When the old lady said that, her tone was gentle, her voice clear, her eyes strangely lucid—as if some proper immortal had suddenly possessed her. Mysterious. Uncanny.
A few seconds later, she went muddled again. She chased me off with a broom, told me to hurry up and get lost, said tonight she'd splash manure water on my family's Stone Lions again, and tomorrow she'd dry her underwear on their heads.
She spat—hawked phlegm right onto my shoes. I was so disgusted I stuffed the Walnuts into my pocket and left.
"A dog biting the hand that feeds it," I muttered, cursing under my breath.
Back home, the workers had already built half the fence around the Stone Lions. Another thirty minutes and they'd be done.
I went inside to get their wages ready and grabbed a box of fruit for each of them—New Year's and all, you still have to observe proper etiquette when people work for you.
Just as I walked over with the wages and fruit, the worker cutting steel pipe let out a scream and jumped back.
The cutting blade shot straight at me like it had eyes.
I hopped sideways. The blade shaved past my shoe tip, lodged into the leather, and the impact knocked me flat on my back.
Sharp pain flared through my foot. I thought my toe had been sliced clean off. The workers rushed over, faces pale.
When they pulled the blade out and removed my shoe, I found my toenail had been shaved off—but my toe was intact. And the spot where the blade had stuck? Exactly where the old lady had spit.
"My God, that was close! Another centimeter and your toe would've been gone, Mr. Lambert!"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I don't know why the blade flew out. I just lost my grip for a second. Please, Mr. Lambert, I'm so sorry!"
The guilty worker was on the verge of tears, bowing repeatedly, terrified I'd blow up at him.
I didn't say a word. Handed them their wages. Fled back into the house.
I sat on the couch for a long time before my head cleared. My wife and parents found out and rushed back from relatives' place in the neighboring town, asking if I was hurt.
I shook my head. Fine. My parents sighed with relief and sent my wife to the Lambert Ancestral Hall to light incense on my behalf—thanking the ancestors for their protection.
She left in a hurry. Came back in a hurry too.
And brought bad news.
"Alex, something was wrong when I offered incense. At first, I couldn't get it lit no matter what I tried. When I finally did, the middle stick just—snapped."
Two long, one short. The biggest taboo when offering incense. My parents taught me that as a kid; everyone around here knows the rule. Fiona understood it too after years of marriage. When that happens, it means something bad is coming.
My parents tensed. They grabbed offerings from the kitchen and headed to the ancestral hall themselves.
They came back just as fast, looking shaken.
"How is this possible? The same thing happened to us—and the offerings we brought out of the hall had rotted!"
My heart sank.
If the offerings lose their fragrance, it means the ancestors accepted them. But if they rot? That means refusal. And refusal is a thorny matter.
That night I came down with a raging fever. My parents wanted to find Master Orion—have him take a look, figure out what was happening. After all, that's the local custom here: when bad omens pile up one after another, you start thinking supernatural.
