?”

That made sense. However convincing this seemed, I sensed something quite different had happened.

Lop Nor looked at me curiously. “What makes you ask such a question?”

“I have the yin eye, sometimes.”

With one raised brow, his leathery face showed, for the first time, a sign of hope. “So you sense maybe they’re still alive somewhere?”

I nodded. “When I felt the warmth of the tea on my face, I felt a presence.”

“Please tell me what you saw.”

“I didn’t exactly see anything. When I go home I’ll try to channel my energy better.”

“Please.”

“Lop Nor, don’t get your hopes up yet. I may be wrong.”

He nodded pathetically.

There was one question I was dying to ask him but had no heart to bring up: If his family was buried in the lake, why did he visit the graveyard in my village?

I feared another sad tale would spring up like a poisonous snake to strike. Were there more murdered relatives?

Lop Nor said little to me during the wearisome trip home. So the next morning, still wondering why he frequented the graveyard when his relatives lay at the bottom of the lake, I decided to ask him.

When I arrived at his store, for once it was closed. Two small notes were pinned to the door, one in Uyghur and the other in Chinese. The latter read:

Miss Lin, I have gone to look for my wife and son. I won’t be back until I find them. Please take care. Lop Nor.

I felt a sharp pang of regret that I had told Lop Nor his wife and son might still be alive. Now he’d left to look for them! But what if I was wrong?

That evening I did something I had always feared—I headed to the cemetery during the yin hours, the only phase of the day when the dead dared to come out to “play” in the yang domain, which belongs to the living. In the past, I’d only gone there early in the day so I could feel the place without risking being swarmed by what I would rather not name. But tonight was different. I wanted to focus on channeling, hoping I could at least sense, if not “see,” something from the other world—someone from Lop Nor’s family.

I wore a thick jacket and hat, wrapped my face with a long scarf, and brought a flashlight and a knife just in case there were robbers or whoever, or whatever. A chill choreographed down my spine as I tried not to imagine what the “whoever or whatever” might be.

I wandered around, casting light on the markers and studying each carefully. After that, I walked to a corner, then sat on the ground facing north, which Chinese believe is the direction from which spirits enter. A pile of rocks hid me from sight in case anyone came in from the main entrance. Arranging myself in meditation posture, I soon fell into a trancelike state.

I became fully aware of my surroundings—the slightest sound, the faintest smell, the smallest movement. But nothing came, no vision, no vibration, not anything like a ghost….

After another fifteen minutes, I still heard only the ubiquitous howling wind, “singing” of the sand, scurrying of small animals, and occasional cries of distant birds. I opened my eyes but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Why couldn’t I sense anything? This was a graveyard and I was supposed to have the yin eye….